I have the fire! I have the ! I have the power to make my evil take it’s course.

The German language has almost thirty synonyms for the verb “kill”. Each of them describes a different degree or method. The one which best applies here is “blutorgy”, literally “orgy of blood”. Yes. That’s a real word.

The scene devolved into madness as the other dwarves descended on Stúfur, rending flesh and rapidly consuming their still living brother. Arterial spray painted the snowy field crimson. Bob was faced with a trauma response instinct, eyes glued on the carnage before him. In stress situations one usually resorts to one of the four F’s. By far the first three are the most common, fight, flight, or freeze.

Bob’s trauma response is the fourth. When faced with danger he goes calm, compartmentalization of reaction from thought allowing assessment of the situation from a cold neutral standpoint. In situations like this one or the time he faced down a gun wielding mugger who was trying to steal the pizza he was delivering Bob does not lash out. Neither does he run or become paralyzed by the situation. He gets cold and hard.

Bob does not fight, flee, or freeze.

Bob fucks.

That compartmentalization allows him to recognize that barreling into this clearing will likely mean his ****, and that regardless of the adrenaline inspired fear boner that was currently gracing his midsection sexual gratification would have to wait. He had to get back to the lodge, preferably while the dwarf brothers were still engaged in their blutorgy, and that required moving more quietly than the literal cannibalistic feeding frenzy in front of him.

On fucking skis.

Needless to say silence was not in the cards, and Bob hadn’t gotten fifteen yards before one of the large carbon fiber boards attached to his feet ran over a fairly noisy twig at just the wrong moment. He gave up all pretense of silence when he heard the horde begin to crash through the trees toward him.

On skis Bob was faster going downhill, but this portion of the mountain was just a gentle slope. There was no hope of making it to the lodge ahead of the unruly staff so instead he began to look around for a defensible position, his eyes finally lighting upon a bottleneck in the path, just wide enough for one skier. Reaching it, he hockey-stopped, and turned to face the marauding neckbeards.

He gave one of the ski poles an experimental twirl, testing its balance, before dropping into a fighting stance. A sadistic grin spread across his lips. “Ok boys. You wanna fight, fuck, or dance?”

(Title: “The Number Of The Beast” by Iron Maiden)