Valhalla Virus by Nick Harrow (best management books of all time TXT) 📕

A rush of burning red flooded Bogie’s vision. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This skinny little fuck, horns or not, had no business telling a real man what to do. Hyrrokkin had chosen him to conquer Vegas, not this scrawny little fucker. Bogie’s hand moved without conscious thought, closed around the Desert Eagle’s grip, and ripped the weapon free of its holster. A thunderclap roar split the relative quiet of Fremont Street, and Arthur Drake folded up like a cheap lawn chair. The man landed on his back, twitching, blood pumping from the savage wound in the center of his chest.

Bogie roared victoriously and thrust his gun into the air. “That’ll teach you to come here and—”

One of Arthur’s bodyguards swung his AR up and unleashed short, controlled bursts that punched through the air around Bogie in a blistering flurry. Bullets ripped through the casino’s open doors and slot machines burst apart in sparking showers. Raj shouted in pain and surprise, and more of Bogie’s men howled as bullets found their marks. The second bodyguard grabbed Arthur’s suit collar and dragged the human behind the cover of a traffic barricade, then popped back up and fired his weapon at Bogie.

A moment of utter calm descended over the warlord of the Golden Nugget. He’d killed a dozen humans and nearly as many jötnar. He was fucking invincible. That he still stood while lesser jötnar lay bleeding and dying behind him was proof of that. These bootlickers who served a twerp like Arthur Drake were no match for him. He would prove that to them. Oh, yes, he would.

Bogie marched away from the Golden Nugget, his oversized handgun trained on the nearest enemy jötunn. He howled a bloodthirsty challenge at the creature and squeezed the Desert Eagle’s trigger. The gun roared and bucked in his hand, the shot missing its target by inches. The fifty caliber round blasted through the corner of the traffic barricade, spraying powdered concrete into the bodyguard’s eyes. Bogie’s next shot hit the target’s left eye, opening up the back of its head and spraying a cone of brains for thirty feet. A rush of power exploded through Bogie as his foe died. A pulse of static electricity rippled over his deep blue skin, filling him with new energy.

That was another nice perk of being a monster. Killing other monsters gave Bogie a portion of their strength. It was like a spike of adrenaline, filling him with energy and vitality. It was the cherry on top of the mayhem sundae he’d been shoveling into his mouth from the moment Hyrrokkin’s magical slit had remade him in her image.

“Drop it, motherfucker,” Bogie howled at the second bodyguard.

Arthur’s surviving ally let his AR drop on to its shoulder strap and raised his hands. He took one step back, then froze as the staring black eye of the Desert Eagle’s muzzle pointed at his face.

“You really fucked up today,” Bogie snarled, advancing on the remaining jötunn, his knuckle whitening as he took the slack out of the trigger. He stopped next to the fallen human and aimed his gun at the remaining jötunn’s forehead. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t blow your head off right now.”

Arthur coughed, then laughed. Bogie wasn’t sure what the fuck the human found so funny, seeing as how he was lying on the ground with a bullet hole in the middle of his chest and half his forces were missing their brains. The jötunn looked down at the fallen man, cocked his right foot back, and prepared to punt Mr. Drake’s testicles into the next county. Bogie launched his kick, a nasty grin rolling over his face as he imagined the agonized howls this asshole was about to make.

And then searing pain lanced through the jötunn’s leg. Arthur had seized Bogie’s clawed foot in both hands and whipped him up and over his prone body. In the blink of an eye, the jötunn warlord of the Golden Nugget had been hurled from the top of the world into the gutter. Stars danced across Bogie’s vision, and pain rippled through his brain as his skull slammed into the pavement. Bogie’s ludicrous weapon bounced out of his hand and skittered across the concrete, the barrel spinning round and round like a kicked beer bottle.

“Don’t make me kill you,” Arthur Drake said as he regained his feet. Despite the bloody hole in the front of his suit, the thin man looked no worse for wear. He brushed his hair back, revealing a pair of glossy black horns jutting from twin patches of deep blue skin, adjusted his sunglasses, then knelt next to Bogie. “I tried to play nice, my friend. I only brought two of my soldiers so as not to provoke you. But you had to play the fool and waggle your dick in my face. You’re strong, brash, and ambitious. Those are admirable traits in an ally, but it’s clear you’re a little rough around the edges. I’ll give you a second chance. Get up on your knees. Now. Swear you’ll follow me into battle against our enemies. Do that, and maybe I won’t have to show you who’s boss in a much more dramatic fashion.”

Bogie stared up at the man. He understood the words coming out of Arthur’s mouth, but they still made little sense. Hyrrokkin had chosen him. He didn’t know how this twerpy fuck knew the smoking lady, but Bogie wasn’t about to bend his knee. All he needed was one opening, and he’d pull this twat’s head right off his shoulders.

“Okay,” Bogie said. “I get it.”

The jötunn got up on his hands and knees, shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then glanced toward the casino where his surviving soldiers were still watching. They had pistols, shotguns, even a couple of hunting rifles. It would be enough to deal with these two pricks. And this