Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
'Hi. My Name is: Loki'
Hi. My Name is: Loki.
The store-clerk's name tag takes me aback. Seriously?
What's going on here? Is this a joke? Some sort of sly pop-culture reference that I'm not getting?
A nickname? No one would name their son Loki, surely: I mean, what with the Hollywood franchise and all. Right?
Right?
It doesn't help that I find him kind of attractive. Tall, whipcord lean, big beak nose, long hair in a messy bun.
Just my type.
Also, he smiles a lot. I really like guys that smile.
So you're Loki, I think about saying, as I hand him my money. I've read about you in the Eddas.
I don't. He gives me my change. We trade smiles, and I leave.
Loki, working at a Dollar Store in Minneapolis, smiling.
Well, it sure beats being chained to a rock.
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