Freddy Barnett

Me wee little bloggy

(The end of) Tragic Lust (The Day of Remains) by Infinity Upton Downes

cropped-dracula-bat.jpgBristol, England May 14, 1784

My Dearest Darling Huthbert,
Every day I look for your letters. Today, I feel that

cupid is in the air.
A terrible thing happened at the Hollis’ grand mansion next door to my home this week. A terrible man attempted to kill the neighbor’s entire family, except for the young wife, Hippolia, a woman who might be mis- taken as my twin.

After clubbing the husband, Rhynos Hollis, to death, and presuming that the children were all asleep in bed, the villain set the house on fire. Thank the Lord above that all eight Hollis children were spending the week in London’s Marshalsea Children’s Prison because of a misunderstanding over the property rights of a beaten elder, or they all would have perished in that fire.

During the blaze, the wife, Hippolia, was dragged outside only to be violated repeatedly until the rapist dragged her blindfolded down to Cornwall, where she was spotted, by drunkards no less, laughing at the Duck n’ Fishes pub. The rough beast continued his assault upon Mrs. Hollis the entire weekend, attracting numerous noise complaints at the inn. Mrs. Hollis had managed to escape from the brute and seems to be handling her weekend of terror quite well. She did tell me that the impetuous monster has threatened to return again, here to Bristol! The cheeky devil warned Hippolia that he will hunt her down like a fox, and imprison her royal suite at the notorious Saint Germaine Hotel in Paris and prod her day and night until her wicked spell upon him is broken. The poor woman. How dreadful!

There is some good news for you, my hero.

My husband, Owen, has left me, knowing that my heart belongs only to you—and his own heart belongs to his ballet coach, Fabricio. My two children are both fourteen years old and have moved away with their own large families. I sit, all alone, waiting only for you, my love. I pray that I may be worthy of such a pure soul.

More good news! My consumption has disappeared entirely since I changed my diet to simple sweets. You will find that there is much more of your dear Penelope to love when you return.

I hope you are well. Please tell me when your ship, The Obbrobrio, comes in, my heart of hearts. My love, you are forever in my thoughts and dreams.

If the recipient of this letter is not my beloved Huthbert, please disregard, I prefer chocolates.



London June 1, 1784

Penelope, Oops!

Yours, Huthbert


One last abysmal letter from Lady Penelope Weeps

Sent from Kent on Birminghanfordkingshire
To Lord Thaddeus Huthbert Grieves by way of Lord Ward Toady, Wraithamwichshire
February 21, 1790

My Poor Dear Lord Huthbert!
I am in distress! Since you wrote “Oops!” as the only and last word in your final letter, I’ve had troubling cogitations, my dearest. For aught I know you may soon be with the angels, and after losing half of your face, one third of your manhood, one nipple, and discovering that an acid roach that had entered your brain at Hominahomina has affected the remaining two-thirds of your huk-huk!

Three days ago, I found out that you were alive, my darling. Joy of joys! While I was relaxing at the Drivel Pub in East Piffle I overheard the sailors talking about how their frigate, the Countess of Cachtice, rescued a man who called himself “Huthbert” within the hold of an abandoned Chinese junk(?). One of the sailors at the pub, who’d been given the epithet Jack the Gaff by his ship- mates (curiously, it was neither of Jack’s rough hands that were shaped like a hook), said that you were found nearly dead aboard a ghost ship adrift among the treach- erous whirlpools of Vodu, West Africa.

Oh dear, what were you doing in China?

The Daily Advertiser directed me to Charity Hospi- tal in Piffle. Alas, I was barred from visiting your room by the empiric Dr. Phineus Osândâ who instructed me to come back later in the week, as your medical situation was “extremely distasteful.” What could that mean? I thought.

While resting at the Piffle Inn, I came across this story on the front page of the Journal. A similar story regarding your recent condition also appeared in Lloyd’s Post.

“One unfortunate passenger, identified as London’s Lord Thaddeus ‘Huthbert’ Grieves was found below decks, soaked in his own blood. Specialists from Shire Bedlam Hospital reported the Lord Huthbert’s colon was ‘severely damaged by an Asian swamp eel’ (monopterus albus). The grotesque fish had chewed through the poor fellow’s colon.”

Huthbert, my love, how on earth did that abhorrent creature end up inside your lower intestine? What were you doing in China, my heart of hearts? Who were these “opium men” who were “playing a trick” on you, as per the article?

I fear that this may be the last chance to tell you that you have always been the love of my life, my greatest thrill, equal to my recent swim in a vat of chocolate, with the two equally pale Cadbury Brothers at their new dessert parlor in London. The brothers playfully nicknamed me “Bonbon.”

I ended up marrying the elder of the brothers, Sir Richard Cadbury. I never saw his very wealthy brother, Sir Simon, alive after our dip. The police had come over one afternoon asking questions about a public argument that the two brothers had had in the Lamb’s Lair pub. It is as though the thick London fog had swallowed Simon. He was a nice lad.

My new husband, Sir Richard, it seems, has had a number of wives but only keeps a picture of his first, Hermia, upon the piano. The sorrowful man had lost Hermia along with his only two children when the three sailed into a maelstrom, though, this time, near the is- land of Bermuda. Richard often talks of her beauty and her long red hair and warned me that his deceased and beloved Hermia, managed to ruin his following six marriages and mysteriously drove all the ensuing wives away! Richard fears that I will also disappear because of an apparition. You, of all people realize that I am made of sterner stuff.

