Archive for the ‘Published Sagas’ Category

Rekindling the Varangian Flame, Part 2

Friday, March 8th, 2019

“Send the Magyars to slaughter us all in our sleep. Slit our throats, trample our bodies, and string us up to dangle, windblown and decaying from the nearest tree.”

The upbeat positivity and general good vibes of the suicidal Viking metal death-wish music project continues as the band members of Varjagikaarti relate what happened when they finally ventured deep into the land of the Rus.

Experience the true Fennoscandian cultural insensitivity of Part 2 over at Metal Sucks now.

And for your aural pleasure, Varjagikaarti wouldn’t be what they are today if it weren’t for these guys…

And my prior interviews with other Modern Vikings are still sadly online too. Check them out if for some reason you feel so inclined. Here’s a direct link to the one about spazzing out in a Stockholm subway station:

Self-Condemned in the Tunnelbana

Rekindling the Varangian Flame, Part 1

Wednesday, February 27th, 2019

“Never have I seen a more complete denouncement of the meaning of human life than that murky, yellow obscenity that hovers above the rooftops of Miklagård like a celestial plague raining its poison down upon the feeble souls below during the darkest depths of the eternal night. It made me want to kill myself.”

And if that introductory quote doesn’t make you want to read all about the highly dysfunctional extreme Finnish metal band Varjagikaarti’s suicidal Viking metal voyage down the Dnieper River deep into the heart of old Varangian territory, then I don’t know what will.

Check out Part 1 over at Metal Sucks now.

And lest this post be wonting of a proper and thematically appropriate metal video…

And lastly, check out some of my prior interviews with other Modern Vikings too, if for some reason you feel so inclined. A couple direct links are below.

Fear and Loathing in Western Sweden

Dream Hard On

Dream Hard On

Thursday, May 5th, 2016

For anyone who’s ever wondered about the demeanor of Odin’s wiener, Swedish warrior-poet turned slacker-beach-bum Björn Svensson finally sheds some light on the topic. And it turns out that ole One-Eye’s own one-eyed warrior is a feisty little dream-weaver. Horns up to Jersey Devil Press for not ruthlessly rejecting this majestic piece of thoughtfully-constructed and immaculately-researched investigative journalism:

Dream Hard On

Also, if the topics of Odin’s wiener, nightmares, heavy drinking, and heavy metal interest you, check out the precursor too:

Fear and Loathing in Western Sweden

Finally, what post about the nine worlds’ most worldly one-eyed warrior would be complete without a reminder of his immense power?

Self-Condemned in the Tunnelbana

Thursday, April 2nd, 2015

It’s been a long time coming, but for one small moment of glory (and one day too late to be an April fool’s joke) I have failed at failing: the good folks at Jersey Devil Press have decided not to reject one of my pieces of investigative journalism. They have actually decided not to reject me in the past as well and for this I am grateful and should probably take it as a sign to be more productive rather than lamenting my successes at failing and then giving up at that and deciding to look for a beer instead.

Anyway, this counter-failing deals with the notorious and notoriously attractive Ingrid Törnblom, her exploits in Baltic raiding and slave-taking, her general disregard for me, and my general inability to behave like a normal human being while in her presence. Click the link below to learn more!

Self-Condemned in the Tunnelbana

And while we’re at it, why not check out the earlier pieces of investigative journalism? They’re highly educational and completely factual, especially the part about the hostile leprechaun taking my luggage in the vast mead hall.

Fear and Loathing in Western Sweden

Welcome to the Mead Hall

And on a final note, here is a video that I think really captures the ideals and accomplishments of Ingrid, even if the non-vocalists are a bunch of dudes.

Fear and Loathing in Western Sweden

Wednesday, August 31st, 2011

Fear and Loathing in Western Sweden

A tale of a depressed Viking, a vicious boner, the Little Mermaid, and heavy drinking.

Also, check out how most of the inhabitants of Tjörn really live:

Encounter with a Miscreant

Sunday, May 2nd, 2010

This is a little ditty that once upon a time was published by an online literary magazine called Bananafish, but then Bananafish went and suicided itself. It was an unfortunate day because I like people who like me and Bananafish seemed to like me even though I was writing about mead, the violent flinging of bones, and inebriated/hostile leprechauns instead of more standard literary themes such as confused sexuality, the politics of confused sexuality, religion’s role in confused sexuality, sexual inequality and confused sexuality, confused sexuality under the influence of drugs, and teenage vampires/wizards.

