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Mildred Ulrich, Midget’s grandmother, was considered one of the wisest people to ever live. Not only did she knit body armour for her grandson when he became the executive chef of Viking Horde number 12, but she was also known for her prognostications. And thus she acquired the nick name the ‘Oracle of Lapland.’

Even before Midget joined the Viking horde on their very first mission to India, each chieftain of a horde sought an audience with her where they would pose basically the same questions.

“Oh Oracle of Lapland,” they would begin bowing low, throwing money into her tin, which was an old cigarette can that had washed up on the shore of Swedonia, before it was renamed Sweden because the Swedish kept forgetting the name of their country, while Mildred sat crossed legged outside her cave in the scared mountain of Or, depending upon the weather. They would continue with their request once she had counted the money and determined it was enough to pay her rent or groceries for the upcoming week. “Oh Oracle of Lapland. I and my horde will be sailing tomorrow at dawn for who knows where, and before we leave I need to know whether or not I’m going to come back alive and whether where I’m going is a fool’s errand.”

Midget Ulrich, all 6 feet 11 inches of him, a man of someone’s dreams though I have yet to meet someone who believes that, had numerous fetishes. This isn’t something that should come as a surprise to any reader or those who line up outside the kitchen tent for one of the meals he has cooked on one of the Viking hordes’ numerous battles. Needless to say, his fellow compatriots, the ones who take him along on their conquests, don’t care what idiosyncrasies he has, as long as he keeps turning out dishes like pelican stew on high holy days or sweet potato pancakes laced with maple syrup, which they had just been introduced to in Columbusland, or Caviar from Russia.

“Dammit! Where’s Misty?”

“No idea, your Excellency. The last time I saw him he was going to the bathroom behind that bush,” replied Rudy pointing to a bush in the distance that appeared to be on fire.

“I hope not,” said Moshe King of the Vikings, “because it’s on fire.”

“Oh no, your Excellency. It’s not on fire. It just appears to be because of the way the sun’s rays are dancing on it.”

Moshe looked at Rudy and shook his head. “I damn well know the difference between a burning bush and a bush that appears to be burning, and that bush over there is burning. So please don’t question me. Go over there and see if Misty is behind it.”

n every Viking horde there is always one person whose sole job it is to cook and wash up after every meal. The method employed in selecting the appropriate candidate is not only long and arduous, but also very specific. For instance, in the horde we are following, Midget Ulrich is the man tasked with planning and executing the meals.

Vikings, when they are at home in their forts only require to be fed twice a day. However, when they are on the war path which is most of the time, especially when they are low on funds and have bills to pay, they require to be fed 6 times a day. The worst week for them is the second week of every month when bills such as their mortgages on their huts come due, and the leader of the pack has on his castle. Some have found that the banks who hold their mortgage notes, don’t particularly like to be strung out and even though they charge a great deal of extra interest whenever they are late, they can be pretty vicious by foreclosing on their huts. Even the fiercest Viking is dead scared of their mortgage banker.

There was a noticeable gasp and everyone turned their attention towards me, as I sat in the back of a large ornate conference room of a law firm we had all been summoned to. I shrugged my shoulders feeling embarrassed. I didn’t know what was expected of me. Should I stand up and say hooray I won or just hope the floor would open and swallow me.

The attorney who had summoned us sat at the head of a long mahogany conference table facing my entire family. As there were only enough chairs to accommodate 99.999% of my family, and as I was deemed to be the least influential and most likely not to succeed in life, I was relegated to a broken chair brought into the room by a janitor who had showered or bathed sometime in the last century. I could tell because where he had grabbed the chair, there were distinct marks, brown marks left by his dirty hands. And I was supposed to sit on that.

“Rosa! Rosa! What are you doing? Come away from the door immediately!”

Sybil looked around for George but he wasn’t anywhere. Sybil continued. “Why are you standing at the door?” she asked again, smiling at Pawo and his family as they came in handing a present to Rosa. Sybil froze. “Did you just ask them if they had bought you a present? Oh dear. Please don’t mind Rosa, I don’t know what’s got into her,” Sybil forced a smile as Pawo laughed it off diplomatically.

“It’s Rosa. We are used to her. She’s just a child.”

“She’s 9 years old today,” responded Sybil in a panic. Pawo smiled and carried on into the nest. “Rosa!” said Sybil sternly, “what is it you’re asking people who come in to your party?”