Oh goodness! As I look from the front window into the moonlight, I can see a woman with long red hair, with two barely clothed moppets in tow. Poor things, so pale and hungry. I will not wake the butler, Heaves, who has already turned in for the night.

I’ll try to write again, soon. The children are crying just outside my door. They seem to be asking for pudding, of all things. Poor dears. Their cries are weak. I’ll offer them a warm fireplace and something to eat.

My heart-root, I have addressed this letter to your very close friend, Ward Toady, at Wraitham, as I can- not seem to locate you, my love, my life.

Yours in eternity,
Lady Penelope Cadbury

P.S. Richard said that he would post this for me on the morrow. It is time to greet the poor family outside. More crying. I must go and answer the door.


 (This letter (the last mortal link to Penelope’s beloved Lord Huthbert) was never read by the recipient. It was found unopened at the Cadbury home a week after her disappearance.)


From Lord Ward Toady, Wraitham Hospital, South- east Londonshireham
To Lady Penelope, Cadbury, London
August 6, 1790

My Lady Penelope Weeps Cadbury,
My god woman, did you not hear? It is with great

sadness that I must inform you that your love, my oldest and dearest friend, Lord Huthbert Grieves, had been brutally murdered in the early hours of February 18. I pray that you will not take umbrage. I was certain that you yourself had been murdered back in February. The Lord’s assailant was a maniacal woman with long red tresses followed by two young children.

The trio were seen by my own hospital staff, hovering near the stone path leading into to the hospital grounds at two in the morning.

No one knows how the fiends had gained access to Lord Huthbert’s private room, as several members of my hospital staff were awake and on duty!

My primary nurse, Mrs. Walinkova, was first alerted when she heard the voice of a woman screaming your name from the garden. “Penelope! Penelope’s gray matter will be my…pudding!” The woman’s screeching was followed by the wailing of children (“Pudding! Pudding!”), which was heard by the entire hospital staff.

The cacophony outside was followed by the agoniz ing scream of our dear Lord Huthbert. His private room was on the second story. The staff and I ran to Lord Huthbert’s door. It took four people, ten minutes to force the door open as it was being held shut by a ghostly gale of wind. When my four servants were able to gain access the wind came to a sudden halt. They found Lord Huthbert in the closet, hanging by the neck. My scullery maid, Fifi LaDerrier, reported that the poor man’s skull had been gnawed through as if by a giant rodent.

After the staff and I had taken Lord Huthbert’s body from the closet and lay him on the bed, Fifi whispered in my ear—with hot breath—in French, that poor tortured Lord Huthbert was finally at peace. As we drew a sheet over Lord Huthbert’s face, we both caught a glimpse of the Arden’s Creeper (the acid roach from the jungles of Hominahomina) crawling behind the headboard. I could no longer blame Lord Huthbert’s insanity on my souple pâtisserie Fifi! Indeed, it was the roach, boring into the afflicted man’s brain that drove him mad enough to harbor eels in his bottom!

As the lord’s body lie covered, a quartet of my ser- vants, who were embracing and adjusting one another’s bed clothes at the chamber window, were frozen by a spine-chilling scene in the garden below. They had become transfixed by three pale figures beneath the cold moon, screeching like Irish banshees and dressed in thin white shrouds—it was the red-haired demon and what must have been her two children. As if gliding on wheels, the phantoms left a trail of fresh sea algae along the cobblestones before vanishing into the woods. Wraitham is a two-day journey to the nearest coast.

Dearest Penelope, I am so sorry to be the one to impart this terrible news. May our Huthbert rest in peace.

 cropped-dracula-bat.jpgIn friendship, Lord Ward Toady

P.S. Mrs. Walinkova says that she was familiar with you from the circus days at the Drury Lane theatre. She asked me to relay this message:

“Cheers, Penny! I am well, and though I no longer soar above the crowds at Drury, Toady says that I still defy gravity. The silly man! Please stop by for draught someday.”

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The Mawth Who Ate My Shawts (How to loin to tawk like a New Yawkuh.)


Copyright August 5, 2015 Fred Barnett

(Speak like a New Yawkah)


Hi kids, my name is Ahthuh Moidock an’ I was bawn in New Yawk .

Which makes me a ‘what?’

A New Yawkah, of cawse!

I live in a skyscrapuh that neahly reaches da stahs.

Dem stahs is wayuh? 

Waaaay up in da univoise, ya little meatbawls!

One mawning, I had to get outtah bed, shauwah, and shave faw woik . I toined to my spouse, Nawmuh, an’ I whispid. “I’m goin’ to woik.” Nawmuh was still undah the cuvahs snawin’ an I was still tiyahd. I wuz yawnin like da Gran Canyon.

Den I opened my undahpants draw an Oh my gawd!, I saw awluh my shawts was devauwid! Awluh dem looked like Swiss cheese! Holy guacamole! Dare was holes in everyting. Awluh my cottin shawts, even my undahshoits was as holy as da Pope! Den I opened the dressah draw to soich faw a fresh shoit.

Day was awl poifahrated!

What kind of animal eats shoits an’ shawts?

There must be a doity mawth hangin’ aroun’ owuh apahtment. I was soitin’.

Some stahvin’ mawth had swallahed mosta my Fruit-of-da-Looms. an’ I needed to get to da awfiss.

My awfiss is wheah?

In a towah down on toidy-toid-an-toid, rug rats.

I needed to cawl an extoiminatin’ jernt I thawt, but foist I had to cawl my bawss Oyving, an tell him dat I was gonna be tahdy once moah. “I need to go to the staw Oyving, an’ get maw clohdin,” I said wit a few cherce woids.

