Duck Soup
As the barn door creaked open, the Old Gods beneath it stirred.
“Shh! Harold, you’re going to get us caught!”
“Would you calm down, you dumb sumbitch?”
Harold peered into the old barn and nothing peered back. He motioned for Dale to follow him in. His companion reluctantly obliged, wiping the sweat from his brow. When both men were in, Harold closed the door as quietly as he could.
The full moon outside cast a hazy light in through the windows, and Dale’s eyes adjusted quickly. The first thing he noticed was that Harold was bleeding. The second was the writing on the wall. The writing reminded him of Egyptian hieroglyphics, but Dale didn’t understand what some ancient language was doing on the walls of a simple country barn.
“Harold, do you see that?” Dale whimpered, pointing toward the jagged writing.
“See what?” Harold snapped. His eyes followed Dale’s finger to the symbols before rolling in their sockets. “Dale, that’s nothing. It’s probably Icelandic or somethin’. Lotta Norweigans around here.”
Dale wasn’t in the mood for Harold to lose his temper, so he decided against pointing out that Iceland and Norway were two different places. Harold was irritable enough when he didn’t have a bullet in his…
