Vulgar the Viking and the Terrible Talent Show

by Odin Redbeard

  Vulgar shrugged. “Almost late is the same as being on time.”

  Freya tutted.

  Vulgar turned his back on her and spoke to Knut. “Did you bring the props?”

  Knut frowned. “The props?”

  “The golden helmet,” Vulgar whispered. “The treasure?”

  “I thought you were bringing them.”

  “No!” Vulgar cried. “You were bringing them! I gave them to you, remember?”

  Knut grinned and held up a bag. “Just kidding. Got them here.”

  Vulgar gave a sigh of relief, then looked back over his shoulder. The hall was almost full now. Harald and Helga waved as they took their seats a few rows back. They were both carrying bags of rock cakes they’d bought on the way in.

  A hush fell over the audience as the candles around the hall were snuffed out, leaving only the stage lit up. “Ladies an’ gentle-thingies,” said a voice from offstage. Everyone recognised it as Harrumf. “It’s Saturday night. It’s the Great Hall. It’s Time. To Face. His Highness!”

  King Olaf waddled on to the stage. He waved to the crowd, then took a seat at the long wooden judge’s table that had been placed in front of the stage.

  “An’ joinin’ his most royal of royalnesses on the judging panel tonight is the one, the only… Harrumf Sockson!”

  Harrumf stepped on to the stage and was met by stony silence. The old man tutted as he hobbled down the steps and over to the table. “Charming,” he muttered, then he took his seat beside King Olaf.

  “Our first contestant is a local lad,” Harrumf announced. “He’s gonna tell us some jokes an’ that. Put your ’ands together for Magnus the Magnificent!”

  The audience clapped politely as a short, stocky Viking shuffled nervously on to the stage. He blinked in the glow of the candles and wiped a smear of sweat from his forehead.

  “It’s me, Magnus the Magnificent, and I’m here to tickle your funny bone!” he announced in a shaky voice. He smiled down at the audience. Nobody smiled back. “Here’s one for you,” he said. “What do you get… no, not ‘What do you get’, that’s wrong. Where do Viking babies sleep?”

  “In a bed,” shouted a voice from the crowd.

  “N-no. In a norsery!” laughed Magnus. He stared expectantly at the audience. “Get it? Another name for a Viking is a Norseman. Norse. Nursery.”

  At the back of the hall, someone coughed.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” said Magnus.

  “We should ’ave some sort of buzzer,” said Harrumf loudly. “So we can buzz ’em off when they’re rubbish.”

  Magnus looked hurt. “I’m not rubbish!”

  “Come on,” Harrumf snorted. “I’ve had funnier war wounds. Get off the stage.”

  “They don’t want me to leave,” Magnus insisted. He looked out to the audience. “You don’t want me to leave, do you?”

  A single rock cake came spinning through the darkness. It bounced off Magnus’s forehead with a hollow clonk. Several more of the rock-hard buns came flying at him as the audience began to boo.

  “Get off!”

  “You’re terrible!”

  At the front of the audience, Vulgar watched as Magnus shielded his head with his arms and ran off the stage. “Wow, he was awful.”

  The next act was introduced. It was Torsten the Tangled, who claimed he could escape from any trap. The crowd held its breath as he waddled onstage wrapped in thick iron chains.

  “My fellow Blubberers,” he said, “before your very eyes, I, Torsten the Tangled, will free myself from these chains in less than ten seconds. If you’d like to begin the countdown… now!”

  Torsten began wriggling furiously as the audience started to count backwards. “Ten. Nine. Eight.” There was a moment of confused muttering.

  Freya shook her head. “Seven!” she said loudly.

  “Seven,” chimed the crowd. “Six. Five. Four.”

  Torsten bent double and twisted his arms.

  “Three. Two.”

  Torsten straightened up and twitched his head.

  “One!”

  Torsten fell face-first on to the floor and lay motionless. The chains were still wrapped tightly around him.

