Eventually, the truth comes to light. On a full moon night, she rolls over sleeplessly and her fingers wander to my side of the bed. She feels the hard 7-inch-long stone rod under the blanket. She thinks I'm in a mischievous mood. She pulls up her nightgown, squats over the ancient Viking shit in the dark, and slides it into her wet vagina. She quickly realizes the magnificent phallus doesn't belong to anyone. She turns on the light and worries until dawn, wondering where I am, and why a funny-looking brown rock is lying in my place. The first rays of the sun bring the answer when the gnarled stone dildo magically transforms back into her husband.
That's when I reluctantly explain the situation--she can't stop laughing. When she finally speaks, she asks, "So, how much could a more-than-thousand-year-old piece of poop be worth?"
I dismiss the question. Later, I catch her searching online auction sites, studying the fossil market, and exchange rates with a furrowed brow.
The following month, my suspicion is confirmed.
“Enjoy your transformation,” my wife whispers before bedtime, serving me catnip tea and tucking me in.
The sleepy light of the rising full moon slowly paints our bedroom blue. The next morning, I wake up inside a shattered display case, surrounded by numerous Viking relics: ancient medallions, dragon heads carved from wood, rusty axes... I find myself in a poshly furnished house and have to escape through the window, outrunning two guard Dobermans.
Upon returning home, I realized angrily “That stupid bitch sold me to a collector last night."
Stepping into our bedroom, ready to yell, I find my wife cramming clothes into a suitcase.
She was trying to run away, but I caught her in time. However, she looks at me without the slightest sign of surprise, she says, “Hurry, I've already packed your stuff too.”
“Uh... where are we going?” I ask, momentarily forgetting her betrayal.
“Away, the guy will soon realize that his recently acquired Viking feces is missing, and he'll definitely call the police. By then, we'll be abroad.”
“Abroad? But where? And how? That damn Norwegian vacation already brought us down financially.”
That's when my wife opens one of the fat suitcases, it's stuffed with cash. Who would have thought that the fecal fossil business could be so profitable? If anyone asks, know that a Viking poop is worth roughly thirty-five thousand dollars.
Since then, we've been traveling from country to country, selling shit or more precisely, selling me. Once a month, we manage to fool a collector. The transaction always takes place during a full moon, with me lying as a piece of shit in a lined suitcase. The next morning, I wake up in a display case, and my wife helps me escape from the house. By afternoon, we're in another country. First, we visit airports, then we buy our own plane. We have enough money, it's like we're shitting cash.
”We should slow down a bit, we've already gathered a ton of money,” I say, sipping on a blue-colored cocktail on a yacht on the French Riviera.
My wife responds above the little umbrella sticking out of her glass, “As you wish, darling, you're the boss.”
Soon it becomes clear that I'm just a little shit in the machine. After the next full moon, I wake up in another private villa.
”We have to stop this,” I plead on the Amalfi Coast, sipping on lemon liqueur. “We're insatiable! What if one of those collectors locks me in a safe, and in the morning, I wake up unable to get out? Worse, what if they put me in a tiny safe that I can't fit in? I'd suffocate, my bones breaking while transforming back to my human form... We've been lucky so far, but...”
“Oh, stop whining so much,” she scolds. “Let's just make it to Tunisia.”
At that moment, I decide it's time for this little shit to stand up for itself. After all, I'm no ordinary piece of fecal matter, I'm the mighty excrement of a Scandinavian hero, a proud Viking warrior who lived on a diet of abundant meat and bran. I'm a hardened shit sausage.
“Okay, I'm done,” the words slip out of my lips and hit like a rock-hard excrement piece falling from a hairy Viking butt on the edge of a frozen marsh.
My wife doesn't respond, her eyeballs are about to burst with anger.
The next month, I woke up in a display case. This time, when I returned to the hotel where we resided, my wife was not busy packing as usual. Instead, she's lying there between the sheets with a total stranger.
“What’s the meaning of this?" I snap.
My wife giggles, her voice like the clinking sound of coins being tossed together, she points with her lacquered finger at the greasy-haired, chubby Italian man who didn't even bother concealing his baby carrot-sized flaccid penis, he just pulled out of my wife.
”This is Carlo, the imperial shit.” she introduces her bacon-scented lover. ”Yes, you heard that right, a real Roman emperor's petrified feces, which is worth much more on the market than some dumb barbarian's dried-up dung. And Carlo can transform whenever he wants. Show him, Carlo.”
The stocky man instantly transforms into a Roman-era pile of excrement on the expensive hotel sheets.
”As you can see, we don't need you anymore,” My wife pulled a black, gleaming revolver from the desk drawer, pointing it at me, she politely asked me to leave. As a token of her generosity, she throws a small bundle of euros at me, which should last me a few days.
Since then, she and Carlo are probably on the other side of the world. Meanwhile, I wander the Italian alleys selling my body to buy a plane ticket and follow their trail. I've decided to kill them both.
"I'm a real pile of shit, a hundred euros for a night! Just wait another thirteen days, and you can have it..." I encourage people on the street, but no one gets excited about the promise of petrified feces. So, I quickly give up on my murderous plan. I use my last euros to arrange some kind of Viking funeral for myself. I hire a street kid to take me into a public toilet during the full moon and simply flush me down.