We are Vikings. Tonight we raid. We feast and drink and pillage, of course. Descend upon this city like a scourge of locusts. Vikings! Fearsome! Regard our helms. Yes, we recognize the historical inaccuracy of the horns. No, nothing to do with football. We are Vikings, by Thor, and we are serious. We have Viking names: Leif, Sven, Lieutenant Dan, Rooster, and The Bear. We have T-shirts and business cards. Ruthless! Tradition demands a proclamation of Rooster’s negative chlamydia status at the threshold of every bar. We roast 47-year-old Lieutenant Dan for being the oldest Oh-Five in the Air Force. A chastened Leif finally learns what must be done to restore his horns to their upright position, thus reclaiming his honor as a Viking and a man, and we rejoice when he tears the commuter club banner from some coffee shop’s rooftop. We are Vikings and nothing is safe! Every lamppost is our Lindisfarne, every fire escape Wearmouth-Jarrow. The Bear smites a traffic cone. To a ballet recital broadcast Rooster absconds. The taverns close, but no matter! We navigate our longship along the coastline of our shared youth, raiding memories of fathers, schooling, sweethearts, adventures. Year after year we return to these shores, each time to greater riches. See how the rebuilt abbeys glitter on their hillsides, their halls restocked again for us, their splendors once more renewed. We are Vikings, and we take what we please! Into the hold we heap our treasures. Upon the deck we stack our spoils. Sunlight kisses my Vikings. Flowers fall at their feet. Such mirth amongst the wailing of conquered specters, ghosts who know nothing of manhood, of compromise, of betrayals received and given. Of hurts. Hurts of every magnitude. Hurts to be diverted from the tender hearts of boys.