A frightening realization

Boy, it’s been a grueling two days. At Hammerfest Regional Airport I was exposed by a rough-round-the-edges truck driver by the name of Haakon. It’s not that he picked me up by the ears or anything like that –God forbid. He even allowed me to sit in the passenger seat of the truck’s snugly heated cabin. His torture was more subtle in that it consisted of a 9-hour rant about his ex-wife (apparently she threw away his collection of Van Halen records) and the fact that his teenage daughter was dating someone old enough to be her boyfriend. I forget the details, and in fact I have tried very hard to close my sizeable ears to the deluge of unsavory details pertaining to the man’s private life. I use the word deluge on purpose because it aptly describes the blubbery mess he reduced himself to as he launched into a sad confession of youthful sins. Without going into details I shall state here that on at least one occasion he had sexual intercourse with his cousin. Along the miserable narration his vision became so blurred with tears, his judgment so impaired that he set in motion the vehicle’s windshield wipers. For those uninitiated into the workings of recent automotive technology; they are positioned on the outside. Indeed, had he not pulled into a truck stop soon I fear my personal safety might have been gravely jeopardized. On a brighter note, my reward for lending a furry ear consisted of a complete donut that was magnificently sprinkled with pink sugary ornaments. Although I would have preferred the salad bar, I kept schtum, lest I risk Haakon’s brisk, albeit disgruntled, southward conveyance. On an unrelated note, I sent an e-card to Svenbärd from the station’s hot spot. Still no word. Anyways, as Haakon divulged his teenage penchant for setting fire to ancient wooden churches during the Satanic fad of the early eighties, I suddenly became aware of a frightening possibility; Perhaps this Satan fellow of whom he talked in great detail really does exist. Perhaps it was this Beelzebub that had sought, disguised a fearless and smelly canine, to haunt my dwelling back on Svalbard, and instill my heart with alarm and trepidation. Thus it would appear that in leaving I have acquiesced to his wishes with unintended alacrity. The possibility has crossed my mind that indeed, the pertinacious designs of this great destroyer converge on the frosty surroundings of my native isle and that Svenbärd was right; “The dog is an omen.” Or worse. This frightening realization has given a new and unexpected purpose to my journey; to find out and thwart the wicked plotting of this fallen angel. All the more I am convinced that the mysterious tape holds the key to my vital mission. Eventually Haakon dropped me off at the entrance to a large conurbation, and this is where I have stayed since. There are lots of trees here (although I would not venture to call it an actual forest) and I have burrowed temporarily beneath the roots of an ancient oak tree. Here I sit. I look at the tape and read its engraving once more; “Master of Puppets.”