Benito and Miguel were standing up from the trash-cluttered coffee table, rigid with alarm. Johan had envisioned this night countless times, and had always imagined killing Benito last. Real life played out differently. Johan hoisted the ax and brought it down in a flashing arc. He cut off Benito’s right arm at the shoulder. Benito fell to his knees, screaming, “Oh, Mami, oh, Mami,” over and over while Johan reset the ax. He split Benito’s skull down the middle and everything that was inside his head came out in a glistening splash.

Miguel unlocked. He broke for the window, not to escape, but to grab the .45 on the sill. He turned with it, aiming. Johan was one step ahead. Krókr hummed, coming down in a diagonal slash. Miguel dropped with his chest and stomach open. The .45 fell from his hand. He turned his whirling brown eyes up to Johan.

“Remember me?”

“Sí.”

Johan was surprised, given his transformation. He was ten feet taller than the pale, tubby güero who’d stood trembling in this room. He was painted with blood and tattoos, a god, not a boy, from Valhalla, not the Palisades.

He removed Miguel’s head in a single stroke.

Two down.

He found Chico in one of the bedrooms, passed out in a stink of weed and tequila. An older woman slept beside him. Johan didn’t hesitate. He brought Krókr down between Chico’s shoulder blades. The mattress springs bowed beneath him. He flipped and jerked, his nerves in chaos. Johan hit him again and again, chopping into his chest. Chico’s blood found the walls, even the ceiling.

The woman continued to sleep. She had likely been passed out for hours, maybe days. Johan never considered letting her live. He swung Krókr twice more and she woke briefly but didn’t have a chance to scream.

Everything inside Johan was on fire. His Viking ancestors roared and banged on his bones. He walked from the bedroom to the living room, his ax at his side, surveying the carnage. It had taken just a minute. Maybe two.

Johan left via the front door. He put on his long jacket and baseball cap and walked swiftly to the Buick. He wasn’t worried about the police. The South Bureau’s Criminal Gang and Homicide Division would be looking at the Armenians, the Salvadorans, maybe a rival Mexican gang. They would never suspect a rich white kid from the Palisades.

He got home just before three a.m. and showered the blood from his hair and body. It took an hour. He couldn’t sleep, so played video games and posted a video to YouTube.

The news broke the following afternoon: five undocumented Mexicans butchered in Watts, South Los Angeles. Police suspected gang warfare. There were images of body bags being carted from a small house on Los Cielos Avenue.