The Quest for Valhalla

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“How do you know that?” Williams asked his colleague, as they walked the corridor of the Department of Prints and Drawings. It was just after 2am and they decided to combat their boredom by making their rounds together. Williams and his shift partner, Jeffreys, had been arguing about everything from the footie to the state of politics in Paraguay.

“I read. I read a lot. Me mum taught me to be inquisitive and always know what is going on in the world,” Jeffreys insisted defensively to his podgy colleague who was beginning to test his patience with his blatant disregard for common knowledge. To make matters worse, the man chuckled in response to his latest reply and he gave Williams a look of steely cold disdain while his back was to him. Williams had gaited ahead somewhat in a childish ploy to bow out of the conversation entirely. Yet still, he didn’t stop his incessant babbling of ignorant opinions. Jeffreys sighed. It was another seven hours of this, he thought, and he had best make the best of it. Silent treatment was not only juvenile, but also a tedious way to spend night shift in the godforsaken halls of the British Museum. Having been a security guard for almost 15 years, he had to admit that this was his best gig thus far and that he had better not rock the boat because of some ignorant twat he had to work with. He could not allow Williams to get under his skin, so he elected to tolerate the idiot and his know-it-all bullshit. “… so you had better watch your diet, she told me. Can you believe that?” Williams’ words cut into his ears as he completed what was apparently a long and informative story about his girlfriend trying to tactfully advise him that his lard was swallowing up his skeleton.

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