Den I looked up an’ guess what I saw? A giant mawth flyin’ aroun’ da kitchen light. “Get outta my way, ya bum,” he says, zippin’ by, da size of a seven-fawty-seven. “I’m flyin’ heah!”

He tawked?

“Eat dis ya bug” I said trowin’ an umbrellah at his ugly mug.

“No tanks,” he says. “I don’t touch polyestah.”
“Eat dis den!” Not fo’ nuttin, I trew my deah depahted muddah’s ahmie boots an’ hit da wiseguy in his flutterin’ butt. He hit da wawl behine da reclinah —lowng. I coulda’ knocked him all da way to lawng Islan’ if there wasn’t a wawl in da way. Instead, he got up, brushed himself awf  an’ stahted eatin’ Nawmuh’s boxa chawklit toitles on toppah the cawfee table. Den he went aftah owuh pet boid Flip’s boid seed (Luckily Flip da Boid was a filthy pidgeon who lived outside). An’ den da mawth went aftuh a piece of old cheeseboigah dat was hangin’ outta da gahbidge can!

The mawth, (whose name was Mawtee accawding to its name tag. Yeah. Shuah. Right), proceeded to eat my fedorah an’ my goil Nawmah’s wool skoit. He chawmped on the chayah, the cowch, the lampshade, and the rug, an’ he musta been paht toimite caws he stahted eatin’ the flaw bawds which is made of boich — wood.
He ate a glass pitcha. Like a juvenile delinquent, he was tearin’ up da apahtment.

“So wayuhs my deezoit, ya bum? Ya got maw clawth?” he asked roodly.

“Bum? Does yaw mothah know you tawk like dat? I ought wash yaw doity mout out wit soap!”

“So cawl da marines, an’ bahbahcue me a steak aw somethin’,” he says as he stahted noshin’ on the caud that was plugged into the wawl.

“Listen!” I says back, as he stahted nibblin’ on my chia pet’s hayah. “Get awfuh my lawn, you lepidoptera you! Get lawst!”

It was waaaay too hot faw dis sh…stuff. It had been a lawng scawching summah. Even the neighbawhood dawgs were too wawn out an’ too ty-ud to bahk. (Lass Thoisday mawning, I thawt I was on fiah.) “I need to take a shauah,” I said. “Some people have jahbs. I can’t stay here an’ play witcha. “When I get out of da John you bettah be history. Bettah yet, go somewayah else an’ be geography.”

Foist, I need to find something to wayuh I thawt.

Out in da big city mawths was awl ovah, eaten poysin’s gahments. Awl de apahtments in awlah da five burroughs had been invaded by a stawm of deez apawlin’ flyin’ tings.

When I looked inside of Nawmuh’s (Mrs. Moidock’s) undahwayuh draw, I saw her tings ain’t been bahthid. Her “unmentionables” was unhoit. Undistoibed.

What’s unmentionables, kids?

Why awl dem silky frilly tings dat look like doilies. Awl sawft an…sh…stuff. The mawths left them all alone cause…Goils is smaht.

Why is goils smaht? 

Day is smaht becaws day bahthuh to tro in dem mawthbawls into da drawahs.

An’ mawths hate the smell of whut?
Camfuh!— which is what mawthbawls are made of!

So, it toins out dat awl deh guys had to wawk to woik wearin’ dare goil’s frilly shawts — in pastel cullahs even.

An’ dats awl we waw ‘cause we didn’ have no trausahs aw nuttin’. No one on da boulevahd, even dah hoity-toities, cayahd ‘caws da mawths had roond owuh  clohdin.

So what happened?

We awl had ended up havin’ a big laugh aroun’ da wawtuh coolah

caws all the palookahs at da awfiss doh, dey looked like crawsdressahs.

Wit da help of da feminine poysins wit dare wimmins intuwishins, we outsmahted the scoige of da mawths.

An’ dats why dem mawths is a buncha stinkin’ bugs, an’ we ain’t.

Next week on Speak like a New Yawkah:

The extoiminatuhs (Who look maw like huge monstah bats wit dare lawng black lethah coats) might bahthuh to show up if they feel like it. 

Flip da Boid, da flyin’ rat, will show us how to add the “f” word and d-bag to your conversations.

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Now you can listen in your BATS mobile. HPR- BATS book interview.

JPEG Bats Mobile

The vampire genre, like vampires themselves, refuses to die…. but the vampire satire genre may be ready to take on a life of its own.   That’s probably the only way to describe Fred Barnett’s novel Bats: Return to Damnalot, in which Vlad the Impaler struggles with the encroachment of tour buses on his centuries-old castle and plans to turn his beloved Transylvania into a theme park.   Is his chamber of horrors destined to be turned into a tourist trap?  Fred joined the show to sort it all out for us.

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Why You Shouldn’t Go to Kailua Beach. A Public Service Announcement

Today’s Beach UPDATE:

The beach, inIMG_2142 general, is a dangerous place. Ocean water is unfit to drink and the sand gets into places that I cannot mention on a family website. People walk around almost naked and the sun is too hot. For the good of your health, sanity and family, you should ALL stay home. Do NOT go to the beach. In the meantime, I will monitor the beach for you and give an update WHEN and IF the beach EVER becomes a safe place to visit. This has been a public service announcement. Mahalo.
PLEASE: Stay the F___ offa the beach!

