Guess who’s back? Yep, it’s our old friend Ross Dungan. You just can’t keep this kid down. This time, he’s ready for some rape and booty…
TO: Viking Direct Stationery Suppliers
9th June 2009
Dear Viking Direct
My name is Ross Dungan, or Thorsten Hargood, king of all the Norse. No doubt my name will be familiar to you and my reputation will precede me (does it? [it does {it better}]). As the leading Viking lord of this 9th Century, I have a fearsome history and will surely be honoured in Valhalla, if not in this life (my origami skills are legendary). I have recently begun my summer pillaging programme and will be, as usual, targeting the fishing villages on the eastern coast of Brittania. The long-boats are loaded with supplies, my warriors have donned their horned helmets and herring-bone armour and are lean and supple (so supple…), ready to go a-plundering. We have been offering up long-sacrifices of gutted reindeer and praying night upon night to Odin, all in the name of a good raiding season. As you well know, my long-sword, Ravenous Fireflash, is hungry for blood (oh, how well you know it). It would seem that all is ready and that the many monks and impoverished fishermen of Brittania ought to be quaking in their leather sandals. I am of course eager that we will fare well – the long-wife has been dropping hints all winter that she quite fancies a new golden torc and a silver chalice or two, and far be it for me to deny the buxom love of my mortal life her merest whim (plus she has quite the temper, as the Archdeacon of Lyon has no doubt told you, and I am loath to tempt her wrathful wrath [she's a dab hand with the long-sword {you should see her fillet a snow-pig}]).
However, the one outstanding issue remains my poor sense of long-direction. Ever since I got lost in that ill-fated hunting trip to Stockholm, I have been wary of setting foot outside the front door of my long-hut without consulting the stars and winds and the AA long-website. I once cowered in fear beside the umbrella-tidy for an hour when faced with the prospect of needing to drop down to the local merchant’s for a gourd of goat’s milk. “What? You, Thorsten Hargood, king of all the Norse? Cowering in fear?” I hear you ask (I have very good long-hearing). Yes, ’tis true. I am not proud. And it is for this reason that I beg this simple request of you at Viking Direct. As I look ahead to this long-awaited trip to Brittania, I would be not ungrateful if you could issue me with the appropriate directions to reach this isle of many plunder-worthy riches from my own long-citadel at Furstbingjen, 2nd fjord on the left, Norway (it has a green door [and a weather-vane]). If you were to furnish me with a map, or even a comprehensive set of directions, you will be much rewarded with 2 hearty slave-girls of your own and a sack of finest mead. If you refuse, prepare to lose your head to my own Ravenous Fireflash, and your blood will flow like the tears of the mighty goddess Freya when her pet snow-snails were crushed beneath unthinking Loki’s careless boot.
I anticipate your swift reply – I may be reached at this long-address or by homing snow-pigeon.
May your children be many and heterosexual (mine are).
Yours bloodthirstily,
Thorsten Hargood, king of all the Norse
