You Can Always Tell A Swede

Things at the church potluck have spiraled rapidly out of control. Fjaler brought in an enormous spread for the seventh time, despite Pastor Strawn expressly telling him not to, that he was upsetting the brethren, but you know Fjaler, he can’t turn down an opportunity to stunt.

Things soured when he pulled out the tenth cooler, and the crowd started closing in when he spread out over an entire table.

“What the hell is this, Fjal,” growled Per. “What are you pulling here.”

“Oh, well, you know,” Fjaler grinned. “Just happy to see everyone get fed. Can’t bear the thought of anyone going hungry, and, well, God has blessed us this year with plenty, so, you know, I figured from each according to their abilities.”

Oli spit on the table, right on the table, and Fjaler just grinned wider while wiping it up. “Please, neighbors, I beg you: if you are hungry, come and eat. Let no one go away hungry. There’s plenty for everyone.”

“You sick son of a bitch,” yelled Gustaf. “What did we ever do to you?”

“Please, if you need, just let me know and I or Dana can pack up a tin for you to take home. There’s more than enough!”

It was at that point that Ruric threw a chafing dish at his head. By the time the dust cleared, well, no one got anything at all to eat and frankly that was probably for the best.