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“We’ve Got a Winner!” Ed McMahon’s Zombie from The KIngdom of the Cats

The Kingdom of the CatsBefore his life of crime, when he was a musician with the stage name of “Hank Druid,” he’d been a real honest-to-goodness local Hollywood personality. A “barely been” Sunset Boulevard rock star. 

Denny was the only surviving member of the almost-famous 80s musical duo called “Short and Curly.” 

Short and Curly’s claim to fame was starting fist fights, on stage, wherever they performed. In most cases, the fights were simply between Denny (Hank Druid) and his partner Jerome Horwitz, who was called “Curly,” in response to his shaved head.

Short and Curly’s band played Country Rap Music, which one critic abbreviated and addressed as “Crap music.”

* * * *

Behind Denny, the TV in the Flamingo Arms Hotel was showing commercials, which were only occasionally interrupted by a TV program. The program was the zombie classic movie, Day of the Driving Dead which had been filmed in the fast lanes of Honolulu’s H-1 freeway.

Ruby and the two kids had already forgotten what they were watching.

Mom and the kids were no longer complaining about being hungry or about how they were going to be tossed out of their tiny motel room tomorrow by the manager, a biker named “Thug.” It didn’t seem to matter to them that they would be living on the filthy, hot, smoggy pavement of Sunset Boulevard by tomorrow after the 11a.m. check-out time.

The Joyces were months beyond caring.

The four “Joyce” family members remained slack-jawed, ill, drugged, and depressed. Their lifeless eyes watched and waited for more disappointment. There was that knee slappin’ commercial announcing the new season of Putz, the crude golf comedy.

Their newly adopted kitty, afraid of being smoked or eaten, was pacing behind the couch. Ignored.

Denny was doing “jes fine” compared to the rest of his family because he had a dream about “God’s Plan.” The plan essentially said, “We ONLY exist to feed our cats.” This dream revealed itself to Denny, in Prison, after he’d been “saved.”

He prayed that the rest of humanity would come to know the true and noble reason for man’s existence in the cosmos.

Denny’s wife, Ruby, high and delirious on bath salts of all things, was thinking about putting the two kids out of their misery in the tiny bathtub and sending herself “packing” with painkillers.

That, and getting rid of the damned cat.

That horrible creature that her half-witted daughter had brought home a year ago.

Things are really getting El Fucktorino in this, the land of dreams that we all know as Hollywood, she thought.

The beer and Cheetos were gone. The uninsured 1959 Chevy that the family lovingly called the “Taco Wagon,” with its fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror, had been stolen a month ago. They had no more money for Denny to gamble away. It was over. This was probably as Fuctorinoed as things would ever get.

Reminder to the Joyce family: This time tomorrow, you will all be enjoying the great outdoors, while living on the glamorous sidewalk of the world famous Sunset Strip! 

* * * *

Denny stood at the ground floor motel apartment door of Room 21, trying to come up with another scheme, crime or whatever it would take to get himself back on track, or better yet, as high as the space shuttle. Denny was also waiting for the rest of the motel’s inhabitants, roaches included, to go to sleep. He considered delivering the rest of his own family into the motel’s dumpster before taking off at sunrise. Because of his strong religious beliefs, Denny calmly kept his gaze focused on enjoying the cool night and the quiet of the hotel’s parking lot, by the door.

* * * *

The Flamingo Arms Hotel was a faded pink, early 1960s art-drecko monstrosity whose neon sign faced the Sunset Strip. The sign sported a twenty-foot high pink top-hat-topped flamingo that never stopped flapping its neon human arms. It flapped spasmodically 24-hours-a-day, as if to air out its hairy armpits (thanks to a graffiti artist with the tag “Killah”).

The ugly bird had been trying to fan the smog off the hot Sunset Strip for twenty years.

* * * *

A long black limousine slid out of the oily night and pulled up to the curb in front of the depressing eyesore of a hotel.

The Cadillac Behemoth limousine slid up to the motel curb and appeared to sputter and die there. The driver, in silhouette, pointed its long index finger at Denny who was smoking in the doorway of Room #21.

Denny thought, What’s a limousine doing in front of this hell hole? 

A town that snorts people up and sneezes them out. Probably just another drug addicted sleaze-ball looking for a thrill.

The Flamingo Arms was a popular drug stop for the legions of the L.A. law firms, and the half-dead rock stars.

The car sat idling for nearly twenty minutes. Black exhaust caused the rare evening stars to disappear over Hollywood.

The limo gave forth its last wheezing breath and after a long pause, the “chauffeur” seemed to struggle with the limo’s heavy door. He unfolded his long frame and very slowly stepped out into the street. He wore an old-fashioned chauffeur’s outfit and cap. He adjusted the brim to avoid the light and keep his face hidden in shadow.

He was tall, pale, and barely able to keep his balance.

Denny’s watched the man and thought of his eighty-pound crackhead buddy Jeff, who looked more alive than this loser.

The tall figure stepped slowly around the vehicle and opened the back door of the bus-sized limo that faced the hotel. Two large muddy brown shoes appeared out of the darkness of the open door. A large, white-haired gentleman dressed in a dusty, ragged tuxedo stepped out onto the sidewalk with great difficulty.

Behind the big guy, but remaining in the limo, Denny glimpsed a ghostly platinum-haired female in a white dress.

The portly old man swayed weakly on the sidewalk and shielded his dark eyes from the faint glare of the flickering street light above his head.

Perhaps, the weak lamp post still burned brightly in another dimension.

The rail-thin driver grabbed the bigger gent’s elbow and with some effort, steadied them both, and escorted the larger man up the walkway.

