Trickster’s Convention

[3 Min Read]

Loki paused and inhaled several deep breaths as he stood outside a pair of brilliantly carved dark oak doors. His tiny green eyes darted to a plain-looking white sign with large bolded font that read: ‘Annual Gathering of The Tricksters Convention.’ And below that, in a smaller but more ornate font: ‘Hosted by the master trickster himself.’

He caught his reflection in a nearby window and fidgeted with his long black tie. “Get a-hold of yourself, man.” He mumbled under his breath. “You’re the god of chaos, the lord of mischief, the prince of-” He looked more closely at his image, “Odin’s beard, is that a pimple?” He poked at a pulsing red dot at the center of his forehead.

“Damn it all, I knew I shouldn’t have eaten so much granola last night. It always does this to me!” He cleared his throat and straightened his back. Loki thought back to the calming breathing exercises Miss Janice taught him at their last therapy session. Her wise words raced through his mind’s eye.

“It’s all in your head, Loki. You don’t owe him anything and you certainly don’t need his approval. You only need your own approval.” He whispered out loud and stood back in front of the large double doors.

Loki reached out a single sweaty hand towards golden doorknob and threw it open with the same pain riddled expression he might have worn if he had just ripped off a particularly stubborn band-aid. His sudden entrance was met with dozens of glares from his many peers. Even the glare from Kokopelli, whose face was devoid of all features including eyes, burned holes into every fibre of the nervous god’s being.

A tall velvet chair sat in the middle of the conference hall slowly turned around, revealing a man-sized rabbit whose face wore a sour look of contempt upon seeing the new arrival. “Eh, what’s up doc?” He puffed on a comically large cigar and blew a ring the exact size and shape of Loki’s face. “Nice zit.”

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