February 15, 2008
Tour Blog: Minneapolis — Sons of Njord
Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 15, 2008 11:17 AM
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Happy Heartland Tour -- The Midwest '08
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Because of Margo’s recent injuries, we had to fly to Minneapolis instead of driving their in our official tour van and hearse. From there, we intended to rent a van large enough to fit our instruments right the airport. Unfortunately, we ran into something nobody could have anticipated.
An elderly man in a cheap suit and black cap stood at the gate, holding a sign on which ABYSMAL CRUCIFIX was scrawled.
“Huh,” I said.
“What?” Margo mumbled.
Mikey laughed. “Did you rent a limo to drive us to the rent-a-car kiosk?”
“Of course not,” I said. I didn’t want to tell him how hard I had thought about it before settling on hailing a cab to take us.
I approached the limo driver. “Excuse me, sir. What are you doing here?”
He looked at me like he’d just found 250 pounds of pure, chunky gold. “Your reputation precedes you immeasurably,” he said. The cadence and rhythm of his voice reminded me of Roddy McDowall, only with a rural Minnesota accent instead of an effeminate English accent. “Thanks to our high population of Scandinavian immigrants and descendants, the Twin Cities have embraced Abysmal Crucifix like so many huge and throbbing Johnsons. Mayor Rybak himself insisted we send a limo and provide for you the finest accommodations while you await your show.”
“Well…” I said, stunned. “Nothing like this has happened to us before.”
“Follow me to the limousine,” the driver said.
Margo’s eyes had a sudden suspicious glint in them.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Dude,” Riffs said, “are you a moron? Don’t you remember what happened in Japan when we took an unexpected limo ride with a man claiming to be with the government?”
“Come on,” I said. “He’s an elderly man. Look at him shuffling. There’s no way an old man can con me.”
“Two elderly men just did,” Carl reminded me.
“Yeah, but only through the façade of young, attractive women,” I muttered.
As we approached the limo, the driver said, “Gentlemen,” then nodded at Margo and added, “and lady. I would like you to meet your tour guide.”
Out of the limo stepped the third-most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on: a gorgeous cascade of auburn hair tumbled down her exquisite back, legs about six miles long, breasts that were big but not too big—like Goldilocks, they were just right—and sparkling green eyes. She flashed a snaggletoothed smile and said in a sultry voice, “My name is Erica.”
She extended a hand for me to shake. I did, then stammered my name.
“I know who you are, Mr. McDürchstein,” Erica said. “I know all of you.”
“Girth,” Carl said, “I have a really bad feeling about this.”
“What’s the harm?” I hopped into the limo.
Maybe if Margo hadn’t been buzzing on an elaborate cocktail of sedatives and pain pills, she would have been wise enough to stop us, but the entire band followed my lead and hopped into the stretch, followed by Erica.
“Time to meet the mayor,” Erica said. “We’re going to have a ceremony on the steps of City Hall, right in the heart of our decaying warehouse district!”
“Sounds great,” I said.
I caught Mikey and Carl exchanging uncomfortable glances, the assholes.
The limo turned, and I caught a small blue sign reading WELCOME TO STANDISH-ERICSSON.
“Hey,” I noted casually, “this isn’t the warehouse district.”
“No, it isn’t,” Erica said, removing a gun she somehow hid in her taut business suit. I didn’t care to question where.
Everyone in the limo raised their hands, except Margo, who stared into space and said, “Buh.”
The limo stopped outside a restaurant whose sign seemed to scream SONS OF NJORD against the usual faux-Scandinavian wood-framed plaster architectural façade.
“Njord,” I gasped. “Those sons of bitches!”
“Son of a bitches are right,” Erica said. “I am indeed Erica Njord. My cousins run this restaurant. I believe you know our fathers.”
“Is that some kind of gay reference—”
“No!” Erica snapped. “Now, get out of the car.”
We all got out as Erica aimed the gun at is. I was tempted to run the moment I stepped onto the slushy sidewalk, but two mealy young men aimed shotguns from the doorway of the restaurant.
Erica followed Riffs out of the limo, which drove away quickly. We were all corralled into the Sons of Njord restaurant.
Inside, we were treated to the typical aesthetic of a greasy-spoon hole-in-the-wall: cheap tables and seating, a cafeteria-style counter, a limited selection of every kind of meat and cheese combination imaginable, without vegetables or grains to confuse or annoy us. It was wonderful being back in the Midwest.
Unfortunately, we were not at the Sons of Njord to eat. We were there to sit in an empty, mostly darkened restaurant, in total silence, while two men and a woman aimed guns at us. Why does this kind of thing happen to us every time we tour? I was about to find out the answer.
“You owe our fathers a truck,” one of the Sons of Njord said politely.
“Your ‘fathers’ pay for a socialist sex club by stealing cars,” I said.
“That is perfectly legal in Norway!” the other Son spat.
“Well, it’s not perfectly legal where I come from. Besides, if stealing cars is legal, then us stealing our own truck is also legal.”
“Legal, perhaps. This is not about legal. Is it legal to kidnap from airports, to drive to restaurants with the intent of extorting money of murdering? Well…is it?”
“No,” I said at length.
The Sons exchanged confused glances while Erica popped one into the chamber of her handgun.
“You motherfuckers!” she screeched. “You ruined them!”
“What?”
Erica explained that us stealing back our truck was the beginning of the end for the Njord brothers. Those who came to the Njords for their auto-theft needs lost confidence in their abilities to steal a car and have it remain truly stolen. Even the Njords’ independent thefts, which they would either sell back to the original owners as a premium or sell to anybody who would buy, began to fade away. Owners began standing up to the Njords, stealing their own vehicles back. They were no longer the most feared and successful car thieves in Scandinavia.
“So how is that our fault?” I asked.
Erica squeezed the trigger. I flinched, but it turned out she forgot to turn the safety off so it just clicked dry. By the time she fidgeted to get it off, the older-looking Son had snatched the gun away and stage-whispered, “We need them.”
“For what?” I demanded.
“The damages,” Erica snapped.
“Fuck you,” Riffs said.
“Wrong answer, McFly,” the younger Son replied.
“Look,” Margo said suddenly. All eyes turned to her. Thirty taut seconds passed before she continued: “Why don’t you ask Girth how he’s spent the last six months. If you think it’s worse, we’ll pay the damages, assuming you take out-of-state post-dated personal checks.”
“We do,” said Erica. She turned to me. “Tell us about the last six months.”
“I’ll go you one better,” I sighed. “Just so I don’t leave anything out, load up our website and read the blog, from the time we left Norway until today. Read about the rest of our tour, my ex-fiancée dying of cancer, discovering I had a daughter only to discover she was a con artist operating for a pair of drug lords and scammers…”
To my surprise, Erica and the older Son went to the ancient computer in the back room of the restaurant, loaded up the site, and spent the next four hours reading. When they returned, both were red-faced, coated in sweat and tears, hair mussed, clothes disheveled.
“Put the gun down,” Erica said to the younger Son.
“What the fuck?” he snapped.
“Put it down.”
So they released us, but we missed the damn show. Let this be a lesson to young, struggling bands: never trust your fans.
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