Winter Night Supper
by Gregg Chamberlain
The three-headed troll leafed through a copy of Childe’s Guide to Fine Dining.
“We could try this, ‘Oliver’s Buttermilk Roast Chicken’,” suggested Hagrumb.
Hogrumb shook his head. “Now, that’s no good. You know very well I’m lactose intolerant!”
More pages flipped.
“Here’s a possible,” exclaimed Hegrumb. “Boeuf Bourguignon Bordeaux.”
Hagrumb squinted at the page, and grimaced. “Red wine gives me awful migraines.”
“We could always do a nice Tuscan ragoût,” Hogrumb mumbled.
“After six days of mutton stew?” Hegrumb scowled. “I don’t think so.”
“Winter Night supper should be something special,” muttered Hogrumb.
All three heads sighed.
“Well, I guess that settles it,” Hagrumb grumbled.
“And after all that hard work tenderizing and peeling,” groused Hegrumb, examining one set of skinned knuckles.
All three heads looked over at the battered and bruised Aesir, bound and gagged, shivering and quivering against the dank cave wall. Piled beside him were the broken remains of his armour.
“Right then, fellows,” declared Hogrumb. “Looks like it’s sushi tonight!”