The big man’s large gloved hands carried a large piece of cardboard. He “shambled” toward the curious Denny who stood in the doorway of Room #21.

Denny did not look at the man’s face hidden in the shadows, but at the cardboard poster that he held in his filthy white gloved hands: a two-foot by five-foot-long humungous check made out to Mr. Denny Joyce. Dated two weeks ago and signed by Charles “scribble scribble” from the Publisher’s Clearing House. The amount written on the check was for “One Million Dollars.”

Denny was pondering if this was just a bad side-effect of bath salts that his family had ingested, when he heard a deep dead rasping “HEY HO!”

Denny looked up at the maggot-filled mouth that omitted the unearthly sound. The face was slack and it looked slightly decomposed with its teeth drawn back and bits of skull showing beneath the thick white hair and cracked aviators.

The corpse spoke to Denny through creaking jaws, with a voice and breath that could only have risen from the rotting bowels of …well, almost anywhere in Hollywood.

“Denny Joyce! You’ve just won the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes! You’re now a millllllllllionnnnnnnnaire!”

After his initial shock of both seeing the walking corpse of the fifteen-years-extinct Ed McMahon and hearing that he had suddenly became a millionaire, all propelled by a blast of fetid (you-call-that) breath?… all Denny Joyce could say was, “Aren’t you… Ed McM… Mc—”

“Hey Ho!” said the corpse. “Dennyyyyyyyyy it’s yourrrrrrrr luckkkkky dayyyyyy.”

Denny felt his bladder nearly “let go” and he began to feel dizzy.

Something deep down in his fried brain, perhaps a little angel, warned him:

“Don’t ever invite them in.”

“We’re all sick, man… sorry,” said Denny. “This is crazy! Is… is that check for real?” He hurled the last of the Cheetos upon his own shirt and the battered screen door that separated the living from the dead.

Recovering, Denny looked up and asked, “Is… is there anything that I have to do?” Cough, cough. “And just curious pal… are you, like, dead?”

“Yes, Denny. Hey Hooooooohhhh! The last time I looked, yeah! I was very dehhhhhd. The check is reeeeeeeeeal. You are a millionaire! Can I come in? Can we talk?”

Don’t let them in. Never let them in Denny, said the imaginary little angel, now on his right shoulder.

Denny wiped his eyes in disbelief. All of them zeros…. “Uh no, not yet.” As he knew from his prison dream, this was part of God’s “plan.”

“There, of course, is one little catch Mr. Joyce,” said dead Ed. “I need to eat someone’s brains and I need them now! By the way you’re a mess, son, you’ve ruined your shirt.”

“Oh sorry man, er Mr., uh, Mr. McMahon. You gave me quite a start. I’m a smart guy. I knew that there would be some sort of ‘a catch.’ How about my wife Ruby, pal? She has some brains.”

(Ruby used to have a good brain, before she started to date a crack pipe frequently.)

“Come here, Honey. There’s someone that I want you to meet. This is Mr. McMahon. Remember Ed McMahon?”

“Whah” his wife said from the bed. “Who’s there?” She crawled over to the door.

“Holy shit!” she said looking at him through the Cheeto gauze on the screen, and from three different angles in the dim light. “Hey! You used to be the fat guy from the Tonight Show!”

“Hey Hoooooooo! You are correct, sir! I mean Mrs. Joyce! I am Ed McMahhhhhhhon, and you, my lovely woman, and the man that you are married to, are now millionaires!”

Ed bent his creaky frame over toward Denny and then whispered through the screen toward Denny’s ear. “I bet that she did have a good brain ’til she met you and Mr. Dope, huh, Denny?'” said Ed with another putrid blast of his breath that sent Denny hurling away from the door.

“Johnny! Mia! Come here!” Ruby said. The two munchkins crawled off of the bed and “shambled*” over toward the door while moaning. They had just started watching the Walking Dead on the Food Channel and were mimicking the zombies on TV

(*Shambling. That’s what the walking dead do rather than walk. It’s their idea of a good time….)

Only Mia was brave enough to come up to the door. Johnny stood back.

“Oh crap Dad! Mom! This fucker’s a real zombie!”

“I’m only here to helllllp you sweeeeeetnesssss.”

“Yeah, gang, uh, we got us a real zombie,” said Denny.

“This is Mr. McMahon, kids,” Ruby said. “Mr. McMahon used to be on television, before he … went bankrupt… died … and rotted… and beetles started living in his ears.”

“Okay, Dad. Tell him to go away. He smells like balls!”

“Mia! Use your manners! Sorry, Mr. McMahon. Kids, huh! Mr. McMahon has got a pile of money for us, children. Be polite, you little shits.”

“Those three brains would do fine, Denny… IF they weren’t all high on bath salts. You’ve ruined them all, Denny. If we eat stupid brains, we get stupider. You were always a bright kid, Mr. Henry Wayne Druid! So, no thannnnnnkssss. Can we seeeeeal the deeeeeal? Can I come in and—seeeeeeal the deal?”

Wow! That sounded too much like seal-a-meal to Denny.

“Wait! N… no, not yet,” said Denny. “How about you just sliding the check under the door?”

“That’s not how we do things here in Hollywood, Denny, sir! We need to shake your hand and capture this wonderful event on video tape.”

There was another walking corpse behind Ed, holding a moldy broken video camera. It was hard to see the cameraman, as the camera was supporting a blinding spotlight. The cameraman wore Ray-Ban sunglasses. The mysterious camera-guy also sported sideburns and emitted a truly horrible spoiled bacon smell from his a mold-covered black leather jacket.

