“Harold the Viking went to Valhalla today. May Odin welcome you to his table, my fearless warrior.”
So it’s true: young Harold went forth to battle high in the hall of Odin yesterday. For those of you not in the know Harold the Viking won my heart and my sword on September 11th 2011, where, as a centerpiece at a friends wedding reception, he bested all other fish (and frankly all other flora and fauna) to win a place of honor on my bedroom dresser.
Harold was by far the angriest thing I have ever met He tried to kill everything and everyone he ever saw ever. Especially BB. On more than one occasion he actually flew out of the water to try to kill BB. It is the general consensus that he wanted to stare his victim in the eye as he tore his heart out. He lived in a glass globe with marbles at the bottom, marbles that he would pick up and throw at night. So I would fall asleep to the constant plink plink plink of glass against glass, knowing that my bloodthirsty friend defended the rear (door) while I held the front (window) with my trusty ray gun at the ready. (The same ray gun which he fought – and won – by the way, taking several blasts to the face with no negative effect. Well. He did get terribly angry, but that was expected.)
He hated Japanese fans, sub par feed and took strange comfort in yellow manila envelopes. He was the greatest, most vicious Viking that ever lived, wanting nothing more than to kill and mate (and then subsequently eat his young). And he was purple to boot. So when I found his lifeless body yesterday I knew there was only one just method for laying such a warrior to rest. I was trying to figure the logistics when Thunderball arrived, assessed the situation, and said “Viking Funeral.”
This is when you realize who your true friends are. The ones who look at your situation and not only think along the same lines as you, but help expedite and implement the means and methods necessary for your accomplishment – these are the ones you keep. Thunderball saw our little dead Viking, and next thing I know we’ve got a little boat, gun powder, a pyre for a king, and are driving to the nearest body of water blaring Amon Amarth as the sky turns to dusk. She set the little fish alight and even went into the water (in her shoes) to push his little boat back out to sea when it tried to wash ashore. Thunderball we keep.
This is when you realize who your true friends are: when you are standing on a beach watching someone happily light your dead fish on fire for you. That’s love right there, my friend. That’s love.
As we watched his little flaming vessel drift off into the night church bells rang. It was moving (creepy metal detector guy aside). We threw a three snap salute, and solemnly walked back to the spaceship. We drove home, blasting Amon Amarth through the neighborhood yet again, and had a reception of pizza we made (from tomatoes and basil we grew) and hours of ‘80’s videos on YouTube.
I will miss you Harold the Viking. May your days of mirth, feast, and slaughter in Odin’s hallowed hall serve you well.
NOTE: The following evening, Harold the Viking’s entrance into the Norse afterlife of olde was confirmed as the earth shook and William (ancient, why-is-he-still-alive, bird) completely lost his shiz and spazzed all over the place.