  “Um,” he said at last. “Could someone call the blacksmith? I appear to be stuck.”

  As a rain of rock cakes fell on him, Torsten rolled off the stage.

  “Good effort,” said King Olaf politely. “Better luck next time.”

  “With any luck they’ll never let ’im out,” Harrumf mumbled.

  Vulgar gave Knut a nudge. “This is going to be easy. We’re bound to win. The other acts are terrible!”

  Next up was Sigrid the Shrill. She was a large woman – almost as large as Helga – who believed she could sing. She was wrong. The noise she made when she opened her mouth was like nothing Vulgar had ever heard. He clamped his hands over his ears and was relieved when a rock cake thonked her on the head and sent her running for cover.

  “Blimey, I ’aven’t heard a noise like that since King Olaf shut his fingers in ’is bedroom door,” Harrumf said. The king shot him a dirty look, and Harrumf quickly looked down at his notes.

  “An’ now,” announced Harrumf. “The Dancin’ H’s. Who’s that, then?”

  Harald and Helga jumped to their feet, smiling broadly. They waved to Vulgar as they passed. A man stood at the back of the stage holding a set of wooden pipes. As Helga and Harald took their positions, the man began to play.

  Vulgar sank lower into his seat as he watched his mum and dad spin and twirl on the stage. Helga carried Harald in her arms and occasionally tossed him up into the air. She hoisted him over one shoulder then flipped him on to her back. He swung down beneath her legs before being lifted like a javelin above her head.

  The crowd went “Oooh!” as Helga balanced Harald on one hand, then rose to their feet and clapped as she bent her husband backwards and kissed him on the lips.

  When the applause had died down, Harald and Helga turned to the judges to await their verdict.

  “That was like watching a polar bear wrestle a baby seal,” Harrumf said. He wiped a tear from the corner of one eye. “It was the most beautiful thing what I ever saw.”

  “Bravo,” agreed King Olaf. Even Vulgar had to admit they were pretty good.

  “What’s next, Harrumf?” the king asked. Harrumf peered at his notes.

  “Oh yeah,” he said with a scowl. “It’s the legend of Sven the Dragon-Slayer.”

  “Here we go,” whispered Vulgar, and with that the Bards of Blubber took to the stage.

  Vulgar stood on the stage and peered at the sea of faces watching him. Butterflies fluttered in his belly and he suddenly forgot why he was even there.

  “Ready?” whispered Freya. Vulgar stared at her.

  “Ready for what?” he whispered back.

  Freya rolled her eyes. “To start the show.”

  “Oh yeah, the show,” Vulgar said out loud, and there was a chuckle from the audience. He patted down his false beard. “Right. Here goes.”

  Raising his wooden sword, Vulgar began to hack and slash across the stage, fighting his way through an army of imaginary Vikings.

  “Have that,” he called. “And some of that. And one of these!”

  Sitting on the front of the stage, Freya began to narrate the story. “Sven sets off to find the legendary golden helmet of Valhalla. He battles…” Freya glanced at Vulgar, who was still twirling and swiping with the sword. “…Um, something, until he meets an evil dwarf.”

  Vulgar stopped slashing with the sword. He looked expectantly at the curtain at the side of the stage, but no one appeared.

  “I said, he meets an evil dwarf,” Freya shouted.

  “Oh, that’s me,” muttered a voice from offstage. The audience giggled as Knut shuffled out on his knees.

  At once, Vulgar leapt into action. He raised his shield and charged. Knut’s eyes went wide as Vulgar’s wooden sword came swooshing down and clonked him on the helmet.

>   “Ow! What did you do that for?” Knut demanded. The audience chortled.

  “Because you’re an evil dwarf.”

  Knut pushed his helmet back and rubbed his head. “You don’t know I’m evil. You just met me. We could’ve been friends!”

  Vulgar lowered his sword. “Oh. Um. Sorry.”

  The crowd laughed louder than ever.