“I always liked you Mr. McMahon. I don’t want to do this,” said the shaken Denny.

“Whaaaaat Dennyyyyy?”

“If I let you in… well… Okay, then. Let me think this over”

“Six zeros Denny!” said the little fire-engine-red devil on his left shoulder. 

“How about you meet my son!” said Denny. “Come here, John! Meet Mr. Ed McMahon! Mr. McMahon! HERE’sssssssss JOHNNY!”

Ed hissed like a snake. “Hahhhhhh, hahhhhh, hilariousssssss. You’re a real charmer, Denny.” Looking at Johnny, Ed said, “Your old man’s a comedian, son. You know that you can’t say that, Denny?”

“Say what?”

“You can’t say, ‘Here’ssssss Johnny!’ I’ve still got a trademark copyright on that phrase.”

“No way!”

“Waaaaaaay…. Oh, and that word ‘way’ belongs to Mike Meyers. US patent and trademark office, Denny. I can use ‘way’ because I’m a shambling undead fiend.”

“Gee, I wouldn’t have thought!” said little Johnny.

Ignoring the warning from the little fuck-head angel on his right shoulder, Denny said to the dead Ed, “Why you smelly piece of… yeech! Just to make it clear. Are you listening, Ed! ARE WE CLEAR ON THIS? I am NOT inviting you in! This is NOT an invitation. Right?”

With that, Denny wrenched open the Fuckingoddamnedfuckingsonofabastard door, and grabbed onto the lapels of Ed’s threadbare tux. He then pulled the big smelly fat-ass zombie into the motel room. Denny’s wife and kids, all back upon the king-sized bed, just slid over to accommodate the big stiff, and continued to ignore the real horror show next to them.

Ed struggled and gurgled as Denny dragged him into the room.

Ed McMahon, though over six-feet-tall, was nearly weightless: an empty shell, except for a few shreds of some poor souls whose brains he had feasted on within the last couple of weeks.

A few feeble minds were the only things that had kept old Ed McMahon barely moving along with a very nice shamble these days.

Ed had only been feasting on the brains of the weak and greedy. At this moment, Ed who was very weak and very greedy for a “noggin nosh.” His scam was not working on this hardened punk, who moved quickly and gracefully.

Denny threw the big lug easily onto the bed.

Hell! That was easy! thought Denny. Maybe I’ll be going out to look for the ex-Elvis and ex-Marilyn later.

“Thanks for the check, Ed,” said Denny. “Money is a good thing and I certainly thank you for it. You still have one very important thing that you’re going to give me tonight Mr. McMahon! You see, Mr. McMahon, it’s time to feed the kitty!”

“Wait! The check will not do you any good. I’m suing you for one million dollars! Hey Hooooo!”

Denny still held onto the lapels of Ed’s rotting tux and easily held the big weak zombie flat on the bed.

“My lawyer, Denny. I want my lawyer!”

* * * *

Denny whistled for Angel Puff (another name for Dave), while Ed McMahon snapped, squealed and squirmed beneath Denny’s weight,

Denny told him, THIS is God’s plan. Don’t you know that Mr. McMahon? Angel Puff! Come here, Puff Ball!” (another name for Angel Puff).

Angel Puff had always hated that name, though it served him many fine souls. He got off of his furry butt and slowly walked over to the bed.

With his green eyes, orange fur and sparkly gold collar, the cat leapt upon the bed and sat himself squarely upon the trapped zombie’s chest.

Angel Puff tossed back his handsome mane, focused his slitted emerald eyes upon his prey, and began to inhale his psychic meal. “I’ll start with a little soul food—better than tuna.”

Ed was a virtual soul buffet!


 The last thing Zombie Ed saw was Denny leaning close. 

“The world is full of hungry, fluffy, lovable kitties, Ed.

“We ONLY exist to feed our cats.

Don’t you know that Mr. McMahon?”

* * * *

Angel Puff had inhaled his last tortured soul from the zombie’s empty husk, when all of a sudden:

The room went black as the lights and the TV went off.

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^^Ö^^ The Countess’ ride from BATS. ^^Ö^^

Headed back to Damnalot in Bathory’s Black Sapphire Challenger. 

“There’s no place like homicide.”

JPEG Bats Mobile

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Lazarus and Bobby Jo

Cover Rock Invasion

They had met in a head-on crash. Terry and Bobbi Jo had both been jettisoned through the front windshields of their respective cars, smashed into one another in midair and died face to face on the rough wet pavement.

Rather than die alone, they had reached out to one another. Their cooling hands intertwined, forever bonded on that lonely country road.

Terry and Bobbi Jo had both been speeding: Blame it on youth.

Terry and Bobbi Jo had both been texting: Blame it on technology.

Terry and Bobbi Jo had both been sipping beers: Blame it on the alcohol.

Both had been scanning their radio dials: Blame it on rock ‘n roll.

The roads were dark and slick: Blame it on the rainy night.

The head on crash: Blame it on love.


There was a ballet in midair when their bodies collided, mangled and tangled. They’d almost reached their goal, the perfect melding of bodies and souls that the two teens had been working toward. They were splayed out only a few yards north of the wreckage, among a field of glass and burning debris.

“We just have to stop running into each other this way,” said Terry, who was always the class clown.

“Hey, Terry, listen.”

“Sirens. Grab my hand, Bobbi Jo. The response time is much quicker today. I have to admit, I called in the crash ten minutes ago on my way over to Highway 95 and Cedar Lane.”

