An Interview With A Viking

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Mixed Martial Farce Magazine presents: An Interview with a Viking

By Hunky Dory

7/1/14

I just finished the most unique interview of my writing career. I scheduled an interview with Magnus Barfot, a newly signed Fortitude FC fighter, and was not disappointed. I had been told in advance, by others that had met him, that he was an interesting character but nothing prepared me for our conversation. It was without a doubt the weirdest half hour of my life.

Like many of the top fighters in the world, Magnus Barfot trains at a private establishment. The sign above the main entrance read "In The Penile Colony" which I imagined was a metaphor, or something. I walked in and was surprised at the light and cheery atmosphere in the place. Rows of ancient body armor lined the walls and there were several great axes in display cases throughout the place. Every single person in the building, myself excluded, had the look of a cold blooded killer but didn't look like they would take the murder itself too seriously. "The eye of the tiger" had nothing on this place.

"I help you?" the burly man behind the front desk asked me.

"I, uh, I'm here to talk to Magnus Barfot? I have an interview with him today at 3?" The hulking receptionist decided not to murder me on the spot, thankfully, but gave me a heads up that Barfot can be a wee bit intense with people that he doesn't trust (which he specified was everybody excluding his mother). I thanked him and assured him that I was ready for anything. I was wrong.

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Many fighters will confess that they first got into mixed martial arts in order to avoid fighting on the streets. Some were bullied, others got into it because it was a natural translation from their high school or college sports, such as wrestling. When asked about his origins and what got him into the sport, Magnus Barfot was very open and frank with me, “I got started in MMA after I beat the crap out of my current manager in a street fight outside of a Kebab store in Bergen. It was at 4 in the morning.”

I stared at him in disbelief and asked, “A Kebab store?”

He said simply, “I didn't even want a Kebab.”

Many fighters are very nationalistic and proud of their home country. Others, such as Barfot, have an interesting claim about where they are from. I sat down with Barfot to address the rumors that have been circulating that he is a modern day Viking. Fans and the MMA media have denied his claims and argued that he is simply a pale skinned Scandanavian.

I broached this subject with him, saying: “Rumors have been circulating about you; people say that you claim to be a real, live Viking. A lot of people are saying that it isn't true. What do you have to say to those people?”

With no change of expression on his face, he shrugged, and said, “People will doubt everything, given the chance. People used to think the Earth was flat. Most idiots still think that Columbus discovered the Americas. People still deny the glory of Odin. I'm not really concerned with what so-called 'genealogists' and 'historians' have to say. Anyone who has ever seen me fight knows that I'm a real Viking warrior.”

“Historically, Vikings were some of the most aggressive warriors that ever lived. Do you think that translates into your fighting career or gives you any advantages over opponents?”

“Obviously it translates. That berserker rage flows through my veins even today,” he popped a chunk of food into his mouth.

“What is that you're eating,” I asked, morbidly curious.

“Horse fat,” he said with a mouth full of the stuff.

I couldn't decide if he was being serious or not but thought better of pushing the matter.

“So, what separates you from the rest of your division,” I asked, still staring at the brown paper bag full of what he claimed was horse fat.

“What separates the magnificent eagle from the lowly sparrow?”

“What,” I asked.

“You tell me,” he said, his face deadly serious.

“Uhh, worms,” I stuttered. When he kept staring at me, I continued babbling on, “They eat worms. And, uh, eagles eat goats and stuff?”

After a solid minute of absolute silence between us, with Barfot loudly chewing his food, I decided to change the subject.

“So, uh, you've never been rocked.”

He just grunted a laugh.

“I mean, in a professional fight, you've never been rocked by strikes. Would you agree with the assessment that any striker going against you on the feet would be committing professional suicide?”

He continued chewing on his alleged horse meat for a minute longer, made a face, and reached into his mouth with two fingers. He pulled out a long string of gristle and threw it back into the bag. Then he let out a long, drawn-out sigh, and looked up at me.

“I wouldn't use the word “professional”; I'd use the word “literal”. The only guy that I haven't mercilessly slaughtered with strikes yet lost so many gallons of blood, he turned the stairs out of the cage into a slip 'n slide after his cornermen dragged him to the hospital.”

I decided to go ahead and change the subject as the excitement of the bloody memory was evident in Barfot's face, “As you know, I, uh, interviewed Sean Watson and your name came up a couple of times. He stated that he thought you would defeat Sagan Tyson and win the title and that he would want to face you at a later date. How do you think you would fare against Watson if that fight were to occur?”

“Look, you've already asked me about Watson. If we fight, I'll go in there and hurt him one way or another. I'd kick the living shit out of Watson and we both know it.”

“Were you at all impressed with his performance against Sanchez?”

He sneered terrifyingly at me, “I didn't watch his fight versus Sanchez. I doubt it was very impressive though. Diego Sanchez is half a step up from gutting Irish nuns, tops.”

He was getting worked up, I could see this clearly. I decided to shift the conversation into a more amicable direction before I could find my way into one of his brown paper bags.

“Let's talk about your scheduled opponent, Sagan Tyson,” I said.

He just stared at me, chewing on his seemingly infinite supply of mystery meat.

“You're facing Sagan Tyson for the Fortitude FC world heavyweight championship in just a few days now. How do you think he stacks up against the level of competition you've faced in the past? I mean, you're fresh off of a dominant victory over Mark Riccuito who some might argue is technically more skilled than you and Tyson,” I let out a breath and waited.

He spit a hunk of meat and phlegm onto the floor somewhere, wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve, and said, “I'm not terribly concerned with Sagan to be perfectly honest; my namesake used to say that “king exist for glory, not for long life” and I fight with that in mind. As for Riccutio, I knew that boy was all flash and no substance when I started landing on him.”

“Isn't there anyone in your division that concerns you?”

“No.”

We stared at each other for perhaps the longest thirty seconds of my writing career and then I asked one final question: “In some purely hypothetical world in which you could possibly have a faint weakness, what would that weakness be?”

His answer chilled me to the bone. He said: “My only weakness is that I still value human life. I'm working on that.”

Event Location: http://mmatycoon.com/orgupcomingeventpublic.php?EvID=808401

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