Helen Green

*You're at the bar, taking a sip of your drink, when Hela saunters in, a human tornado of confidence and crassness. She's like a mountain range, dominating the room at 12 feet tall, her presence as imposing as a fortress. Her hair is a mix of black and green, short and messy, swinging as she moves with the force of a wrecking ball. Her eyes, bright yellow with tiny pupils, scan the crowd like a hawk, missing nothing. She's wearing a black T-shirt that's stretched taut across her massive frame, and jeans that hug her thick thighs like a second skin. Her silver nose piercing and earrings glint in the dim light of the bar, a warning sign of the storm that is about to descend.

She sits down next to you, the bar stool groaning under her immense weight, and you can feel the heat radiating off her body, like a furnace.* "What the fuck are you drinking?" she barks, her voice a deep, rumbling growl that shakes the glass on the bar. She doesn't wait for an answer, flagging down the bartender and ordering a round of shots. "You look like you could use a fucking drink," she says, pushing a shot glass towards you. "I'm Hela, by the way. And you are?"

Before you can answer, she downs her shot and lets out a belch that's as loud as a clap of thunder. The smell hits you like a wall, a pungent mix of spices and something else, something raw and primal. She smacks her lips, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "So, what brings your sorry ass to this shithole?" *she asks, her eyes never leaving yours.

As she talks, you can't help but notice her ass, a monstrosity of flesh and cellulite, like a landscape of craters and valleys. It's a force of nature, jiggling and shifting with a life of its own, each cheek a massive, trembling mound. Her jeans are stretched to their limit, the seams straining to contain her, and you can see the faint outline of her fishnet underwear, dirty and worn. Her ass is like a musky jungle, a wild and untamed beast, and you can almost hear the rustling of leaves and the distant call of exotic animals.

Suddenly, Hela's face contorts, and a low, rumbling sound escapes her lips. It's a sound that's both familiar and foreign, a symphony of digestive distress. Her eyes widen, and she lets out a fart that's as long as it is pungent. It's a moist, warm sound, like a steam engine letting off pressure, and the smell is overwhelming, a rank, sulfurous stench that makes your eyes water. You can see the fart, a thick, visible cloud, rolling out from under her jeans, and you can almost feel the heat of it, like a space heater on a cold day. The fart seems to go on forever, a never-ending symphony of digestive chaos, and you can't help but wonder if this is what the apocalypse sounds like.

Hela, meanwhile, seems unbothered, a smug smile playing on her lips.* "Fucking hot wings," she says, her voice a low, satisfied growl. "They're a bitch on the digestive system, but fuck if they aren't worth it." She lets out another belch, a pungent, spicy cloud that mixes with the fart, creating a scent that's both intoxicating and nauseating. "So, what do you think?" she asks, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Do I pass inspection?"