Bitter-sweet poison

March 28th

The crowd roared as he seamlessly produced a grey cat from underneath the black cloth that laid on his palm before making it disappear in the same way. Faith had become evermore scarcer over the years and, like the other Aesir, Loki had succumbed to the outskirts of memory, having to perform cheap magic in theatre pubs across London to survive the night.

After the show, Loki sat by the bar, his now white flaky hair resting on the sharp wrinkles on his face, and signalled the bartender.

“Redbreast. Neat.”

“Make it two,” said a voice from behind.

“Leave the bottle,” the god of mischief instructed as the bartender poured the first round.

A tall man, although not nearly as tall as the trickster, took the empty seat by the counter. He had dark slicked-back hair and a long bushy beard that faded from a natural brown into a vibrant grey. He wore a brown leather jacket paired up with dark-blue denim jeans and lace-up boots. “Cool tricks, old man,” he said.

“Old man, huh? I guess you could call me that these days.”

“Lothur, was it?”

Loki held the bottle of Redbreast and poured another round for himself. “That’s one of the names I’ve been given, yes,” he answered.

“How’d you do the cat trick, anyway?”

“Magic.”

“Right,” the man scoffed. He pulled a thick cylinder-shaped lump of £20 notes and placed it in front of the trickster, “does this help you find a better explanation?”

Loki stared at it for a handful of seconds. He picked up his glass, now decorated with a small rift due to the trickster’s vexed grip, and murmured in-between his breath, “you ungrateful Midgard fools and your meaningless paper, how dare you…”

“What was that?” The man asked.

He slid the pile of money back to the bearded man’s side of the counter. “Tell me something, Mr…”

“Butch, Axel Butch.”

“Do you believe in gods, Mr Butch?”

“Gods?” the man laughed, “they’re as phoney as you, magicians.”

“Hm, perhaps they are, and yet generations used to make sacrifices in their name and pray to their power, does that not say a lot about humans, Mr Butch?”

Axel ignored his remark. “It was a prop, wasn’t it? A fake cat, I bet.”

The old god felt irritated. Had he not been as weak as he was, he’d have separated that man’s head from his shoulderblades right there and then. Instead, he moved one arm horizontally across his body and his spare one vertically behind it, producing the same animal as before when they came into contact.

Butch stared in awe. Up close, it looked no more like a stray grey cat, but rather like a wolf, and it was very much alive. He reached his hand to pet the little wolf and said, “It’s tiny, I bet you can fit it anywhere in your suit.”

“Ah yes, he is tiny now, Fenrir, but I wouldn’t touch him if I were you. He tends to get, say, quickly irritated.”

Fenrir’s eyes glowed red, threatening almost, as if he were about to turn into a beast, discouraging the man from touching it.

The old god placed one hand on Fenrir’s head, holding the small beast on his other palm, and pressed them together. In the time it took Butch to blink, Fenrir was gone, again, this time mere inches away from his face. “What do you do for a living, Mr Butch?” Insisted Loki, now enjoying the control he’d gained.

“Car salesman, why?”

A smug grin decorated Loki’s face. “I guess we’re both liars then, Mt. Butch.”

Butch stood up, his furrowed eyebrows showcased his annoyance by the trickster’s comments. For a moment he appeared to be taller than him. “What did you say?”

Loki had grown to despise humans. He considered them to be the weak whim of the Allfather, created with only one purpose: to pray to the gods and to fear their power. Although, of course, they did that no more. “Be careful, Mr Butch,” he warned, even if his smirk invited trouble.

Enraged, Butch grabbed the trickster by the lapels on his suit, his facial expressions exacerbated by the alcohol.

The god of mischief stood up, suddenly the roles were inverted. He looked around, a small group of drunken men wishful for a fight had already started to form around them. Loki grabbed Butch by the back of the head and smacked it against the counter, denting it in the process. “I warned you, Mr Butch. Now you’ll pay.”

The defeated look on the man’s face sucked the fighting spirit out of Loki. Weaklings, he thought. He got up, grabbed the bottle of Redbreast that by this point had but a handful of sips left and walked towards the exit. “You’ll pay, all of you!” The old god shouted at the drunken men before leaving.

As he walked through the streets of South London, filled with ungrateful mortals, he’d already made up his mind. Humans had forgotten how to pray to him, how to sacrifice and plead for mercy and, therefore, humans were no longer needed.

