What Happened When Frank Died: Valhalla

frank

Frank died.

A limb of some sort, from somewhere, landed in front of him.

“What the–” he started.

But then, someone lopped off his head.

Frank died.

He looked around. A dusty brick-laden hall full of men, all in the same white outfit. It stank. He squinted through the mess. Men were putting on armor, taking all manner of weapon from the seemingly endless variety covering every inch of the walls.

“Excuse me?” He tried a man pulling an AK-47 off the wall. The man turned.

“Hey fella.”

“Hey, uh, so what’s all this?”

The man looked around himself.

“Getting ready for the fight.”

The man cocked the gun. He started walking off. Frank dashed after him.

“Wait, sorry,” The man turned, Frank backed up. “It’s just, what fight?”

The man smiled. “The only fight there is. For the Gods.”

Somewhere, a breeze flooded in. Then, everyone ran. Frank followed. He was bustled through it. He looked up. A golden dome, a stadium. It could have fit an ocean.

“Holy shit,” Frank muttered, before a man next to him blew them both up with a grenade.

Frank died.

The dust got in his eyes as soon as he opened them. He was back in the dusty hall.

He looked to his left. A man sat, naked. He was covered in hair, big.

Frank coughed. The man turned. He smiled.

“You look like you’re having a blast,” he told Frank.

Frank looked the man up and down. “You too.”

The man looked at his own body. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t naked the first time I died, so I’ll be damned if I’m going to go out in white scrubs with a sword in my chest.”

Frank watched other men in the room gathering their gear.

“What is this?” Frank asked.

“Well, depends who you ask. If you live long enough you can see that there are people watching. Some call them gods.” He shrugged, “I like to think that we are in a video game and the lives we remember are just the imaginings of some sadistic game developer. But, who knows.”

Frank thought about it. He sighed.

“Is it all men?”

The man nodded.

“No kids?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“How long have you been here?” Frank asked.

The man leaned back, resting his head on a broad ax, thinking.

“A couple years at least.”

“No change?”

The man looked around. “Just more weapons, more meat.”

“Shit,” Frank spat.

“Shit indeed. Anyway, I’m Charlie,” he held out a hand, “you know, harder to kill it after you name it kind of thing.”

Frank smiled. “Frank.”

A breeze flooded the hall.

“Here we go,” Charlie groaned. The crowd rushed out of the door. Frank watched Charlie run, naked, into the mess. He leapt onto a large man and took him to the ground. He beat the man senseless and stood up, spattered with blood.

Frank stepped back.

“Don’t worry I–”

But in that moment bullets ripped through Charlie, hitting Frank in the process.

Frank died.

Back in the hall it didn’t take him long to find Charlie. No one else seemed inclined toward nudity.

“What is the point of all this?” Frank asked as Charlie pulled off his underwear.

Charlie laughed. “Was there ever a point to anything?”

“If this is what life amounted to?”

“If this is what life amounted to.” Charlie confirmed.

Frank thought a moment. “No, I suppose not,” he decided, watching a middle aged man heft a bazooka of the wall. The man looked at Frank, then Charlie.

“You want a taste?” Charlie asked the man, spreading his legs. The man stared a moment, then walked off. Charlie shrugged.

Frank stood there as they watched the mindless armoring of men.

Then, Frank took off his shirt, his shoes, his pants, his underwear. He sat down next to Charlie, bare as babes.

Charlie patted him on the shoulder.

“Atta’ boy.”

 

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