  “Too late now,” muttered Knut. “You’ve blown it.” And he turned and waddled offstage on his knees.

  “After defeating the evil dwarf,” continued Freya, “Sven was confronted by an enormous giant.”

  “Give us a minute,” called Knut from the wings. There was a clattering as he stood up on the homemade stilts. “Right,” he announced, “I’m ready no-owwwww!”

  Knut ran on to the stage, struggling to keep his balance. “Look out!” he cried as he wobbled towards the edge. Vulgar couldn’t bring himself to look. He covered his eyes just as Knut toppled off the stage and landed in the audience.

  Vulgar opened his eyes to see Knut upside down in Sigrid the Shrill’s lap.

  “There, giant,” he said, pointing the sword at Knut as he slid down on to the floor. “Let that be a lesson to you!”

  The hall was filled with the sound of laughter. Vulgar blushed. This wasn’t going well at all. The story of Sven the Dragon-Slayer was supposed to be thrilling and scary, not funny.

  Freya continued the story. “Once the giant was defeated, Sven found the treasure he had been seeking.”

  Knut kicked off his stilts and scrambled back up on to the stage. He disappeared behind the curtain. A moment later, a small wooden chest slid out from underneath it.

  “Treasure. Great!” Vulgar cried.

  “But the treasure was guarded by a fierce dragon,” Freya said. “Who wasn’t going to give it up without a fight!”

  Grunt plodded out on to the stage. One of his dragon wings had come unstuck and was dragging across the floor. The shaggy dog looked at the audience, then he looked at Vulgar and let out a puzzled woof.

  “Back, foul creature!” Vulgar said, pointing his wooden sword at Grunt. “Or taste the blade of my sword.”

  Grunt opened his mouth and clamped his teeth over the end of the sword. His tail wagged happily.

  “No, it’s not a stick,” Vulgar said. “Let go.”

  Vulgar tried to pull the sword away, but Grunt was having too much fun.

  They pulled back and forth, playing tug-o’-war across the stage. Finally, Vulgar’s grip slipped and he landed with a bump on his bum.

  Grunt let out a bark of victory, then lay down and began chewing the sword. Vulgar glanced nervously at the audience, who were all guffawing loudly.

  “Well, with the dragon out of the way, I can still get the treasure!” he cried, and he flung open the lid of the chest, revealing a stack of Helga’s rolls. “Mine! The treasure is all mine!”

  But Grunt had other ideas. He dropped the half-chewed sword and got stuck into the bread rolls. Vulgar watched in horror as his lumps of “gold” were wolfed down one by one.

  Freya hopped to her feet and vanished behind the curtain. She emerged a moment later holding the golden helmet, then lay on her back and closed her eyes, the helmet clutched to her stomach.

  “To claim the golden helmet, Sven had just one more task. He had to wake the sleeping princess with a kiss,” she said.

  “What?!” spluttered Vulgar. “No he didn’t!”

  “Yes he did,” insisted Freya. “He kissed the princess.”

  Vulgar yanked the helmet from her hands and put it on his head. “No he didn’t. Sven the Dragon-Slayer wouldn’t kiss any stupid princess!”

  Freya opened one eye and raised her head. “Yes. He.

  Did,” she growled. “Now kiss the princess!”

  The crowd chuckled. Vulgar shook his head. “No way! I’d rather kiss the dragon!”

  The crowd giggled.

  Freya jumped to her feet. “Kiss the princess!”

  “No!”

  “Then give me back the helmet!” Freya said, and she began to chase Vulgar around the stage.

  “Get off! You’re supposed to be asleep!”

  “And you’re supposed to give me a kiss!”

  Freya cornered Vulgar at the front of the stage. She grabbed the golden helmet and they began to wrestle over it. The audience shrieked with laughter as they tussled and fought.

  Having finished eating all the “gold”, Grunt decided to get in on the act. He bounded across the stage, yelping and barking with excitement. Knut came running on to try to break up the fight, but his feet tangled in the curtain. There was a loud rrrrrrip and the curtain fell on top of him.