“Fucking with their heads. That sounds like you, Terry. Do you think that anyone will catch on to our routine?”

“Before the light fades from your beautiful eyes, Bobby Jo, I want to give you new flowers.”

Terry’s last act was to hand Bobby Jo the bloody bouquet.

“Awwww, thanks Terry.” Blood spilled from her lips onto the pavement as she mimed a kiss. (cough, cough) “You brought me white roses this time. They’re beautiful. I’ll …I’ll see you at the funeral. I hope that they can bury us closer this time.”



“Poor thing. The flowers are still in her hand. Love at last sight,” said Don, the older of the two Highway Patrol officers, walking around the wreckage in the rain. “The girl’s car engine is still running. There’s still smoke from the burning rubber. This just happened. About a minute ago.”

“I’m so tired of this spot,” said his young partner Christine. “Are they ever going to put some lights out here?”

Don shook his head. “Oh. No. Another one. I feel like God is a seven-year-old boy who can only get off by watching shit blow up.”

This is so wrong,” she said. “Someone called this accident in over ten minutes ago. The boy must have been bent on suicide.”

“This kid was hell bent on killing himself and someone else as well. There must be a registration in here.” Don said as he searched though the glove box.

“Maybe it was her idea,” said Christine. “They both had to be going over a hundred to do this.”

“I hate this Damned Dog Park Road,” said Don. “In less than five years we’ve had half-a-dozen bad accidents at this intersection. Each time, bodies were launched through windshields.”


“Her name is, was named Barbara Jo Murray. Poor thing,” said the young patrolwoman as she held the girl’s wallet taken from the spilled purse. “Those flowers. She must have been coming home from a date. What is it about the name Bobby Jo that bothers me, Don? Do you remember, a few months ago, when some creep was stealing flowers from the graves at Acadian? I was there when they found the pile of vases and stems on a grave of another Barbara Jo — Barbara Jo Massey.”

“At least a few of the young female victims on this road were named Barbara, Bobby or Bobby Jo. Our boy was Terrence Lazarus, age 18,” said the patrolman holding the boy’s registration.

“Lazarus?” said Christine.

Don studied the wet registration card.

“What? What are you thinking?”

He looked up at Christine through the rain. “Jesus told Mary of Bethany, ‘Your brother, Lazarus will rise again.’”

“Enough! You’re scaring me Don. This is one time that I hope you are full of shit.”


“I wish they’d scoop us up and get us out of here already,” said Bobby Jo.

“Maybe next time we can get really mixed up,” said Terry.

“Mixed up? You’re talking about more than just holding hands.”

“Yeah, totally splattered. A Terry and Bobby Jo smoothy.”

Bobby Jo laughed. “They won’t know what belongs to who!”

“We’ll be totally together, babe! A tragic teenage romance!”

She loved how Terry always made her laugh.

“They’ll have to hose down the street.”

“Wipe off lamp posts for a mile,” she said. “Oh, Terry! That was sooo hot.”

“Just wait. I’ll get us faster cars, next time.”


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Tragic Lust #1 & #2 — (Penelope & Huthbert) by Infinity Upton-Downes

am a gentleman, my love. I will support you both until I can find the guttersnipe bastard a suitable place of employment where the sun and lice shall not harm his fair skin.Tragic Lust #1 & #2 — (Penelope & Huthbert) by Infinity Upton-Downes.

Tragic Lust #1 & #2 — (Penelope & Huthbert) by Infinity Upton-Downes


Letter 1.

The Collected Tragic Letters of

Lord Huthbert Grieves and Lady Penelope Weeps


A Letter from Lord Huthbert Grieves to Lady Penelope Weeps, Ghoolkamish 

April 30, 1779

Dearest Darling Penelope,

The artillery has stopped momentarily. As I lie awake in my muddy foxhole beneath the night sky of Ghoolkhamish — Alas, my angel, I can only think of you.

When I come home, my dearest, though it may be five years from this day, I promise we shall marry. Your father hates me, I know, as does your dog (a part of whose jaw is still attached to my buttock).

Despite what your husband thinks, I know that we can make this marriage work. Though I lost half my face, one-third of my manhood, and a nipple in the bloody trenches of Dyfthphedif, I promise that the cottage that I have purchased will be a happy one, surrounded by the warm laughter of children, or—at the very least—very immature adults.

How is your cough, my angel? I was distressed to find that your last correspondence had a small bloody piece of your lung stuck to it, Sweetheart. Please hang on to God’s precious gift of life until I can limp to your side.

Your precious letters warm my heart, Darling. I smell your perfume and, with a shield between my mouth and the envelope, kiss the lipstick on the seal before I dream my happy dreams every night.

With my good arm, I long to hug you and keep you warm, even when you cough (though, alas, I regret, there will be no deep intertwining of tongues).

All my love,

Yours forever — Huthbert Grieves

April 30, 1779


Letter #2

(Sent from Port Apotty, Africa, May 31, 1784)

My Dearest Darling Angel Penelope,

Alas! This will be my last correspondence, my sweet, as I make my way home across the sea to your warm bosom after so many years in the muddy battlefields of Hominahomina. Please have a coffin and a plot prepared for me if I do not make it home alive. Our cavalry surgeon, Doctor Osândă, has informed me that the insect known as the acid roach (Arden’s creeper), had taken up residence in my ear, while I was stationed in the steaming tropical jungle of Haffarredrash. The creature has traveled to the part of my brain called the dorsal hypothalamic, which controls the heartbreaking spread of psoriasis especially in the remaining two-thirds of what the natives call my huk-huk.