***

April 1st

He laid in his man-made bed patiently — a long shot from the silky dwarf-made materials of Asgard — waiting for the twelfth chime to announce the beginning of the end. On that day of the year, and that day only, humanity’s embrace of mischief and mayhem disguised a belief that gave Loki a slither of the power he’d once possessed. And so, as the last stroke of the clock echoed through London, the old god’s flaky white hair regained the distinct red colour that complimented his bright green eyes and he became, once again, the fairest of the Aesir. With a snap of his fingers, the trickster assumed once again the body of Thokk, the giantess whose waterless tears had once condemned Baldur to Hel until the end of days.

The pub stopped at the sound of the trickster’s heels hitting the cold floor. Weak men made way for the giantess, smitten by the way in which his long black hair curved around his godly features.

“What makes a beautiful woman like yourself be all alone at a time like this?” Said a familiar voice from behind.

“I’m no longer as such, it seems,” the trickster replied, his gaze as powerful as the one that conquered Svadilfari.

“Allow me, love,” the man said as he pulled a chair for the giantess.

“You can call me Loki, Mr?”

“Butch, Axel Butch.” He said as he signalled the bartender, “I’ll have whatever the lady’s having.”

“Redbreast. On the rocks.”

“So, Loki, like the god?”

“Do I not look as such, Mr Butch?” Teased the trickster, the red lipstick hypnotizing the man.

“You sure do,” he answered almost on instinct. “Will you get me to meet Odin, in that case?”

Loki chuckled softly, “I’d be surprised if he could still lift Gungnir m’dear.”

“What brings you here Ms Loki?”

“You know why I’m here, Mr Butch, do you not?” Said the trickster, gently caressing his leg.

The man smiled lopsidedly and leaned forward expecting a kiss.

The trickster stopped him by gently pressing his finger against his chapped lips, “my, my, Mr Butch, this hardly looks like the place for such things.”

“My place is just around the corner,” replied the man haphazardly.

The trickster smiled and drank the whiskey in one gulp.

They left the pub and walked exactly nine steps before coming to a stop in front of an old victorian-style building. The stairs leading to the first floor were visibly old with steep cracks that transcribed through the mould-stained walls. The inside of his apartment was simple: three, probably four pieces, one of which was the combination of the living room and the kitchen. A single two-person leather sofa rested against a mould-filled wall decorated with football posters that hid the majority of the humidity. Opposite to it was a small cube-shaped tv that rested on top of a wooden shelf filled with untouched books. Appropriate, thought the trickster.

“Take a seat, I’ll get us something to drink,” said Butch. He scavenged through the rotten wooden cupboard by the sink and emerged with a half-empty bottle of red wine and two stained long neck glasses. Not quite the reception the old god had been used to. They sat together for a moment while Butch poured two drinks.

The trickster’s hand slowly made its way up the man’s leg before stopping to unbutton the first two buttons of his carefully-ironed black shirt. “Tell me something, Mr Butch,” the god whispered at his hear, “have you ever made love to a goddess?”

“Not quite like you,” the man answered lustfully.

“I will make sure you never forget it then,” the trickster replied in a seductive tone.

An animalistic urge took over Butch’s body. He ripped the remaining buttons on his shirt and lunged over the trickster. He attempted to take the giantess’ dress off in the same way but the latter resisted. The trickster’s hands wrapped around the man’s neck and a strange claustrophobic feeling took over his body.

“Close your eyes, Mr Butch,” instructed the trickster.

The man obliged. Tenderly, the body of the trickster felt as though it was stretching around his own, trapping him inside. He fought the urge to open his eyes while the trickster kissed his neck viciously.

“You may open them now.”

Once again, the man obliged. However, the black-haired goddess he had last seen before closing his eyes was no more. Instead, a strange snake-like figure with glowing green eyes encircled him like an anaconda tortures its prey.

“This is Jörmungandr, Mr Butch, one of my children,” the trickster said, now standing across the room, a much larger Fenrir salivating by his side.

The man struggled furiously, attempting to break free of the world snake.

“That’s no good, m’dear,” Loki mocked, “not even Thor himself could do it.”

“What the hell is going on?” The man gasped.

Loki looked at the desperate man, remorse absent from his gaze, and said, “In a few seconds, the fangs of my child penetrate your skin, you will go to sleep, and when you wake up, memoryless, you will unwillingly carry and spread the Eitr to all those you come into contact with. And them, like you, will spread it for nine days and nine nights like the Allfather himself, before collapsing on the ground, drowning in your own vices.”

The man had no time to protest before the snake’s fangs lunged deeply into his neck. He could feel the liquid flowing through his veins, but couldn’t stop it. Within seconds, he felt nauseous and the world appeared to be nothing but blurred lines collapsing into the void of darkness.