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Few people are aware of it, but there are many small communities of people from all points in time living among us. Mostly they keep to themselves, living lives similar to those they left behind, but when the world is in trouble, they will be the ones entrusted with the quest to save it.
The Chosen Ones set to the task this time have been selected for their unique skills, the skills that will be needed in the end, though even they do not know how they will accomplish this. For now, the goal is simply to arrive at their destination, the shores of Asgard, more prosaically known as Seventeen Chrystal Lake Drive. No one knows what they will find there, but the journey itself is the stuff of legends.
We have our car full of heroes: the Viking, brave and stalwart; the King, renowned for his love of the ladies and his uncompromising nature; the Pilgrim, pious and steadfast; the Hawaiian, with a love for song and dance and anything to do with fire; and the Greek, slightly paranoid but with a great love of food and drink. These are the men upon whom the weight of the world rests. Their journey is not without peril, but they will rise to meet any and all challenges they may meet on their epic travels.
Take, for example, the wide variation of rest stops our intrepid heroes depend upon for hospitality. The rule of rest stops is this: the greater the need to stop, the less restful the experience.
"This is unsanitary," said the Greek.
"This smells like France," said the King.
"I'm kind of homesick," admitted the Viking. The others looked at him as though his words had no context, and he shrugged. "Home is a boat full of men wearing fur."
The others nodded in understanding. That's exactly what they smelled.
Not all is brotherhood and understanding, however.
"But I'm tired," whined the Pilgrim. "Driving under the influence of sleepiness causes more accidents than high-heeled buckled shoes, and you know how much you all hated it when that happened." Though the damage had been limited to one broken headlight and fence that he still insisted had caused the whole thing, the experience had nearly got them all tossed into the clink, which the Pilgrim still liked to say; his brush with the law made him feel like the rebel he still considered himself, having left the old world for the new.
"I am the eighth King Henry of England," the King boomed. "I do not drive myself, plebeian."
Startled by the King's voice, the Hawaiian in the back seat snorted in his sleep and dropped his head onto the Viking's fur-covered shoulder. The Viking did not seem to notice.
"Probably because you don't know how," muttered the Pilgrim. "Can't even drive."
Taunting King Henry was not the best idea that the Pilgrim had ever had. (That had been eating cranberry sauce with turkey.) The King reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, sending the car briefly into the next lane. The three sleeping in the back woke up abruptly to the sharp motion and the blaring of other cars' horns.
"Who wants me to drive?" The King was more than a little bit smug as he got the response he desired.
The answer was "no one", and he got to remain in the coveted Seat of Shotgun, the car's equivalent of a throne.
Sometimes, though this is a thought by some (namely, the pious Pilgrim) akin to blasphemy, men need more to eat than chocolate, peanuts, caramel, and nougat. Upon these occasions, the Hawaiian is more than willing to put his talents to work for the greater good.
When singing in a dinner theatre production of the musical version of "Death of a Salesman", the talent gets to eat for free. And if his friends can also be put to work, they can get a meal out of it as well.
The Viking is an excellent bouncer, and the Pilgrim excels at washing dishes. The Greek's services in choosing the best wine to go with anything are valued even by those who order it by the pitcher.
King Henry, however, is a terrible waiter. A really, really terrible waiter.
Everyone's earnings were not enough to cover the meals of those guests whose plates he had helped himself to. They had to work in that place for an entire week, or be blacklisted from every dinner theater between New York and Santa Fe.
Though our continuing saga focuses on one band of travelers on the road to save us all from some sort of certain doom, they are far from the only ones of their kind. On occasion, they meet with others like them on the road, weary travelers in need of companionship. Or so they hope, when the other car is full of potential female companionship.
"Hello, ladies." The King, though arguably past his prime, still considered himself quite the ladies' man. No one had the heart (or the desire to lose his head) to suggest otherwise.
At least one of the ladies was not completely uninterested. This maiden, clearly recognizing his obvious royalty, offered to trade one of her treasured candy bars for his. The Viking blew the Call of Fair Trade on his horn, as did the woman in the fetching furs, and he hoped they would all get to know each other better as the evening drew on toward morning.
"What is this?" demanded the King. Apparently, the offering did not appear to be to his satisfaction.
"It's a Butterfinger," replied she who had given her name as Athena. "What else would it be?"
"This has no nougat!" gasped the Pilgrim, scandalized by this as much (or perhaps more than) he was by the fact that he could see the coconuts of the young woman in the grass skirt.
"No nougat?!" the King roared, and that put an end to their trading. The Viking horn call turned to one of melancholy, because such an alliance could never work out. Best to nip it in the bud, before it became another Three Musketeers disaster. They were still finding feathers from those guys' hats in the trunk of the car.
And so our lonesome warriors return to the road, their quest as yet unfinished, sustained mostly by their delicious Snickers, endless games of License Plate Bingo, and the eternal question of every traveler.
"Are we there yet?"