It was a cold winter night in Reykjavik, and the moon shone brightly upon the snowcapped streets and rooftops. Jim Norton stared out the window, not really seeing, his whole body twitching in anticipation. His eyes darted to a laptop in the corner, where a $60,000 chaturbate token was twirling; he had meant to give the profits from the Chip scam to his parents, whose house was being foreclosed on, but then he had found Thor Ragnarok and her godlike hammer, and prostitutes didn’t buy themselves. It was a tough one man, but after two seconds of careful consideration, he had booked the next flight to Iceland. “Are you ready, my prince?” said a deep, masculine voice behind him. Jim turned to see Alena framed in the bathroom doorway. Hung like a purebred stallion, her cock dangled down to her knees, tantalizing Jim. “Fuck, man” said Jimmy, not recognizing the double entendre he had just uttered. Alena gazed at him lustfully, like Anthony at a preteen with a vine account, and whispered “I vill BREAK you.” Without warning, she struck; she grabbed Jim by his soft, maggoty body, and with a great roar, hurled him down a flight of stairs. Jim tumbled head over heel, crumpling into a heap at the bottom. Wincing in pain, he looked back up the stairwell; in his blurred vision, he swore he could see four figures descending, clad in spandex and makeup and resembling cats, spacemen, and other pansy shit. Jim felt a twitch in the front of his trousers. “Gene?” whispered Jimmy. “Paul?” “It iz me my prince” said Alena, coming into view as the vision faded. “You are safe now,” she said. “I vill comfort you.” Alena knelt down and shoved her Mjollnir into Jim’s waiting mouth, filling it with her warm piss. For a moment, Jim was brought back to the carefree days of his youth, when he had blown neighborhood friends under the porch and drank urine straight from the tap in public pools. Alena then lifted Jim from the floor and threw him roughly onto the nearby bed. With the strength of He-Man, she ripped off his Black Sabbath t-shirt and pulled down his maroon jeans. Jim watched her down a whole bottle of PrEP like a Viking draining a horn of mead, and winced as her massive cock penetrated his hairless ass. “Oh YA” she growled, her voice a deep baritone, “I vant to VUCK you.” As Jim spastically blinked through tears of pain, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the tall mirror across the room. What he saw there he could not immediately recognize as himself; he saw what looked like a cross between Voldemort and an orc blinking back at him, face down on a cheap IKEA bed, while a six foot tall Norseman in makeup violently sodomized him. In a brief moment of clarity his life flashed before his eyes, an empty life full of hookers, porn, and worthless celebrity photographs. A genuine personality; a good heart; these were two of the few things he had been unable to steal from Colin Quinn. His thoughts turned to the parents he had recently motherfucked; perhaps they had been right. Perhaps spending 50 years living as a degenerate was not the key to a fulfilling existence, only tearful Instagram streams at 2 in the morning. But it was too late, thought Jim, as Alena roared, filling his colon with her Nordic seed. He had once said if you were single over the age of thirty there must be a good reason for it. As the smell of shit and semen wafted up from his prolapsed anus, Jim could think of at least one.