Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

The Night of the Shining Domes (Rock Invasion)


The Night of the Shining Domes

It was the biggest, brightest full moon that the Earth had seen in over thirty years. The kind of moon that inspired love songs.

Eight tuxedo-clad ghosts solidified themselves and gathered, at midnight, in the empty baseball field of Dodger Stadium under remarkably clear skies. The Stadium was built in 1962. The Elysian Fields where it stood had been named by the Pantheon of Greek Gods in 5000 B.C. The local LA politicians, who would have named it for one of their rich cronies, had, thank the gods, nothing to do with the naming of the sacred space. 

The ghostly group was a collection of the most talented of the deceased, bald show-biz legends. There was Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, Bobby Darin, Roy Orbison, Hank Williams, Mel Torme, and Al Jolson. They walked the diamond in a slow orbit around their chosen leader, the chairman, the venerated spirit of Francis Albert Sinatra, who stood on the pitcher’s mound holding a ghost cigarette in one hand and his cocktail of choice — four ice cubes, two fingers of Jack Daniels, and a splash of water in the other. Frank was wearing his magic toupee. 

Other curious follically-challenged spirits began to drift in from the night to witness the rare and momentous occasion. Two dozen, daisy pushing, songwriters, and band leaders joined the festivities, as well as two accursed showbiz agents, from the Earth’s molten core; Max and Lenny Lipschitz — the twin Lex Luthors of Hollywood.

When they had been alive, each of these tuxedoed giants of music had sported one of muse, Terpsichore’s, magic toupees; charmed hairpieces woven from the fur of the her long haired cat, Mr. Snuffles. When these musical giants were alive the magic toupees had helped them their fragile egos so that they could keep performing.

The Domes held their charmed toupees against their chests as they tightened the circle around Frank. The tops of their shiny heads pointed toward the heavens.

The solemn ceremony had begun.

The pale rays of the silent moon multiplied themselves upon the ghost’s polished heads until the moonlight snowballed ten-thousand-fold. A vigorous single beam, more robust than any laser, ricocheted itself back to the dark heavens. The signal was sent.

They set their wigs back upon their heads.

The toupees were lifted and slapped down repeatedly, over and over again, upon the bare heads of ghosts in quick, efficient military precision. The flashing of domes was repeated thirty times. A coded message was being transmitted into the great beyond.

The Chrome Domes had sent their urgent message to star system LSMFT-456. Hundreds of light years away, on the distant planet Brill, the beam entered the studio window of Terpsichore’s two writing partners, the aliens, Ada and Buddy Brill. The signal from the Chrome Domes was a plea for action, reaching into deep space.

The Chosen One is ready.” The coded message said. “Please ask Terpsichore, to weave a special toupee for our new inductee, Johnny Passion.”

Johnny Passion, the washed up pop star, was about to be given a second chance at showbiz, thanks to his number one fan, the heavenly muse.

“Toupee or not toupee!” The ghosts chanted as they dematerialized back into the endless night.

. Johnny Passion was Cori’s last hope for the renaissance of quality music.


The Working Dead (revision)

“After a combination of  breakthroughs in health and longevity,  mysterious rays from outer space, and the soaring popularity of high octane coffee originating from the blood soaked island of Kupaio, Fiji, the US Supreme Court has ruled that death, as it now stands, “does not negate the deceased’s obligations to paying one’s bills, taxes, college loans etc. until the responsible human’s body reaches such a state of decay that at least three out of four limbs will not stay attached.”

The Working Dead



 DEAD Neal Orestein, despite having all of his monetary responsibilities paid in full was determined to return to work. Work was his life, uh death. You know what I mean. We all know someone like this.


Two days after his death, after scraping through the mound of loose dirt over his grave, Neal was able to see daylight and the exasperated face of his long suffering wife, Stella.

“Just look at those fingernails,” she scolded. “The dirt! Just where the hell you think you’re going, Neil? Certainly not inside our home like that.”After 60 years of marriage, Stella, holding flowers, could read his workaholic mind, even if it was becoming worm chow.

“Oh, crap,” Neal said feeling all used up. He sat up and spat out soil. “Stella, what are you doing here so soon? I thought that I was the one who was to supposed to haunt YOU! I’m off to work. I got to get a coroner’s note or that young punk Cabebe, will fire me. He hates old people.”

“You mean, dead people,” she said. “Now, lay down and relax. I’ll call your boss and tell him you’re not coming in, ‘CAUSE YOU’RE DEAD!”

“Dead I can handle,” he said, “but unemployed and dead? Pour some coffee on me, Stella. Look at the time.”

“We don’t need money and Happy Hills Cemetery doesn’t have a Starbucks. Go back to endless sleep, old man. There is no more job and there’s no more you! I came here to grieve your death. I feel like a fool wasting my time trying to talk sense into you.

“Please, Stella, I love brains. I mean I you. Your brains, brain. Your mind,” Neal sputtered.“Where’s my tie? What time is it?”

“It’s 8 a.m., idiot. They just opened the cemetery gate.”

“Give me your hand. Help me get up. I’m already late.” Stella reluctantly pulled her husband to his feet. She was shaking her head, accepting he’d never change. 

“I gotta catch the Long Island Express bus,” Neal told her, spitting out a beetle. “Is this burial suit okay?”

“Except for the slit down the back, it’ll do. Just don’t walk on my carpet until you get cleaned up.”

Neal stood and wobbled unsteadily, brushing himself off. “Stella, after my first heart attack Cabebe said that myocardial infarction is not a good enough excuse to skip work. I’m gonna need duct tape to patch this cheap jacket. I’ll stop by Target.”

“Listen. I’ve got a hair appointment. Have a nice afterlife, fool. You never needed me.”

“Oh, thanks. I’m barely cold and you start in with the guilt. So, you’re saying I no longer have a job?”

“That would seem logical, Neil.”

“Who are you, Mrs. Spock?” asked Neal.  “I gotta go.”

“You don’t need a job,” she pleaded. “The office staff never got the memo that you’d died. I never had a chance to call them. Hey, watch where you’re tossing that dirt! I just bought this dress. The next time you talk to God, tell him to treat you to a nice manicure. Neal ——You’ve got a worm in your nostril. Ugh. Don’t kiss me. Go get some cologne.”

Neal promised to make it up to Stella the following weekend, but today, he had obligations. He got on the bus and was told by the driver to “Hey, Mack. Go sit in back with the other ‘stinkers.’” That’s what the ‘smug’ living called the dead these days. Neal had never been a victim of discrimination before. 

Neal arrived at work an hour late and was given a warning by Cabebe. The slick, young exec sniffed the air and suspected that Neal had passed on. He assigned the stinker a new desk in the basement. 

The next day, after a restless night shambling around town in pursuit of an ambiguous protein snack, Neal was able to make it to work —  right on time. 

Young Cabebe, was happy, because he no longer had to pay ‘old, faithful’ sucker Neal a living wage.  No one else knew that rotten Neal was still working and helping to make  CEO, Milton Armstrong, rich.

By the following week, Neal had realized that Cabebe was taking him for a —nearly free ride. He began to lose the feeling of pleasure of work. He left the office while the blinding sun was still high and the season was moving toward Daylight Savings. Neal stumbled toward the station thinking about how his grandkids maybe could use some college money. Tomorrow, he would hit the pavement, seeking the American dream like the other millions of recently deceased workers. Over 20 million of the dead  wandered the boulevards.’ You could see the dead, worn out executives, in every city, shuffling and mumbling “Job. I neeeeeeed job.”

Neal’s commuter train passed his final resting place at Happy Hills on his way home toward his old house. Graveyards are for slackers, he thought. A real man needs to work.

While waiting at the 5th Avenue crosswalk, he saw a hopeful sign. Just a literal literal sign — on a telephone pole, illuminated by the ghostly moonlight. 

Highly Motivated Executive Services Wants You! YOU need $$$ and WE need BODIES to fill our Diamond Lane Passenger and Ticket Line Holder jobs! 

We’re also seeking Parking Space Blockers and Human Speed Bumps (No limbs required).

 — Downtown, Full Time. 24 hours shifts available. 

Call 090-888-0000.

Tango #2 finished 7-20-18 5 pm

10-year-old Gunnar Erikssen’s song from my next book, ‘Perdidos.’


“It takes a child to Raze a village”

Oh …

Let’s go a-pillaging

 a village-ing, a-pillaging,

with Odin a-thundering

a-pillaging we’ll go.

Our horde goes a-plundering,

 a-sundering each underling,

A torch for each porch,

and a-pillaging we’ll go! 

My Shark Fin Soup Promo


Artemis’ Night of ‘Discovery’ — from the ‘international bestseller’ Shark Fin Soup.


The entire zodiac, creatures from all of the heaven’s hemispheres, were intertwining to the primitive beats of the Frank Samidino Swing Band from the wedding party below.

“Stop!” demanded Artemis, looking to the skies, “Show some decency!”

Artemis abruptly grasped onto a nearby palm tree. She felt helpless. Satan’s playground, Earth, was beginning to show its corrupt effects on her virtuous mind and wholesome body. Artemis dropped her bow and quiver full of golden arrows onto the soft sand. 


The ‘uncontrollable factor’ scared her. Am I sweating? Her immortal “cool” had left the building. Is this how my friend Tempestus Stormius feels when she unleashes a hurricane? Five thousand years of sexual tension slowly began to well up, then exploded. The more she dug into the tree’s trunk, the more she shook. Coconuts tumbled from the treetops, barely missing her head. Newborn volcanoes began to explode along the black edge of Kupaio’s barrier reef like festive party poppers.

Artemis dropped onto the beach. Weak and humbled, after a few moments of tranquility, she’d realized that she should return to the wedding. She grabbed a palm frond and pulled herself to her feet. Then, Oh no! A second tsunami of thrillisquious energy rushed through her fabulisquious body forcing her to her crumbling knees. Her ‘Look-no-hands-ma!’ orgasm fanned out across the night sand causing thousands of perturbed ghost crabs to leap from their tunnels.

Artemis felt a slight tinge of “mortal” (i.e., in need of a cuddle and a cigarette.)

What she really felt was “γαμημένος great!” as though she could melt right into the γαμημένος earth. Her contented dulang-dulang-dulang purred like her a fluffy kitten with a big red bow and a tummy full of warm cream on Christmas morning.

Don’t get too comfortable yet, baby…

Mr. Greencheese —the moon— moved across the heavens to shield the overheated goddess from the eyes of her parents above.

The goddess lie still waiting for her breath to return.

Instead, there was a weaker third orgasm, though still powerful enough to set off car alarms as far away as the Guadalajara Mexican Restaurant on 3rd Street in Santa Monica, California.

A final wave of warm energy washed through her.

She turned her head seaward and exhaled. “Ιερά χάλια! (Holy crap!) Whoa. That’s better. Whew. Γαμώτο! (Damn it!) What happened? What…was…that?” She turned her head back toward the sky. “Can anyone tell me what just the γαμώ happened?” Then Artemis began to itch. “God γαμώτο! My κόλπος is full of γαμημένος sand!”

The remaining stars winked and nudged each other silently, knowingly.

“Ευχαριστώ, μαλάκες! (Thanks, assholes!)” She sighed. Spent, Artemis quickly fell asleep on the red powdery sand of Kupaio as her disorientated, moon friend, Mr. Greencheese, set in the east.

Most of her gang on Olympus missed it.

Many of them were still sick in bed or on their jewel encrusted crappers with the Nosoi Flu (aka the atomic trots).


“I think that she was faking it,” said the blissful Mmbopalula from behind a thicket of succulents to her beaming Hotat spy hubby, Monq. Her own well-beamed sweet dulang-dulang-dulang was also purring — like a fluffy kitten etc. etc.

“What will you report to MacHeath (the novel’s villain)? We never even saw the wedding ceremony,” she asked. “What will you tell him?”

“He’s got to see the legs on the new goddess in town.”

“What???? You son of a bitch bastard!” She whacked his twanger. “And keep that filthy thing away from me!”

* * * *

Fred Beckner, lifeguard and King of D&W

  • Fred Beckner— The Legend

6. ManSurfingFred Colby’s character in the story

Surfing Into Downtown LA

was based on the real life hero of D&W Lifeguard Fred [Coby] Beckner.

The real-life Fred was a true lifesaver. Lifeguard Fred Beckner often played a hero in Hollywood as well. He was often was cast as a cowboy or a police officer in movies, big and small, and was a close surfing buddy of Gunsmoke star James Arness. 

In 1963, the Baldwin Hills dam collapsed and burst. Oil had been sucked out from beneath the dam for years leaving its foundation in a weakened state. Floodwater destroyed many homes near Cloverdale Boulevard in Inglewood. 

Fred was among the lifeguards sent out for search and rescue mission in a Willy’s Jeep.

The Baldwin Hills Dam Disaster of 1963

In the Jeep with Lifeguard Fred (to help save lives and property in the Baldwin Hills area after the dam collapsed), were Marty Thompson, Former Lifeguard Chief Don Rohrer, and Bill Prewitt (retired lieutenant). They rode in a Willy’s jeep to respond and look for bodies and vehicles from Lincoln Boulevard and along Ballona Creek. Eddie Hoffman who was stationed at the Creek reported getting shocked in the water from downed power lines.

What really Happened to Lifeguard Fred?

As a lone mercenary, LA Lifeguard Fred secretly entered the western frontier of Russia, at Vyborg, in 1971. There he began his personal campaign single-handedly to “destroy the entire fucking-commie-bastard-empire… because they’re a bunch of fuckin’ greasy hodads.” 

Two months later the heroic lifeguard was not only able conquer the Communists but he had also learned to master time and space, through the sheer power of “being pissed off at valley punks.” 

Fred finally emerged from Russia’s eastern border near the Sakhalin Islands, with his original cigar still lit, and still wearing an official County of Los Angeles lifeguard jacket along with the signature red trunks. 

Before he left the recently named Russian seaport of St.Colbysburg, he stopped to surf a few waves in Sakhalin’s 42-degree water using the stolen, frozen body of Stalin, which had been taken in full public view, from Red Square, as a surfboard. Before entering the water, Beckner lit up a brand new commie Cuban cigar. Fred Beckner’s “obituary” mistakenly said that he had passed away in the late 1960s, during a fierce battle with Poseidon. The epic sea battle took place after the egotistical God of the Sea lost his board right in front of the D&W lifeguard tower-like a fuckin’ valley kook, and dinged Fred’s new girlfriend on the shoulder.” 

Both of the larger-than-life figures, Beckner and Stalin, have not been seen since 1973.

Many of today’s South Bay surfers will swear on a stack of hauraches that the original battered D&W lifeguard tower #5, with its shades still drawn, still stands at the storage area at back end of D&W beach, still rocks… and “smokes” on a regular basis. We believe that Fred’s successor, Mark Paulin, who has taken over the lifeguard duties at D&W with his wife Lorrell, is the reason for the smoking and rocking.

Mr. Beckner, himself, has probably taken his place within the pantheon of gods in Valhalla, where the waves are always bitchin’ and free of peroxide kooks.

Though he reminded me of a drill sergeant, the real Fred was never in the US  Armed Forces during World War 2, The Korean Conflict, or Vietnam. He fought his own war against the most “pervasive evil bastards” that he knew… “mankind’s most dangerous enemy.” 

 The Military knew Beckner, and realized that Fred would be more effective if they let him “fight the fucking greasy Hodads of the world” on his own terms.

Hodads bite!

New 7-1-18 What They Do For Fun On Pluto

The Kingdom of the Cats: Ed McMahon

anitas-working-deadThe limo sat idling for nearly twenty minutes. Black exhaust caused the evening stars on a rare, clear Hollywood night to disappear.

 Denny Joyce, a rock drummer for a band called The Love Muscle, watched as the old car gave forth its last rattling breath and after a long pause, the chauffeur, Grieves, struggled with the it’s heavy door. He unfolded his long frame and very slowly stepped out into the street. Grieves wore an old-fashioned chauffeur’s outfit and cap. He adjusted the brim to avoid the light and keep his face hidden in shadow.  

Grieves was weak, barely able to keep his balance.

Denny’s watched the rail-thin man and thought of his eighty-pound crackhead buddy Jeff, who looked more alive than this loser. Denny was more than upset with Jeff who, the night before, had sold Denny a baggy full of catnip that was supposed to be marijuana. The only effect the catnip had on Denny was a disturbing dream about how man’s purpose on Earth was to feed and shelter cats. It was  a vivid dream that left Denny afraid to go back to bed.  

Grieves 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 tall, rotund, 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 woman illuminated beneath the street light. She wore sunglasses and a white stole over her shoulders. 

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 Grieves held the bigger gent’s elbow and with some effort, steadied them both. Humming a slow dirge, he escorted the larger man up the walkway. Grieves let go of his large, lumbering passenger who continued on his own.

The big man’s gloved hands carried a long posterboard. Leaving his chauffeur behind as he shambled toward the curious Denny who stood in the doorway of Room #21.

Denny did not look at the man’s face at first, 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.” 

The thing at the door coughed out a mouthful of dust and uttered a 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 glasses. 

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 east of Lincoln Boulevard.

“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 twenty-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 threaten to “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.”

“My family’s sick, man… sorry,” Denny explained through the screen door. “This is crazy! Is… is that check for real?” He threw up a digested stomach full of Cheetos upon his own shirt and all over the battered screen. The yellowed screen was the only thing that separated the living from the dead. 

Pausing, then wiping his mouth with his t-shirt, 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 a previous druggy 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 married a crack pipe.) 

“Come here, Honey,” Called Denny. “There’s someone I want you to meet. Ed McMahon. Remember Ed McMahon?”

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

“Holy shid!” 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, kids!” 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

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

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

“I’m only here to helllllp you sweeeeeetnesssss,” said dead Ed.

“Yeah, Mia, 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,” said Johnny who now stood behind his sister. “Tell him to go away. He smells like balls!”

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

“If we eat stupid brains,” said Ed, “we just get stupider. 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.” 

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. 

“You can have that one,” said Denny. “Come here, Johnny! 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 little Johnny with worm-filled eyes, Ed said, “Your old man’s a comedian, son. Did 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, “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 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 the  hardened punk drummer, who moved quickly and gracefully. 

Denny threw the big lug 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. 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!”

* * * *

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 his name, though it served him many fine souls. He licked his paws, 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. “Meowwwwww.” I’ll start with a little soul food—better than tuna. 

Ed, being a brainatarian, was a soul buffet! 


 The last thing Zombie Ed saw was Denny leaning close and whispering, “The world is full of hungry, fluffy, lovable kitties, Ed. We ONLY exist to feed our cats. Don’t you know that Mr. McMahon?”

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