The Thoors

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
So, Jim Morrison and Thor are drinking in a bar...

Submitted: October 18, 2016

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Submitted: October 18, 2016

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Skullies pub was not exactly what you would call a place to socialize. The regulars of the establishment came for one reason and one reason only. Cheap drinks and a place to escape. Tendrils of cigarette smoke hung in the air; like a fog that never receded. It was eleven a.m., and there was only one person belly up to the bar. Besides the bartender slicing lemons and cleaning glasses, the only sound was Lightnin’ Hopkins on the jukebox, singing the transfusion blues.

“Another Bushmills, if you please.” The bearded patron slurred.

“Coming right up, Mr. Morrison.” The barkeep said.

“I've been comin’ in here for a long time, man. I never asked your name.” Jim bellowed as he lit another smoke. He stared into the matches dying flame.

The bartender cracked a smile. “The name's Danny.”

Sunlight burst into the darkened tavern. A muscular figure, clad in leather armor entered the room. Golden locks of hair hung to his shoulders, on his belt was a glowing hammer.

With his hands on his hips, he spoke to the men in the bar.

“Grizzled inhabitants of Midgar, turn your eyes to Thor. I have traveled from Asgard to reap the delights of this primitive world.”

The bearded drunkard on the barstool looked up with a crooked grin and laughed. “Thor. A noble name. Old Norse, sons of thunder. Pretty neat. Pretty neat. You know my uncle was named Thor. I remember driving with him down a desert freeway. It was hot, man. Lizards were all around us. The impression I got from that day was that reality is a boundless gaze, forever stabbing into our souls. It's right there man, just waving in the breeze.”

The warrior snorted as he sat on the stool next to Jim.

“I come for strong drink, barkeep. Make haste, for the throat of Odinson yearns for the burn of your meager provisions.”

Danny slid Thor a double Jim Beam.

Immediately, the son of Odin gulped down the liquid. He smiled as a rivulet of whiskey ran down his beard.

He peered at Morrison, with a look of respect. “You speak of flowers, and mystical travels, my friend. Most men shrink away as tales of such glory are spoken. Their collective disbelief is palpable. Perhaps it is beyond their capabilities to truly comprehend the realms that exist far beyond the fields they know. So be it. My gore stained path then becomes painfully obvious. Never have I placed such trust in fools that do not share my immortal blood.” He glared into the mirror behind the bar. “Perhaps it is not prudent to start now.”

Jim looked toward the Norseman with a jagged smile, his eyes closed as he spoke. “Far out, man. The doors of perception have opened for us. Now, The Lizard King and the Son of Odin should have their kicks together before this whole shithouse goes up in flames.”

The warrior looked perplexed. “Of what sorcery do you speak, oh ruler of serpents? Do you dare compare yourself to a god? I wish not to defile my immortal frame with this poison, lest not within a burning ball of feces.”

Jim erupted with a drunken cackle. “You can say what you want, friend, but the night is calling. The blue bus is parked out back, break free from the limits of the world. Ride the snake.”

Thor stood up, his face red with anger. “Your words are vile, oh haggard one, this foolish talk of snakes and busses hath made thine mind frail. Mayhap you digress from this lecherous path.”

“Ha, ha ha ha ha.” The lizard king chortled. “Get this cat another round Danny…and turn that jukebox up too.”

The Son of Odin sat back down and nodded to Jim.

“Riders on the Storm” twinkled in as the two rapscallions drank on.


© Copyright 2017 Christof McTarnahan . All rights reserved.

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