He turned and walked to the window and stared out of it in a belligerent sulk. Glued to the floor. At his age. What the devil was that supposed to mean? 'Keep your head down,' was what he guessed. 'If you don't keep it down, I'll have to keep it down for you.' That was what it meant. 'Stick to the ground.'
He remembered now the old man saying exactly that to him at the time of all the unpleasantness with the Phantom fighter jet. 'Why can't you just stick to the ground?' he had said. He could imagine the old man in his soft-headed benign malice thinking it very funny to make the lesson so literal.
Rage began to rumble menacingly inside him but he pushed it down hard. Very worrying things had recently begun happening when he got angry and he had a bad feeling, looking back at the Coca-Cola vending machine, that another of those very worrying things must have just happened. He stared at it and fretted.
He felt ill.
He had felt ill a lot of late, and he found it impossible to discharge what were left of his godly duties when he felt he was suffering from a sort of continual low-grade flu. He experienced headaches, dizzy spells, guilt and all the sorts of ailments that were featured so often in television advertisements. He even suffered terrifying blackouts whenever the great rage gripped him.
He always used to have such a wonderful time getting angry. Great gusts of marvellous anger would hurl him through life. He felt huge. He felt flooded with power and light and energy. He had always been provided with such wonderful things to get angry about - immense acts of provocation or betrayal, people hiding the AtIantic ocean in his helmet, dropping continents on him or getting drunk and pretending to be trees. Stuff you could really work up a rage about and hit things. In short he had felt good about being a Thunder God. Now suddeniy it was headaches, nervous tension, nameless anxieties and guilt. These were new experiences for a god, and not pleasant ones.
'You look ridiculous!'
The voice screeched out and affected Thor like fingernails scratched across a blackboard lodged in the back of his brain. It was a mean voice, a spiteful, jeering voice, a cheap white nylon shirt of a voice, a shiny-trousered pencil moustache of a voice, a voice, in short, which Thor did not like. He reacted very badly to it at the best of times, and was particularly pr ovoked to have to hear it while standing naked in the middle of a decrepit warehouse with large sections of an oak floor still stuck to his back.
He spun round angrily. He wanted to be able to turn round calmly and with crushing dignity, but no such strategy ever worked with this creature, and since he, Thor, would only end up feeling humiliated and ridiculous whatever postune he adopted, he might as well go with one he felt comfortable with.
'Toe Rag!' he roared, yanked his hammer spinning into the air and hurled it with immense, stunning force at the small creature who was squatting complacently in the shadows on top of a small heap of rubble, leaning forward a little.
Toe Rag caught the hammer and placed it neatly on top of the pile of Thor's clothes that lay next to him. He grinned, and allowed a stray shaft of sunlight to glitter on one of his teeth. These things don't happen by accident. Toe Rag had spent some time while Thor was unconscious working out how long it would take him to recover, then industriously moving the pile of rubble to exactly this spot, checking the height and then calculating the exact angle at which to lean. As a provocateur he regarded himself as a professional.
'Did you do this to me?' roared Thor. 'Did you - '
Thor searched for any way of saying 'glue me to the floor' that didn't sound like 'glue me to floor', but eventually the pause got too long and he had to give up.
'- glue me to the floor?' he demanded at last. He wished he hadn't asked such a stupid question.
'Don't even answer that!' he added angrily and wished he hadn't said that either. He stamped his foot and shook the foundations of the building a little just to make the point. He wasn't certain what the point was, but he felt that it had to be made. Some dust settled gently around him.
Toe Rag watched him with his dancing, glittering eyes.
'I merely carry out the instructions given to me by your father,' he said in a grotesque parody of obsequiousness.
'It seems to me,' said Thor, 'that the instructions my father has been giving since you entered his service have been very odd. I think you have some kind of evil grip on him. I don't know what kind of evil grip it is, but it's definitely a grip, and it's definitely...' synonyms failed him '...evil,' he concluded.
Toe Rag reacted like an iguana to whom someone had just complained about the wine.
'Me?' he protested. 'How can I possibly have a grip on your father? Odin is the greatest of the Gods of Asgard, and I am his devoted servant in all things. Odin says, `Do this,' and I do it. Odin says, `Go there,' and I go there. Odin says, `Go and get my big stupid son out of hospital before he causes any more trouble, and then, I don't know, glue him to the floor or something,' and I do exactly as he asks. I am merely the most humble of functionaries. However small or menial the task, Odin's bidding is what I am there to perform.'
Thor was not sufficiently subtle a student of human nature or, for that matter, divine or goblin nature, to be able to argue that this was in fact a very powerful grip to hold over anybody, particularly a fallible and pampered old god. He just knew that it was all wrong.
'Well then,' he shouted, 'take this message back to my father, Odin. Tell him that I, Thor, the God of Thunder, demand to meet him. And not in his damned hospital either! I'm not going to hang about reading magazines and looking at fruit while he has his bed changed! Tell him that Thor, the God of Thunder, will meet Odin, the Father of the Gods of Asgard, tonight, at the Challenging Hour in the Halls of Asgard!'
'Again?' said Toe Rag, with a sly glance sideways at the Coca-Cola vending machine.
'Er, yes,' said Thor. 'Yes!' he repeated in a rage. 'Again!'
Toe Rag made a tiny sigh, such as one who felt resigned to carrying out the bidding of a temperamental simpleton might make, and said, 'Well, I'll tell him. I don't suppose he will be best pleased.'
'It is no matter of yours whether he is pleased or not!' shouted Thor, disturbing the foundations of the building once more. 'This is between my father and myself! You may think yourself very clever, Toe Rag, and you may think that I am not - '
Toe Rag arched an eyebrow. He had prepared for this moment. He stayed silent and merely let the stray
