The morning sun streamed through the endless stretch of New York’s skyscrapers, casting long shadows over the bustling streets below. The hum of life filled the city, relentless and indifferent. Up on the 35th floor of a corporate glass tower, the usual monotony of clacking keyboards, ringing phones, and the occasional forced laughter set the scene for another ordinary day.
Bob, the ever-unpleasant office stickler, sat at his desk with a permanent scowl. A man who delighted in sending nitpicky emails and reminding everyone about deadlines, he was, in short, not the most beloved of colleagues.
Suddenly, the building shuddered, papers fluttered from desks, and computer screens flickered as an ear-splitting crash burst through the air. It was as if the sky itself had been torn apart. Gasps and shrieks followed as the dust settled, revealing a gaping hole in the north side of the office.
There, looming with battle axes in hand and helmets adorned with ferocious metal horns, stood a group of Vikings. Their long braids and wild eyes scanned the room, taking in the terrified office workers in their stiff suits. One burly Viking with a red beard and a wolf pelt shrugged, strode forward, and with a mighty swing, cleaved Bob’s head clean off. The room froze as Bob’s chair toppled backward, his lifeless body crumpling like a discarded puppet.
The office erupted in chaos. Monitors crashed to the floor, chairs were flung aside, and employees tripped over each other in their desperation to escape. But then, a strange sound filled the space, soft at first, then louder, cheerful, and jarringly out of place: the jingling of bells.
The Vikings, their bloody axes now discarded, began unfurling thick ropes of tinsel. One hoisted a magnificent evergreen tree into the center of the room, needles shaking free as it stood proudly in Bob’s old spot. Another Viking popped open a large wooden cask and began pouring egg nog into mismatched mugs as if this were a tavern in some distant snowy village.
The workers, first stunned into silence, glanced at one another. Janet from accounting, who hadn’t said a kind word about Bob in three years, blinked twice before an uncertain smile crept across her face. The air, tinged with egg nog’s familiar spices, seemed to melt away the horror of moments before. One by one, they eased out of their hiding places, eyes wide with disbelief.
A Viking with a wreath slung around his neck struck up a carol in a booming baritone voice. “Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la, la la la la!” he roared, shaking the windows. By the second verse, the employees were joining in, tentative at first, but soon laughing and singing along.
Nobody mentioned Bob. Honestly, they never really liked Bob anyway.
The room, once sterile and cold, now glittered with lights strung between shattered ceiling tiles and garland that looped between cubicles. The Vikings, their eyes softer now, raised their mugs in a raucous cheer. Mugs clinked, and laughter rang through the hall.But as quickly as they had come, the Vikings began to gather their belongings. One by one, they hoisted themselves through the jagged tear in the wall and clambered back onto their ship, which, impossibly, hovered outside the building as if held aloft by magic and ancient songs.
The last Viking, with a twinkle in his eye, raised his hand in farewell. “God Jul!” he shouted before leaping onto the ship. The workers waved back, some with fingers still sticky from spilled egg nog, others with tinsel in their hair.
With a mighty lurch and a creaking of wood, the ship rose higher, catching the sunlight on its gilded prow before disappearing into the clouds. The office, a shattered mess of festive destruction, stood in stunned silence once more.Only this time, it was filled with the warmth of Christmas carols, the scent of spiced nog, and the sudden, shared realization that it wasn’t such a bad day after all.
