Sure, we all grew up knowing the prerequisites for entrance to Valhalla, the great hall of norse myth, but nobody took it seriously. I mean come on… you needed to hold a weapon when you died to be permitted entrance? It’s 2018, what kind of old-fashioned thinking is that? Well my kind of old-fashioned thinking. Death really changes your perspective on things… Welcome councilmen… we have an issue to discuss.” A regal, earth-shaking voice filled my ears. I awoke to a council of figures standing in a semi-circle array around me in a room that was like a log cabin scaled to the size of a stadium. Someone took lincoln logs too seriously. “What are you wasting our time with now, Odin?” a different voice questioned. Odin? Like Valhalla’s Odin? I examined the men surrounding me further. The figure directly in front, who appeared to be highest ranked based on the gilded clothing he sported, clutched a mighty spear in his right hand and stood around the size of a short NBA player. That is to say, not too tall but not short by any means either. The men had full, rough beards, and all were very beefily built. They were some-sort of crossbreed between NBA, NFL, and lumberjack. The daunting figures around me caused a bead of sweat to slowly fall down my face. An itchy, uncomfortable kind of slow, but regardless I dared not move.

“You know the rules Odin, if he’s equipped a weapon when he died… wait what is that in his hand?” One of the councilmen, as I surmised, gestured towards me. I looked down to see myself holding a… spatula? I had never owned a spatula (long story) and I was employed at a law firm. I racked my brain to think what I had last been doing and why I was gripping a spatula in my hands. Odin began to talk again. I looked back up.

“Yes councilmen, I believe he’s holding a spatula. Like to flip burgers or roasted lettuce-” “Roasted Lettuce!? Odin what the hell stay away from that vegan food,” a councilman interrupted. I flew a solid foot in the air as Odin slammed the butt of his spear into the wooden floor.

“YOU WILL NOT SHAME ME,” Odin roared, his voice exploded with a greater roar than previously. The volume was comparable to the roar of a 737 airplane. Odin didn’t want to be shamed. I felt my forehead’s further perspiring.

“Look,” he cleared his throat,” this mortal has died with a spatula in his hands. Does this constitute as a weapon? Should we let him into Valhalla?” He pointed to “my” spatula. At this point I was coming to understand that I was likely dead, and the gods were unsure as to whether or not I should enter Valhalla. The realism of the situation only instigated increased sweating and fear.

“Well,” I turned to listen to the councilman on my farthest right, “the spatula is indeed not a weapon. The spatula is a tool that lowly fast-food cooks use, not a weapon the valiant carry to intimidate enemies. Valhalla is for the bold, not for him.”

“That’s where you are mistaken I’m afraid,” the god on Odin’s right started, “the spatula may be intended for that scenario, but the potential for battle and ability to blend in as a normal tool makes it perhaps a weapon more fierce than the sword! If used to catapult burning patties it could immolate enemies from afar!” I appreciated the god’s defense of my weapon of choice.

Although I don’t know if it is mine or why I chose it.

“What foolishness! This ‘spatula’ is made of cheap stainless steel! Not even a titanium alloy,” the god on Odin’s left hand rebutted.

“If we were to judge weaponry on it’s material you’re gonna have to justify why you voted to let that guy with a balloon sword into Valhalla, you hypocrite.”

“Don’t you dare criticize that vote! Do you have any any idea how frightening the noise a balloon generates when it pops?!”

“SILENCE,” Odin quieted the off-topic discussion.

Quiet so far, the left-most councilman voiced his opinion, “Who are we to judge his weapon on choice? He still held a weapon so that he could fight as best he could. Anyone man with such a trait should be permitted to enter Valhalla.” The tension in the room eased ever so slightly as they considered this point.

“Very well, human,” Odin pointed his spear at me, the tip slightly depressing my button-up shirt, “you shall enter Valhalla. If you have a question you want to ask you may ask me.”

“Th-thank you, great Odin!” I replied with a nervous quiver in my voice, “I am grateful for being allowed to go to Valhalla, but, uh… roasted lettuce? Seriously!?”

I did not enter Valhalla.