If it looks like Norway, and smells like Norway...

Quote:

---

Disclaimer: may contain non-PG material.

---

Quote:

---

Closed unless requested.

---

***

The first thing I thought, as anyone else would naturally do in my situation, was how in the ever-loving fuck did I get to Norway?!

I mean, at first that’s where I honestly thought I was. It was snowing, heavily. There were endless pine trees in every direction, populated apparently by very hungry rats the size of dogs and even hungrier wolves the size of, well, large wolves.

Do Norway even have giant rats and wolves? I asked myself. It was a question that could really have waited until later, given how hungry they all looked. The wolves decided the rats would make an excellent appetiser, and I decided to not play host to this psychotic edition of Come Dine with Me. So, I ran, and left the dog-rat things to their fate.

It turns out that wolves are a lot quicker than they look. Like, a lot quicker. I mean, I’m slightly overweight and a bit unfit, so I had no business pretending that I could outrun a pack of wolves. Especially over a blanket of thick, sticky snow, through a labyrinth of pine trees and across a mile wide frozen river. To be fair, even if I had been running on freshly cut grass with Sonic the Hedgehog’s sneakers and the wolves had been wearing rollerblades, it still would have been a photo finish situation.

So, when they did catch up to me, I was on my arse at the edge of that river and in deep shit.

How do you fight a pack of wolves? was my next question, as they closed in on me with born fangs and agitated growls. One of them (I assume the alpha) loomed over me, a string of dog-rat thing flesh still swinging from between its incisors.

I’d always hoped I’d die in space, or at least in my sleep. I guess I’d have to settle with being eaten by a wolf, in the arse end of nowhere. A shame really. I’d never get the funeral I’d always wanted. That was the one where I would make the gathering sit down and listen to all twenty minutes worth of Shine on You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd. It wasn’t even my favourite song by them, it was just long and annoying to everyone else who wasn’t a Floyd fan.

Wonder what- wait. I couldn’t remember their faces. You know, my family and the people I’m supposed to love. Why? I remembered Ross, and Luke, and Mark. My mates, the boys. Why no one else? Was I suffering from, what was it called? Am-something?

I tried to explain my predicament to the approaching wolf, but surprisingly he didn’t really care. He bore down on me now, his frost covered snout investigating my scent and huffing clouds of rank vapour into my cold face.

I prepared for death, and an eternity surfing the lake of fire, jamming to Machine Head. There were worse things, I reasoned; like drinking rosemary flavoured vodka in Krakow. Fuck you, Luke.

I wasn’t really expecting the wolf to just explode in a cloud of red mist and mottled fur.

Let’s rewind a little bit.

My name’s Christopher DeBair. Up until about thirty hours ago, I lived in a city called Manchester, situated in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Which, by the way, is situated on a little marble of blue and green called Earth. I worked for a reasonably average accountancy practice, and last night I’d gone drinking with the boys to alleviate some work related stress.

The boys consist of Ross, Luke and Mark. All of them are friends from school, and all of them as mad as a box of frogs. Rossy is a former semi-professional rugby player, with the frame to match; he looks like a cross between Hagrid from Harry Potter and Brock Lesnar from the WWE. Luke is the resident computer guy, he loves a good game. He’s also an avid Formula One fan. He’s funny as fuck when he wants to be. Mark, well, he’s the science and geography nut, a chemical engineer by trade and all around great guy. We affectionately call him the “Travel Wanker”, which he takes in his stride. He’s done a lot of touring the world, and taken so many fucking photos. Of everything. All-the-time. If you want to know where something is, or what it’s made up of, he’s your man.

So, there I am, enjoying a nice pint of Trooper ale in a little pub called the Steamhouse. Little was the operative word; it was fucking tiny, so much so that the big man Ross had trouble getting to the bar. Anyway, we’d all got a bit shitfaced and I made my way home. I’m guessing I blacked out as I got through my front door, as I don’t remember anything else.

