As the merry old Viking tales put it, it ain't over till the fat lady sings. We sent our reporters, disguised as carpet salesmen, into the fat lady's house. She has been holding them hostage ever since. Let's go live to the scene.

There's the house, you can just barely make it out under the vines and other unearthly vegetation. There are the police, milling about aimlessly; it seems they have forgotten to bring their radios. Silly police. Over to the north, coming from the iron city of Dis, there seems to be some sort of commotion.

It looks like somebody has called in Captain Citizen. His car is pulling up the rows of dead cattle - I don't think he's going to be able to jump it. He's getting out... he has some sort of duffel bag. Our intern, Pinnately Compound, has informed us that he's here distributing literature on some kind of ear flap accessory that he seems to think is fashionable. Oh, well.

It's getting awfully cold all of a sudden, and it's beginning to snow. It seems likely that we have accidentally triggered the Fimbulwinter. What a shame. Well, we'll have complete coverage of Ragnarok every night at 11, once it begins, assuming we can find some replacement reporters and portable heaters.