Oh, blessed heavens above! Before we left port, I had received a correspondence from my servant, Mr. Upton. He says that you are now a free woman. Joy of joys! Could that be true, my angel of angels?

Upton had written that your childhood sweetheart and spouse of twenty years had passed on after receiving a dreadful blow to the skull. My tears are flowing for you, my love, like the mighty Incontinence Falls of the Amazon.

Mournfulness overtook me when I had found out your tiny cherubs had been called to heaven on that calamitous evening as well. Your poor spouse and children—all dead—all on the same day! Oh, Providence! Forsooth! I had no idea that you “were with children.” Eight?

I had instructed Upton, my man Friday, to insure the safety of your children, but alas, it was too late. Upton reported that the fire had spread too quickly through the mansion. By the time the frightening oaf had arose from his drunkenness in the barn, the mansion had become a mound of ashes. Thank the Lord that Upton was able to rescue and deliver you to the safety of the barn before the fire spread.

About the pregnancy. For my part, I do pardon you your irresistible charm. Upton can be unruly and some days I question my hiring the brute from the Calcutta Circus. Be assured that he is my “responsibility.” Upton comes from fine stock and I will personally claim little Upton as a Ward of Court. When he approaches his fourth year, the child will be assured a fine position in a reputable shop.

I am a gentleman, my love. I will support you both until I can find the guttersnipe bastard a suitable place of employment where the sun and lice shall not harm his fair skin.

The hour of my arrival draweth fast on. Lastly, I vow that mine remaining eye desireth thou above most.

All my love,

Yours forever and ever,

Huthbert Grieves

A public Service Announcement — Goldie


 And THIS, kids. is why you don’t want to take Goldie, the baby goldfish, home from the fair or carnival. A pet not only becomes your bestest friend, but your lifelong resposibility. Sure, they are cute when they’re little but when they grow up you must continue to take care of them. You can’t just flush Goldie down the toilet because you’ve become bored with her.

There Once was a Man from Nantucket. Enjoy the Limericks:

There Once was a Man from Nantucket. Enjoy the Limericks:.

Meet Infinity Upton-Downes (Romance writer, Baker, & Witch — a.k.a. Lupta Axe)

Lupta Axe
Lupta Axe


Bătrînă “Lupta” Axe


Bătrînă “Lupta” Axe: Born:1147 is a 4-foot 7-inch, 60 pound Wallachian witch who may be best known for helping her great-great-great nephew Prince Vlad “the Impaler” Tepes and ‘The Bloody Countess’ Elizabeth Bathory, rescue Transylvania from the the powerful Van Helsing Corporation in 2014. After a monumental battle at Poenari Castle against, Lupta and her  family were able to reclaim and restore their damaged native habitat.

Today, many avid readers recognize Lupta Axe as the world-renown author Infinity Upton-Downes (or simply “Infinity”) of the popular Tragic Lust series of novels.

“Infinity, who started her writing career at age 840, established a world-wide following after penning twenty-seven books of her Tragic Lust series, which she had started in 1687. The main body of  her “bodice-ripping” TL romances were  completed during her thirteen years at Screamin’ Jay Hawkins Insanitarium where she was incarcerated for a series of practical jokes that may have caused the deaths of thousands of innocent Wallachian Gibors.

During the communist rule of Transylvania 1947 to 1989, the International Criminal Court tried Lupta Axe for the murder of over 3000 Gibors living in the Wallachian farmlands of Transylvania. The Court had never met a live Gibor before. Once the jury met a handful (‘More than enough!’) of these unsightly dreadful beings with their awful music and clothes, the court unanimously decided to free Ms. Axe, plus award her an undisclosed financial settlement. Then judges of the ICC then decided to “take a few’swings at the Gibors— just for giggles”


The Tragic Lust series of novels has now sold over two hundred million books and has been translated into over thirty dirty languages. (Some fan’s call TL, Tragic Lust, the Tongue Lick collection). Infinity’s most popular novel “The Man from Nantucket” has sold upward of 7 Million copies and is required reading for grade school students in fifteen degenerate countries.

For relaxation, Ms. Axe continues to write children’s stories and is the current editor of The Weakly Bleeder. 


Nonliterary Career

As of 2014 Lupta Axe continues to own and operate her famous Sugar and Spice bakery (originally called Bătrînă’s Copiii Proaspete Fişierele ( Bătrînă’s Fresh Children Cookies) “We only use the most spirited children!”), specializing in fresh buns and unique Gingerbread cookies. Originally in the haunted forest adjacent to Brasov, nestled in the Carpathian mountains, the new Bătrînă’s is now located near the tourist center of the Black Sea resort of Constanta.

Lupta Axe also offers a popular line of infantile spells, potions and childish curses.



Lupta Axe was awarded a scholarship by the Lex Talionis School (of the Law of Surfeit Retaliation) established in 1676 by her nephew, the much younger warlord, Vlad Tepes. 

Lex Talionis School Moto: Neîndurare și represalii excesul astfel încât dușmanii tăi nu pot lovi niciodată niciodată! (Mercilessness and excess retaliation so that your enemies cannot ever strike again!)

      Lupta attended classes in fine arts of: Revenge, Reprisal, Requital, Retribution.  Punishment, Spells, Just Deserts—served with coffee after eating enemies, Eye for an Eye, and a Tooth for a Tooth 101 and 102 and…

Tit for Tat 101 (Class cancelled; as no one knew what the fote a ‘Tat’ was.)

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