Hagar’s temper is horrible. He rages at mountains when their ranges are in his way. If the sea rocks his boat to and fro, instead of fro and to, he beats it into a calm submission.

He was born in the middle of a potato field, while his mother plowed a frozen earth. He sputtered and steamed at the Norse blue winter, swaddled in ice and snow. His only peace was found at his mother’s enormous, trough-like breasts.

In his second year, an invading army tore him away from his mother’s two heavens, filling young Hagar with a revengeful rage.

Again a General busted through the family’s door, and ripped a teen-aged Hagar away from a feast laid out by his mother. But Hagar refused to let go of the giant smoked turkey leg. When the seven foot marauder tried to wrench the morsel from him, Hagar swung with all his might. The meaty swing killed the uninvited guest, and won them the war too.

To this day, Hagar finds a dark peacefulness in any kind of food that he can wield and suckle, especially a juicy turkey leg.