And now: the thrilling conclusion to My run-in with a Modern Viking. If you have not read part one, I recommend it.
I'll take you back now to the land of abs, absolutely amazing alcohol and damn, dirty Danish thieves (not the pastry… the country) and drop this post as in medias res as any post can get.
My feet, sore and aching, were smashing the crushed gravel garden path wending its way through the verdant greenway. Ahead of me the most evil man in the world was blithely cruising along on his bike with my hard earned beer and hot dogs held hostage. They were screaming to me, crying out in need of aid with their tiny little food voices.
Only Superman himself chasing a crashing plane full of terrified people would know what I was going through at that point. True, I was slowly catching up to the thief, but my breath was coming ragged, my teeth were gnashing in sweaty rage and the beer I had already drunk (for I had drunk quite a lot) was sloshingly noisy deep in the cavern of my stomach.
With each step the distance shrunk. I was still shouting at the man, demanding he stop and return my purloined pork products and absconded alcohol, but still he pedaled on, oblivious to my yells.
Now, I know what you're thinking: "But, Owen," you're saying in obnoxiously high pitched voices. "Maybe he doesn't speak English. Mnnaaaaa"
The HELL he doesn't speak English! Everyone in Denmark either speaks English or knows that if you steal something and someone chases you screaming like a crazed badger then there may be a correlation there! Also, stop taking his side! If you want his account of the chase then read his blog!
…please don't read his blog. I love you guys. I would miss you too much. I'm sorry we fought. Are we cool?
Good. So, I was chasing this guy who could TOTALLY speak English, screaming at him as he just duchebaggingly ignored me. But by this point we were neck and neck. Now he could see me running beside him, my limbs frantically gesticulating while frothy protests fired out of my exhausted mouth. But his aged face remained infuriatingly passive. Calmly he looked over at me with all the interest of a unabomber style loner watching a boring infomercial. With one more skull rupturing effort I screamed "that is MY BEER!” pointing at my bag of hot dogs and alcohol nestled in his little wire bike basket.
And suddenly, he stopped.
I was so surprised I keep running for about ten feet before skidding to a halt and walking back towards him. Still he remained silent. I suddenly realized that I was in a foreign city, in the middle of a park with nobody around, and I have been screaming at this oddly calm old man. For all I know this guy is the mafia boss of the entire fucking country. This could be the lynchpin of his entire operation and I'm just now finding myself alone with Scotland Yard's most wanted beer and hot dog trafficker.
Now that the chase had stopped I suddenly found I don't know what to do. So, with a shaky finger I pointed at his bike basket.
"Those are mine." I said quietly.
"Really?" he asked, (IN ENGLISH). "I thought you were done with them."
Wait… really!? That's your excuse? You thought I was done with them? That's not even an excuse. Even if I WAS done with them I had yet to donate them to charity! Even in Denmark there are no "Beer and Hot Dogs for Tots" bins set out around Christmas time, let alone mid summer!
"No!" is all I could manage to say.
"Well, you looked done with them," he smiled.
"But… I… NO!!" I shouted. Now you may be wondering what happened to my vocal wit at this point? I have just caught a thief with my possessions; I should be treating him to a tongue-lashing the likes of which he would never forget. But have any of you ever actually caught a thief? What do you say to them? Obviously they know what they did was wrong. When you catch a puppy that has peed on the floor you hold it's nose in it to teach a lesson. What was I supposed to do here? Pour my beer out, dunk a hot dog in it and force this old man's face into the soppy, porky puddle?
No aspect of that would be pleasant for either of us… although it may have gotten my point across it would have been a colossal waste of good food.
"Ok," he said and, without hesitation, reached into the bag and pulled out my six-pack. Oh blessed six-pack. How I have missed you! Were you cold in there… or hot, I don't really know which would be worse for a beer? Were you scared so far away from daddy Owen? Shhhh, it's ok now. I stepped forward and grabbed my beer out of his hand. He smiled like Santa Claus giving the first gift of the season, patted me on the cheek…
and RODE THE FUCK AWAY!
He RODE AWAY! He patted me on the cheek like a 1950's movie star and rode away. If he had remained any longer he would have ruffled my hair and offered me a Lucky Strike. The NERVE of this asshole. That was his reaction to being caught stealing: being Captain Condescending! This is why people get mad at the elderly.
"Wait, my hot dogs!" I yelled at his retreating form, but it was no use, he had disappeared around a bend. I had no energy left to pick the pursuit back up. As I looked down at the beer cradled in my hand I felt a pang of remorse for my lost stuffed pork intestines. However, I had retrieved my alcohol and, fighting the urge to chase after him and beat him over the head with my own hot dogs (a severe crime in Denmark), I decided to head back.
I crested the hill overlooking the grill area just as the last rays of the sun illuminated the sky behind me a shocking color of red. As I stood silhouetted against the bloody backdrop of my victory I thrust my retrieved beer high into the air, triumphant in my accomplishment, thoughts of my success running rampant through my exhausted neocortex. I, a relatively healthy young man, had succeeded in catching an old man who was slowly pedaling away on an aging bike to retrieve beer that I certainly didn't need just because… because...
Man… it sounded a lot cooler in my head until I wrote it down just now… great…