Next thing I know, I wake up in last night’s clothes in a field of fucking snow, situated in the middle of nowhere, and I can’t remember shit about my life. Not a single thing, other than my name, the lads, and bits and pieces of general knowledge. The only life for miles around were these big dog-rat things and a pack of very angry wolves, as I just described.

Now, back to the exploding wolf.

As I was saying, this wolf just exploded.

This surprised me, as you can imagine, because wolves are not known for spontaneously exploding. Bits of flesh and fur covered me in a veritable film of frosty gore. It felt like an eternity before I realised what had happened, and instinctively wiped the beast’s internals from my skin with the back of my hand. It was only then that I noticed the massive, iron head of what could only have been a great-hammer, embedded into the crimson snow where the offending wolf used to be.

With the alpha now nothing more than a corner shop slushie, the rest of the pack decided they didn’t fancy their chances and bolted. Apparently, I would still get a shot at being the subject of the world’s most annoying funeral.

As reality sucked back into itself, I realised I was seated like a gymnast taking a shit. I slowly staggered to my feet, the cold air biting into my skin and grazing my tearing eyes, to greet a man hulking over me. It must have been the man who-

“Fucking hell, mate. It’s you!”, he cried in a hoarse voice.

I recognised the hairy, bearded, huggable bastard immediately. It was Ross, stood in a pair of jeans and a blood soaked Iron Maiden hoodie, like he’d just come back from Download Festival or something. I was stunned, initially. So stunned I completely neglected to ask where he had gotten the fucking massive hammer from.

“Jesus christ. What’s going on?”

It’s all I could think to say, and it was instantly clear that his thumb was nowhere near the pulse of the situation.

“I haven’t got a fucking clue mate,” He started, “I got in last night, hung up my keys, went to bed and next thing I know, I’ve got a pine tree up my chocolate starfish, and a hammer next to me.”

“Right,” I said, “Same here. Except I woke up in the snow, with nothing up my arse or in my hand. Any ideas where we are?”

“Nope,” Ross shrugged, pulling out his phone. The screen was on, but it was clear there was no reception. “Signal’s dead. Google maps is fucked too.”

My phone. Of course!

“Wait, let me check mine,” I said, giving myself a cursory wallet, keys, phone tapdown. I found my Galaxy S9 in my right pocket. Somehow, miraculously, the screen hadn’t cracked. “Fucking fifty five percent battery already, Jesus. I only charged it last night. But no, nothing. Must be in a black spot.”

There was a moment’s pause before either of us spoke again.

“This’ll be Luke, this. Some elaborate joke.” I concluded, trying to fathom what the fuck was going on. “Let’s start walking and see if we can find a phone or something.”

Turns out Luke and Mark had it a bit easier than us, the twats.

They had woken up almost on the doorstep of some sort of torchlit pub or hotel, I’m not quite sure which, about five miles away from where Ross had saved me from becoming wolf shit almost an hour before. Anyway, my recollection of their story was that they had gone inside and asked the important questions:

1. Where were they?
2. And, err, where is that?
3. …err, a pint of whatever you’ve got then.

Then, for some inexplicable reason that eludes me to this day, they just sat at a table and drank. They had no money in any accepted currency (Mark had about five hundred euros stashed on his person, for whatever reason) and no real understanding of the local language or any of the demographics (Mark also concluded that they were actually in Scandanavia, and tried to converse with the locals in some bizarre norse dialect. I would love to have seen that). They also had no idea where they were or why. They just drank, hoping the promise of Mark’s useless euros would be enough to cover the tab until they figured out what was going on.

When I think about that, it worries the shit out of me.

Anyway, so, there we were. Me and Ross, trudging down an icy pathway that we’d managed to navigate to after an hour of wading through Santa’s fucking Christmas tree and wolf emporium.

“Chris, how the fuck did this happen?” Ross asked, looking at me with the same bewildered expression as I was giving him.

