Viking-weekend. On melrose.
Stephanie had shoulders; Laura had glasses; Carter had tamarind; Gavin had glass and chicken; Ben had bearskins; Lily had curls; Ryan had guitars; the cattle were dead. We were stuffing the beef loins with roasted pepper mulch when the vikings attacked. They invaded our ears, banging the floors from below. The first breech came via the window—a small one got through, then the torrent came. One after another they burst in with spear and sword. We turned up the music and drank more coffee and vodka, and chewed more pork and corn. I’m pretty sure Gavin threw on a strobe light. The floor banging joined the bass.
The viking enslaught continued, and we snubbed them with our shoulders. Our morale took on bruises and showed signs of decay.
Finally Will Hines and Brian Finkelstein showed up with a Rudi Guiliani in chains. One naisal breath and a protestation from Rudi, and the vikings ran back down to the second floor.
We are all taking bets as to whether they can pay the rent.
