Bathroom Monologue: Like Your Valhalla is Better

Here roam Roland and Genghis Khan, Cortez and George Patton. On earth they were middle-aged (and then, dead some hundreds of years), but here they are only ten years old, save Ajax and Lu Bu, who are unfairly twelve, and two years bigger. They've fought here since their deaths in the mortal world, years of combat, yet not a day of age. Their mighty steeds are brooms, their exotic weaponry is scrapwood stolen from garages and garbage cans. Only twenty or thirty boys fight in these misty valleys, but there in the fog every blade of grass represents a fictitious enemy or ally. They cannot see all the territory for the mist is thick and hills are high, but that does not stop them from fighting for the next ridge. Every day they draw up their sides, usually two armies at dawn that divide down into four or eight by evening, for in every boy's heart lurks an aspiring bad leader. Their conquests of empire are not stopped by fever or betrayal, but by dusk, when their mothers call them for dinner.