“I have no idea, mate.” Was the only response I could muster. Neither of us spoke again for a short while whilst we tried to conserve energy to fight the freezing cold. I remember watching documentaries on Netflix that taught me that Norway could reach temperatures of nineteen degrees Fahrenheit; the same temperature as my ex’s heart. Luckily, my jacket was nice and warm, and both me and Ross had considerable stores of fat for just this type of situation.

Eventually, just as we were about to lose the will to live, we saw lights on the horizon under the ebbing afternoon sun. A building.

A pub.

“Pub?” I asked Ross. We knew the pub to be a universal place of refuge, a place to rest weary feet and fill bellies. A place to watch the news and ask for directions. A church in the religion of good, old fashioned hospitality.

“Pub.” The big lad affirmed.

It wasn't a pub. It really, really wasn't.

When we walked in, it felt like something out a western. The entire place fell silent as all eyes clapped straight on us, as if we were here to announce they were all going to be arrested and their families taken to some labour camp somewhere.

The first thing both sides noticed first about each other was the fashion. Now, I've been to plenty of places with a "no trainers" policy. Smart casual is usually the order of the day, and nine times out of ten I'd pass in my "auditioning for Cats, the musical" clothes. But this?

"Obviously there's a renaissance fair on or something." Ross whispered to me as we awkwardly moved front and centre to the bar. Maybe he's right, and there's a strict adherence to fancy dress rules in Norway. I don't know.

Ross had obviously forgotten he was wearing a blood drenched Iron Maiden hoodie. The barkeeper, who looked a bit like Ray Winstone, came over.

"Is he ok?" Ray asked. Obviously his name wasn't Ray, but for the purposes of the story, he is now.

"Yeah, err, fine." I replied. As I did, I could see Ross staring at me out of the corner of my eye. "Can I ask where we are?"

"Tvak." Came Ray's response.

"Tvak?" The confusion was evident on my face. Sounded Nordic, all right. "Ok, thank you. Do you have a phone we could use?"

Ross's stare intensified. I wondered what the fuck his problem was.

"A what?"

"A phone, please." I spoke a little louder, assuming he couldn't hear me.

Ray just gave me a blank look.

What's going on? I wondered, pulling the phone from my pocket.

"Look, I have no signal." I pointed frantically. Another blank look.

These fuckers are really into their roleplay...this renaissance fair must be serious shit..

"Chris..." Ross interjected.

"Not now, mate, I'm trying to get this dozy dick to get me a phone."

"Chris!!"

"What?" I asked sharply.

"...when did you learn Norweigan?"

Was that a stupid question? It felt like a stupid question.

"Sorry, what?" I asked.

"You just spoke some weird ass shit." Ross said. He looked utterly confused, stroking his beard. "It sounded Norweigan."

This now convinced me that all of this was some sort of setup by Ross. It was obvious. He started by scaring me, dumping me somewhere (probably Scotland) and coming to my rescue so conveniently by killing a pinata wolf. Then taking me to a pub, having everyone dress up like the disciples of Jesus Christ himself. Pretending we'd fucking time travelled or something, like a shit, fat Dr. Who. Then topping it off by finally gaslighting me into believing I was speaking another language.

What a fucking prick.

"Alright, game's up, cockwomble." I said, half laughing as I looked around the room at all of the bewildered stares. "Come on, stop fucking about. I've got work on Monday."

The big lad looked absolutely bamboozled.

"Chris, are you ok mate? Are you having a stroke?"

I staggered around a bit. Maybe I was? I mean, I'd consumed my fair share of XL Bacon Double Cheeseburgers in my life. Surely my luck would run out sometime. Was today that day? Was my face sagging? I put both arms up to touch my cheeks, to make sure my cheeks weren't melting off my face.

"...no."

"Chris, you spoke some absolute nordic nonsense. Right in front of me."

Was I in the Matrix now? I half expected Hugo Weaving to come sprinting around the corner. I couldn't comprehend what he was telling me.

"English? It was...English?" I asked myself more than him.

Something wasn't right.

Just as well that Luke and Mark appeared from the corner of the room to confirm I had finally lost my sanity.