(trigger warning! i had to put it there. if u don’t like the topic of murder, u don’t have to read this.)
Ring!
My eyes snapped open. The ring startled me that I hastily sat up from my “bed.” I failed the task. Because I have guts tied around my wrists.
Plop!
That’s a venom on my face.
“Stupid snake,” I hissed. One day, I’ll know better than to hiss to a snake. They hiss back.
Oh I forgot to tell you! I’m currently in a cave shackled with my sons’ intestines and a snake on my face! Yeah, I know. Not really an ideal place. It sucks because my package always get lost in the delivery. They’ll call and be like: “Sir, I can’t find your location,” and I have to describe every little shit to identify this cavern.
This is a PSA—if y’all are gonna punish a man to a cavern, at least provide it with an address. I have to pay TWICE the shipping because the mailman has to go gods-know-where to find my cave. Stupid fuckin’ mailman.
With some magic I managed to get up from my rock whatever-you-wanna-call-it. I call it Steve. Why, you might ask? Because Steve is a really nice name. You know, Steve. Haha. When you’re in a cave for so long you’d start naming rocks too. I’m talking about YOU. I’m different. I managed to name all the rocks in just two weeks. The rock on my left wrist is Steve 1; the one on my right is Steve 2; on my feet was Steven. That tiny pebble that the mailman managed to kick in was Doris.
So, again, (am I getting sidetracked?), I managed to magically leave my restraints (don’t tell the gods that I can do that) and popped a pop-tart on my mouth and gave one to the snake as well. I call her Karen. Mainly because she’s a bitch. One time she dropped her slimy drool on my face and she demanded that I give it back. Everytime I see her, her stupid face makes me wanna strangle her and tie her into a bow, but I know that wouldn’t work. She’ll probably bitch me and start an argument with the vet to give her a rat for free.
Over the years, Karen and I developed a love/hate relationship. I realized that she hates this as much as I did and have no choice, just like I do. Imagine looming over some dude with your mouth open, waiting for your saliva to drip down. I know, not really a good job. I’m very thoughtful, right? Even though I hate her, I managed to sympathize with her, and you think I’m a horrible person! You think a guy who shares his pop-tart with the stupid snake who tortures him everyday, is a bad guy? What an ass.
I took another pop-tart for myself and sat on a rock I call Chad. That’s my breakfast. While I munch on my food, I list down the things I could do for the day. Asgard is still probably mad at me for replacing their weapons with balloons and covering it with magic to make it seem like real swords. Gods, they look so ridiculous trying to kill each other with balloon-swords. Last week I did the Jell-O-on-the-pool thing on Alfheim so I think they wouldn’t appreciate if I do it again. I could go to Helheim and prank Baldr dressed as a mistletoe. . . .
As I was enjoying my pop-tart for breakfast (pop-tart is my breakfast, lunch, and dinner), my phone went off again. Crap, I completely forgot about it. I fished my phone out of my jeans immediately, barely bothering about the fact that the call came from an unknown number.
“Hello, just leave the package on the entrance. It’s a huge cave with Brad—I mean the huge boulder on the base, and a smaller one beside it—his wife Angelica—”
“Hello, the fuck are you talking about?” said the voice on the other line.
“Excuse me, as far as I know, you’re the one who called me!” I yelled at the phone.