Anyway, for those of you who missed it and actually don’t not give a shit, here it is in all its no-longer published glory:

Encounter with a Miscreant

A spare rib struck me in the face, causing me to spill my mead, which not only made me sad, but also made me the recipient of a large number of menacing stares. Before I could even attempt to recover from this public embarrassment, all of the projectiles that had been flying haphazardly across the wooden table just moments earlier started to be hurled relentlessly in my general direction. I needed to remove myself from the fray quickly if I wanted to avoid the age-old shame that comes from being buried alive beneath a pile of gnawed-upon bones.

I remembered noticing a small passageway near the entrance to this grand hall, so I stood up and started towards it.

“Faen ta deg!”

Just as someone shouted this insult, a skillfully aimed drumstick smacked me on the side of the head. It didn’t really hurt, but a bout of laughter broke out among the assembled drunkards just the same. I grumbled and hurried along, ducking into the passageway as soon as I came to it.

Once inside, I found that it was actually a stairwell: narrow and spiraling downward farther than I could see in the poor lighting. Sure, it looked creepy, but I was curious, and I didn’t want to go back to getting pelted with bones again just yet—better to give those guys a chance to forget my unforgiveable spillage first, so I began the descent. The sounds of drunken revelry slowly faded into the background and I reached the bottom several minutes later.

The space in which I found myself was what I had always imagined the hold of a decrepit Lithuanian freighter to be like. The air was heavy with damp and rot and the dim lighting flickered unreliably. The splatter of dripping wetness could be heard in several places, along with some indecipherable creaking noises and phlegmy-sounding coughing. But this was no freighter trafficking forlorn souls across the Baltic to a life of hopeless degradation within Stockholm’s underground criminal network. No, I was underground—literally—but it was deep in the fjords of rural Norway.

A stumpy form lying on the ground near me stirred a bit.

“Ye a banshee?” it asked in a groggy, confused voice.

“What the fuck?” I gasped, the words just sort of slipping out of me. I hadn’t expected the lump to speak.

“Hey, ye bollocksed tosser! I asked ye a feckin’ question. Are ye a banshee or aren’t ye?”

Agitation coursed through the stumpy form as its movements became more intense and it flailed itself into an upright position.

It was a little man.

And suddenly I knew where I was. I had heard rumors about this place. This was the final destination for miscreant leprechauns. A despair-ridden hellhole where all dreams of retrieving that special pot o’ gold have long since disappeared. It is said to be reserved only for the worst of the worst—as defined by the guys upstairs who were busy throwing bones around at one another. But since I’m a cynical product of modern society’s failed system, I appreciated the irony here.

“Well, what have ye got to say for yeself, ye feckin’ tosser?” he asked again, hobbling the rest of the way to his feet.

I snapped out of my daze and answered, “No, I’m not a banshee. I wasn’t even wailing.”

He sighed heavily, “Well then, I guess it was just the hangover wailin’ in me head again.” He looked at the empty bottle in his hand and a tear slid down his cheek. “Be a good lad n’ go n’ fetch me another whiskey, will ye?”


“Just a wee drop, laddy, could ye do that for me?”

“No, I think I better not.”

I tried to sound sympathetic, but as soon as the words had escaped my lips he smashed his bottle against the cold floor and started to charge towards me with his new weapon, roaring, “Blarney! Ye fetch me another feckin’ whiskey right now!”

I jumped to the side just as he slashed the air where I had been standing, the force of his effort propelling him into a disgraceful face-plant on the ground. I put my foot on the small of his back, towering above him like a goddamned giant straight out of Jotunheim and wondered why the hell this freak hadn’t been shackled down.

He struggled for a while, and then feebly tossed his glass shard away. I took a step back and allowed him to sit up. Exasperated and weary, he just sat there.

But I had had enough. This guy was a jerk, and dangerous, so I decided that it was time to take my chances with the violent bone flinging again. With any luck, the guys upstairs would have moved on to some other preferred target by now anyway. I edged backwards till I reached the stairs.

“Where ye goin’, tosser?” the miscreant asked, sniffling.

I looked at him, and though I felt some pity, it was outweighed by my residual anger. He had attempted to knife me, after all.

“I’m going to go have some whiskey,” I told him.

Well, I was actually going to go have some mead, but he didn’t need to know that.

Welcome to the Mead Hall

Wednesday, September 16th, 2009

Welcome to the Mead Hall is a glorified/self-deprecating account of the first time I ever met Trond Troll-Breath. Published online by Word Riot, this marks the first time a literary entity has not completely blown off my research about the Modern Viking Movement. Hail to Word Riot!

Click here to read Welcome to the Mead Hall at (Note to Norse nitpickers: the editor(s) changed “nithing” to “nothing” in the text, not me!…doesn’t really matter though since the meaning’s the same.)

But first, a short, highly educational video from Lasse Gjertsen that provides deep insight into Norwegian profanity: