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…And Then Things Got Weird….

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Dauna’s office — Interpol. From Shark Fin Soup.

Buy it on Amazon!

I base my novels on reality. However, reality sucks, so I make it ‘my job’ to work out all conflicts. I also guarantee that all of my characters fall in love (except for the bad guys who die such horrible deaths that even their own mothers wouldn’t recognize their bodies in the morgue). In my books, everyone’s favorite pets also become immortal. By the last chapter, everthing is tied up in a pretty, neat little bow. Better than reality & far more satisfying, yeah? Then, if any of my readers DON’T like my ending, I’ll have them speak with my friend Vincent. After 15 minutes with Vinnie, I can guarantee that they’ll change their mind. 

Dauna Robinson is a 3000-year-old Fijian shark goddess. She works for Interpol. Her job is to protect the gifted ‘God Whisper,’ Bernie ‘Eggs’ Benedict the newly hired agent. Bernie was dubbed ‘Eggs’ because of his public conversation with Jesus, who appeared on his breakfast plate, when the disguised Dauna ran her Bolsa Chico diner. Bernie has hobnobbed with many gods lately, and Jesus wants a date.

Together, their job is to preserve peace in the Pacific and protect Dauna’s Fijian people from the brain eating mad cow diseased New Guinea cannibals who have now taken their ancient slaughter across the American continent.

*******

Dauna the Fijian Shark Goddess relished watching the silly mortal turn into easy-to-digest molten, runny, squishy mush. Bernie fell into an angry chair. The ‘living,’ yet disappointed chair didn’t appreciate gross, hairy man butts.

Dauna Robinson spun again, this time into her office bathroom, she said, “Make yourself comfortable while I adjust my goodies.”

Goodies. Bernie took a deep breath and tried to relax. Relax. Fat chance. “How do you like working with the Crimes of Exotica Division (COED), hun? she asked from the behind the door. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

“Agent Robinson, is something wrong?”

Dauna poked her head around the corner. “Just having my morning Tourette’s, sweetie.” She stared. “Can I ask, where in the fuck did you dig up that wardrobe? At Bad Will?”

Bernie had been asked by T.K. (his half-human, half-tiki partner, to study up on the subject of Panpsychism (“All things have a soul”) before moving to Hawaii. He didn’t know why he needed this knowledge — until now. Bernie had a feeling that everything in Dauna Robinson’s office was alive. The newly adjusted goddess returned wearing a fresh white top and a matching tight skirt and set her soft bottom upon the ‘thrilled’ window sill. Bernie’s heart paused in deep silent reverence for the wooden board. Dauna paused to light another ‘happy’ cigarette while she admired the Hawaiian scenery below her office, derelicts sleeping in their pee on the sidewalks of Chinatown.

Suddenly….“SNAP OUT OF IT, BERNIE!” demanded a second woman’s voice from the ‘the Bernie file’ on Dauna’s desk.

Bernie jumped up, staring at the folder. “Dammit! Who the hell?”

“What is it, Hun?”

Both of them saw the image of the Virgin Mary spreading like a coffee stain across the manila folder. Uh, oh shit…sorry, ma’am, Bernie apologized to the folder. Mother Mary had appeared on his browser a couple of times, but the two never spoke. Mary scared all of her lonely son’s buds away with her icy condescending looks.

“I said snap out of it, cupcake! Or it’s your funeral!” said Mary.

“Funeral? Please! Not now!”

“Who are you talking to, hun?” asked Dauna. “Is there someone on the folder? It isn’t your new pal, lion chow, again, is it?”

“Lion chow? No. It’s his mom, Mary. Uh…Ms. Robinson, did you just call Mary’s son lion chow?”

Flat Mary rolled her eyes toward Dauna, then Heaven and said in Latin, “Odio hoc canis (I hate this bitch).” The mother of God shook her haloed head in disgust and disappeared from the folder.

“P-leeeeeease, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou,” said Dauna, “Fuck off!” It seemed that Jesus’ mom had already left the building. Dauna looked at Bernie, “Agent Benedict, let me tell you the truth about Mrs. Goody Two Sandals.”

“Who?”

“Jesus’ mommmy, Snow White on my fucking desk thinks that I’m trying to corrupt her precious little boy. Do you know what I think? I think that your melancholy hippie pal wants ‘a taste.’ The kid should be dating. Did you know that his dad, or mom, or their family cat cursed me with Tourette’s after I used the old man’s name in vain? So, I, Ms. Potty Mouth, have a free ticket to call Merkin Man whatever I want.”

“Merkin Man?” Merkin Man sounds like a commercial.

“What? Should I ask Mr. Love-In to forgive me? He knows that I’d just start cussing again.” She smiled at Bernie. “Do you know what? I think that my common gutter mouth actually turns him on.” Dauna turned away and lit yet another overjoyed, happy-to-die cigarette. The small smooth scars on Dauna’s neck (marks from past shark mating sessions) caught Bernie’s attention.

Dauna knew what the new agent was thinking, even as she faced the window. “On my island, we call these scars ‘shark hickeys.’” Bernie’s eyes drifted from stem to stern, settling on her stern. He thought about spinning her slow, like a rotisserie chicken. He was only thinking it, when…

“Stop that. Interpol needs your special powers, sweetie. You can see beings that I can’t, and I can see plenty. I could see, in my mind, that you were staring at my ass. Give your peepers a rest, chew toy. Because if you were looking for panty lines, you’re shit outta luck.”

Dauna sucked down another ‘very-Lucky’ Strike.

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Freddy Barnett’s New and Updated Books for 2021 — All in a Row

In Print: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002N60GRQ

In eBooks: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Hellotiki

During a storm, Jesus appeared on a blue tarp upon the deck of The Vinnie Maru, demanding that agent Bernie Benedict find him a date. 
_____________
Shark Fin Soup
A tale of sharks, gods, cannibals, mad cows and endless love. 
__________________


Since bygone days, two ancient Pacific cannibal tribes have fought over which of their respective shark gods should rule the Seven Seas. Today, the 3000-year-old Melanesian war has reached the shores of the US.
‘Word on the street’ has it that the shark gods and their peckish followers are gearing up for a final, pay-per-view televised battle which will take place in Jamaica Bay, NY, on New Year’s Eve. 
Leading up to the match, Interpol agent Bernie ‘The God Whisperer’ Benedict and his paranormal crew are watching the body count stack up along US waterfronts.
(And Jesus still wants a date.)
Soon, our hero finds himself in dangerous waters as he becomes the ‘prize’ in an over-heated mating game between two powerful deities — the luscious, lustful, Fijian shark goddess, Dauna, and her friend, Artemis, the majestic,‘virgin’ goddess of the hunt and moon.
Join the merriment as our hero, Bernie, through divine whoopie, is transformed into Cupcaecius, a deified dead ringer for the debonair screen legend Cary Grant. 
“Tell me you’re proud of me, darling. You’re looking at the first new god on Olympus in over five-thousand years!” 

\

Protecting their all-dead Habitat.
Centuries ago, Vlad “The Impaler” Tepes and 
Elizabeth “The Bloody Countess” Bathory bathed their homeland in blood.
There was nothing good or bad about the pair’s excesses. 
That is what Transylvanians “do” and have always done, until now.
Today, a greater evil has begun to turn their homeland into an amusement park. 
The tour buses have arrived! Vlad and Liz cannot sleep!
Forced to put on some clothes, they will 
be joined by a handful of staff and family including 
the tiny witch, Lupta Axe, (a famous author of smutty bodice-ripping novels).
They must fight for Transylvania! 
Meet:
The mercenaries! Meine Runt-Pferde (My Tiny Horsies)
The out-of-shape architect bikers!The Hell’s Angles!
The feared women cutthroats!The Black Friday Shoppers! 
Bloody Good!
By
Fred Barnett


is a rollicking adventure, through time and the seven seas! 
Hundreds of fascinating TRUE facts and TRUE stories about our most famous denizens of the deep. 
Meet your favorite sharks and other briny beasts as they encounter a variety of dangerous human nut cases.

“Fisherman arrested: Used wife as Shark Bait!” 
“Aussie Loses Same Leg Twice!” 
“Mako Attacks Fisherman On Beach!’
 “Mom Eaten in Front Of Husband, Son and Six-Year-Old Quadruplets!” 
“Killer Arrested After ‘Monster’ Spits out Murder Victims Arm.” 

Rated HARD-R

NSFA (Not safe For Anyone) 

“Rock n’ Roll! The kids will love it! 

It’s the perfect music for busting sh*t up.”

On March 18, 1955, Terpsichore, an ancient muse, opened a bar in LA called The Duck n’ Fishes. On that day, she updated her name to Cheri and began to create much of the great music that we enjoy today. 

The ‘D n’ F’ bar was also a place where the exhibitionist goddess could dance ‘au naturale.’ (“Her loose overalls were flashing sides of everything except bacon.”)

Everything was good, until…

… the late 70’s ( ‘The Dark Age of Music.’ ) when evil forces lead by The God of Sleaze, Anthony Rubio, began to replace real musical talent with pony-tailed middle-aged lawyers. To save music, Cheri had to gather her collection of unearthly friends to fight  Rubio’s ponytailed army of cocaine snorting Hollywood sh*theels.

Johnny Passion was her chief weapon. The washed-up leader of the 60’s rock band, The Love Muscle, was Cheri’s faithful friend. She always protected Johnny and believed that his voice would lead music’s new renaissance. 

But despite the goddess’ blessing, Johnny felt that his life was going nowhere, and one day jumped into his Mustang and drove deep into Nevada — to ‘find himself.’ 

Instead, Johnny found Sheena and the Queens of the Jungle, a statuesque, all hungry, female Las Vegas music revue — neighbors of billionaire Howard Hughes. Johnny somehow managed to become their slave …. their ‘house boy.’ 

The Amazonian ladies loved their Johnny (every day — and twice on Sundays). After twenty years the aging cougars decided to cut him loose, at midnight, in the middle of the desert. 

Back home, Cheri patiently waited.

In August of 1992, Johnny limped back into to LA begging Cheri’s forgiveness.

To accomplish a big Las Vegas comeback for Johnny, Cheri needed to make sure that Johnny had the best coaches, the best songs and, most importantly, a reason to sing.

Cheri also had to find the only cure for Johnny’s broken heart. She needed to find the girl named Rebel, Johnny’s first, lost and last true love. 

With the help of ghosts and two aliens, 

Cheri would put Johnny and Rebel together again.

The Man From Nantucket

Adapted from The Timeless Children’s Classic

 ‘The Bountiful Mutiny’

With naughty nautical limericks

The Bountiful Mutiny (unabridged) 

“Tales of Salty Sea Men and Soaked Sirens” 

(Tragic Lust #65)

Born on the Island of Nantucket, in 1906, Sam Swathorn was the only surviving grandson of the celebrated William “Barnacle” Balls (the sailor). In the early 20th century kids matured early and that is when young Sam sprung forth, like a boner, to take his place in the world as The Man From Nantucket.

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Murray the flamingo & Fiji Freddy

Chili Dream. Acrylic . New

Chili Dream. Acrylic 11X14. New

Batshit: Chapter 7: Hippie Bait

Hippie Bait

The path to Bathory Castle was littered with Whole Foods coupons, bottles of room temperature purified water, and a sprinkling of low-fat almond honey granola. Mina followed the trail of gluten-free, non-GMO organic snacks, and water bottles. Hippie bait that had led scores of other all-willowy-an’-shit blondes straight to the Bloody Countess’ front door.

There were also Justin Bieber concert tickets on the ground. Virgin bait!

Was Mina about to become another victim to fall for one of Countess Bathory’s oldest tricks?

From inside, wolves were howling something oddly familiar; “Blue Moon” in beautiful four-part harmony.

Mina knocked. The Countess’ housekeeper, Penelope Weeps, put down her book, 50 Shades of Grey Matter 5 — “I love you for your mind,” and got up from her slab to answer the door. Ms. Weeps croaked and shooed the wolves away. Mina felt for the desiccated woman. Penelope Weeps, looking interminably sad, and crying without tears, silently shuffled away. Mina thought about offering the poor thing a free sample of her skin cream products

Yeah! Like a whole motherfucking gallon of the shit!

From the cold moonlight behind Mina, a woman’s voice drifted in with the fog. It was the voice of ‘the bloody countess’ herself. “Greetings, willowy one. I stopped setting out bait for hippie girls because their hair clogs my bathtub drain. I am very interested in your products, young lady. Welcome to Čachtice Castle. I am the countess,Elizabeth. Mina was shocked by the woman’s beauty, bearing and lack of attire. A short black silk robe barely covered the tall  countess’ most impressive figure. Though it was cold in the castle, the Countess seemed to radiate heat from within.

“Let me apologize for my servant’s moodiness. Poor thing. I’m afraid that Penny has been moping over her old love letters again. Eh! As we say at Čachtice, you’re always just in time for drinks.”

“Countess, the old Crone who’d sent me here told me that I too was a Bathory. My first name is Wilhelmina. Please, call me Mina or Willy or Wilhelmina.”

“I don’t like the name Willy. You’re not an orca. You look as though you could be knocked over by a bat băși!”

“A bat fart, Countess?”

“Let’s call you Mina.”

“How about a compromise then?” asked the young woman.

“Call you Hel? No. We can’t call you that, dear. That’s where my daddy works.”

“Your father was sent to Hell? I’m so sorry.”

“Daddy is the CEO, until Cheney arrives.”

“Oh, sure. I get it. Lon Cheney. You’re very funny, Countess.”

“Yes. I’m a million laughs.” Elizabeth turned to the moonlit window. A ‘Hello Batty’ patch was visible on the seat of her silk panties.” Please call me Elizabeth. You wouldn’t happen to be a virgin, would you?”

A wolf howled from a room above. “Ahhhooooooo…”

“Ah! Would you like to meet my children?”

“Uh…”

“Ferenc with his blue eyes! Dino! Children, come downstairs and meet our new guest!”

Mina looked up. They never came down the staircase or through the hallways. She heard a loooong wolf whistle, looked down and found herself surrounded by a pack of the largest wolves she’d ever seen. One was slobbering, the next was dribbling, the third was salivating, and the fourth was drooling.

“Do not be afraid, dear,” said Elizabeth as she set martini glasses on the floor for the wolves. “They sing right on pitch, unlike those poor mangy mutts outside or your laid back friend who thinks he’s James Taylor, except with hair. My mysterious driver unloaded your coolers and they are safe in the basement where things always remain…preserved. We’ll take a few of the coolers along with us to my paramour’s. Are you warm enough? I’ll bring along an extra cape. We’ll be taking a short drive of five hundred miles. On the way will tell you about my secret formula, an ingredient that will revamp, pardon the pun, the cosmetics business forever. (sigh) I feel as though I already know you. Before we leave I would like you to meet someone. Follow me.”

Elizabeth walked toward the great mirror in the dining room where a few of her narcissistic bats hung while gleaning themselves. “I would like you to meet my great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter?”

“The only great one. In the cellar I have a few not-so-great great-granddaughters.”

“Are you talking about the bats?” asked Mina.

“No, silly. Those are my cousins.”

The stately Elizabeth stood behind Mina, placed her carefully manicured claws on the young woman’s shoulders, turned Mina toward the mirror and said, “See? There you are, my child. So pretty.” Mina only saw herself in the reflection.

Her child? thought Mina.

“Grab a few coolers, Mina, and get in the car, dear. Oh! We have to GTF out of here right away!”

Mina put her two ice chests with frozen hearts, livers, and kidneys in the backseat of the Countess’ Challenger. She was feeling a little let down as she’d figured out that the cooler’s cosmetic ingredients would likely become poochie chow.

Tango #4

Tango 4

Tango #2 and #3. (Sold)

For Shark Week!

A Return to Damnalot – A preview of Fred Barnett’s Batshit —on Amazon Books)

What the tourists thought was rain, started to hit the windows. The drops were the plague tears that came from forgotten angels. The sound of the wind was a sickening wheeze from a grove of dreary and dying mourning wood trees.

“Let her in, driver! The poor woman’s blouse is getting soaked,” a woman from Ireland called out. All of the men, suddenly ‘concerned,’ stood up to get an eyeful. One elderly woman said, “It must be the lady of the house. Let her in.”

I hope it isn’t the lady of the house, thought Kimo. Bloody Countess!!!! Elizabeth Bathory once lived here. That was centuries ago. Still, it IS Čachtice!

The canines stood guard in shadows behind their mistress. Kimo opened the glass door—Oh, what the hell—with a hiss. “The dogs will have to stay outside.” The well-rounded ‘June Cleaver type’ stepped up into the bus and took a wide, aggressive stance in front in of the passengers. The ‘nice lady’ was soaking wet, a great deal “nicer” than most had expected. She captured everyone’s complete attention despite their age, sex, race, nationality, or even in the case of Mrs. Bernstein, in the back, species.

“Hello, you nice people. I’m Mrs. Cleaver! Call me June,” lied The Bloody Countess through the pretty red lips that concealed her deadly incisors. 

Kimo was taken back. Cleaver? Why don’t I like that name?

June’s audience was riveted on the icy pitcher of swirling sky blue liquid that she displayed.

“I brought you some refreshments while you are waiting to be rescued,” said the beguiling all-American housewife. “I’ve got dozens of our best local Batina’s cookies and something to quench your thirst. Here! Pass them back. Thank you. If it’s all right with Big Kimo, maybe I could teach you nice folks a little bit about our local cuisine.”

The tired driver nodded, stared out the bus window into the downpour which had turned sickly along with the dull thunder of his irritated bowels. Kimo decided that he didn’t like the size of those dogs. They seemed well behaved but they all wore cute red doggy bibs around their thick necks. Bibs?! Cleaver. Cleaver. The name still made him nervous.

“We’re proud of our Fritz Haarmann cutlery,” said perky ‘June.’ “Mr. Haarmann was originally a meat salesman from Germany, but now he makes and tests his fine cutlery products right here in Transylvania. Look at the detail in the snake motif on this knife!” 

“Schone asp! (Nice asp!)” said the big jolly drunk sitting in front of her. 

“Are you from Germany, sir? Then you would certainly appreciate the craftsmanship. I mean, just look at this edge.” The big bald German didn’t understand one word. While he smiled up at the outline of June’s ‘chilled’ nipples above, June took a bead on his shiny head. “Just feel this edge!” Her arm shot up to the lights ——— then down. 

Soon, Mrs. June Cleaver/Elizabeth was doing the backstroke up and down the blood-filled center aisle of the bus as her good doggies dragged piles of tourist-flavored vittles into the Countess’ sob-flooded front yard. 

The Countess Elizabeth’s housekeeper, Penelope, disposed of the bus with an explosion fueled by Transylvania’s largest export, Premium Bat Guano (also an ingredient used in the country’s famous Raise the Dead Pöcs (dicks) Coffee.

All of this took five minutes. 

The flapping bats applauded. 

Elizabeth, curtsied, leapt into her muscle car, and floored the gas pedal five-hundred miles to Poenari.

More Fred Art.

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