  “Let go!” Freya snarled.

  “You let go!” Vulgar hissed, and he heaved with all his might.

  He yanked the helmet away from Freya, but he couldn’t hold on to it. It spun over his shoulder. There was a loud thonk as the helmet flew off the stage and hit King Olaf on the top of the head.

  The audience stopped laughing.

  Freya and Vulgar stopped fighting.

  Even Grunt stopped barking as King Olaf rubbed his head and slowly got to his feet. He glared at the children.

  “Now you’ve done it,” Harrumf muttered.

  King Olaf raised both hands… and began to clap. “Bravo!” he said. “That was the funniest thing I’ve seen since Harrumf fell down the castle stairs.”

  A great cheer went up from the audience. Vulgar turned to see everyone clapping wildly. He glanced at Freya, and they both shrugged. The audience was still clapping when they returned to their seats, dragging the curtain – and Knut – behind them.

  Helga leaned over a few rows of people and patted Vulgar on the shoulder. “Who knew we had such a little comedian on our hands?” she said, smiling.

  Vulgar sighed. “It wasn’t supposed to be funny. It was supposed to be scary,” he mumbled, but no one heard him over the thunder of applause.

  The clapping only died down when King Olaf took to the stage. “What a night it has been!” he boomed. “We’ve had laughs…”

  Magnus the Magnificent stood up. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” said King Olaf, and Magnus quickly sat down again. “We’ve had music, and we’ve had so much more. We have chosen a winner, but before I announce who it is, let’s hear a big round of applause for our second-place competitors. Put your hands together for…”

  The audience held its breath. Who would it be?

  “The Dancing H’s. Harald and Helga!”

  Vulgar’s parents stood up to a chorus of cheers. “Way to go, Mum and Dad!” Vulgar cried, as they took to the stage to accept their prize. It was a small trophy carved from stone and wood. They held it up and the crowd went wild.

  “And now for the winner,” said King Olaf, when Harald and Helga had left the stage. A hush fell over the audience. Vulgar felt Freya’s hand grip his and he didn’t even pull away.

  King Olaf cleared his throat. “The winner of the Blubber Talent Contest is…”

  He paused and looked out over the audience.

  Vulgar waited.

  The audience waited.

  King Olaf took a deep breath and roared, “The Bards of Blubber!”

  The cheer almost lifted the roof off the Great Hall. Vulgar, Knut and Freya jumped up and raced on to the stage.

  “A special trophy is in order, I think,” said King Olaf. He picked up the golden helmet and put it on Vulgar’s head. “Sven got his golden helmet in the end.”

  Freya leaned in and pecked Vulgar on the cheek. “And the princess got her kiss!”

  The audience stamped their feet with delight. Vulgar grinned and took a deep bow. Maybe being funny was better than being scary, after all.

  LOOK OUT FOR MORE

  STORIES OF MAYHEM

  AND CHAOS IN

  VULGAR THE VIKING

  AND THE ROCK CAKE RAIDERS

  VULGAR THE VIKING

  AND THE GREAT GUL
P GAMES

  VULGAR THE VIKING

  AND THE SPOOKY SCHOOL TRIP

  VULGAR THE VIKING

  AND THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S SCREAM

  Copyright

  With special thanks to Barry Hutchison

  VULGAR THE VIKING AND THE TERRIBLE TALENT SHOW

  First published in the UK in 2013 by Nosy Crow Ltd

  The Crow’s Nest, 10a Lant Street

  London, SE1 1QR, UK

  This ebook edition first published 2013

  Nosy Crow and associated logos are trademarks and / or registered trademarks of Nosy Crow Ltd

  Text copyright © Hothouse Fiction, 2013

  Illustrations copyright © Sarah Horne, 2013

  The right of Hothouse Fiction and Sarah Horne to be identified as the author and illustrator respectively of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblence to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.