…And Then Things Got Weird….

Books, Cartoons and Podcast


September 2017

For Halloween!!! BATS ^^ö^^!!!! The Hell’s Angle’s meet their hero.

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000038_00060]“Vlad. I think you’re becoming hearing dyslexic,” said Elizabeth ‘The Bloody Countess’ Bathory. “The woman said angles. Hell’s Angles. A-N-G-L-E-S.”

“Jonathan,” Vlad D. Impaler said as he sat back in the car and lit his pipe, “could you kill them? I’m hungry.”

“What a sorry bunch,” said Lupta, the tiny witch. “Look at them, huffing and puffing, and just from huffing and puffing. Elizabeth, you guys drink what you want and then I’ll help Mina (Elizabeth’s great-great-granddaughter) make skin cream out of the rest. Save the livers for the pups.”

“Wait,” said Jonathan (Vlad’s great-great-grandson). “They might be more useful alive. Meet your new army, Pops!”

“That’s a depressing thought, Jonny,” said Vlad. “I rather kill myself… No, I’d rather kill someone else.”

While Vlad and Elizabeth watched carefully, Lupta, Jonathan, and Mina pushed the wolves from their laps and stepped out of the Challenger. Tiny Lupta Axe walked forward to confront the wannabe ruffians. She’d decided to keep the conversation friendly. She had to keep in mind that Vlad and Elizabeth needed help—any help that they could get.

The four wolves—Dino, Frankie, Sammy, and Luciano—flanked the car. Glowing eyes, growling and drooling commenced in four-part harmony.

“All right,” said the tiny witch emerging from the headlights, smiling. “Just what are you delusional slabs of beef doing here?”

A seven-foot tall, five hundred-pound bald colossus parted a pathway through the illuminated crowd on the grass and bravely walked up to Lupta Axe.

Lupta stared up from the giant’s navel and said, “Give me your lunch money and I won’t turn that pretty face into meatloaf.”

“I am Tor, Tor Johansson. I own Killer Builders in LA. We’re only passing through your country, ma’am. Some of our American members have come to Europe for the summer to ride with some of our Danish friends like Inga, Olaf, Hakon, Magnus, Hardrade, Sigurd, and Siegfried, who are also designers from our Scandinavian furniture branch. Everybody in architecture knows the Angles! We took the gang to Europe for a very special trip.”

“Yeah, we heard that they’re going to open a Black Flags Tragic Mountain down the road,” said a man peeping his head out of the crowd. “That will be our last stop.”

“Oh, reeeeally. Who’s the big mouth?” Lupta asked pointing to the nerd who was even smaller than she was.

“That’s Isaiah Newton,” said Brutehilda. “Be nice to him. He’s our demolition expert. He makes crap fall.”

Jonathan’s newly pointed ears perked up. Demolition? Oh, really!

“We do a bike ride on a different continent every five years to get everyone out of the office,” said Chester. “The Angles are not allowed to bring anything work related on these vacations. Not even a pencil! We have members all over the planet. We ride on weekends in our respective countries.” Chester looked down at Lupta who was winding her hand buzzer. “Maybe you can help us out, young woman.”

“My name is Lupta Axe. Spells, cookies, practical jokes…and I write.”

“Well, Ms. Axe, this year my friends and I decided to visit the home of the original bad-asses, Vlad the Impaler and the Bloody Countess Elizabeth Bathory. Most of all, we really want to visit the home of our favorite author Infinity Upton-Downes. All three are baaaaad motherfuckers. Pardon my Danish.”

“Well, they ain’t at home, assholes!”

“Who ain’t home?” asked Brutehilde.

“The ones you came looking for,” said Lupta who was still shorter than Brutehilda who was sitting on a Harley. “It’s tourists like you who are ruining our habitat! Once I embarrass you doodie-heads with my X-ray specs we’ll have to eliminate you. Oh, look! You stepped in vomit!”

Jonathan put a hand on Lupta’s thin shoulder and whispered, “Enough, Aunty. We might need them.”

Lupta picked up her plastic vomit and mumbled “Clueless idiots. Buzz off!”

Tor stared at the tiny witch.

“Take a picture, Q-Ball. It will last longer,” she snapped.

“Who are you and what do you know about Infinity Upton-Downes?” thundered Tor. “How would you know that she ain’t home? Infinity’s Witchipedia biography says that she lives in Transylvania year-round. I know everything about her…’cept what she looks like. I imagine that she’s pretty hot after readin’ her stuff.”

“Oh. Howwwww do I know she isn’t home, snowflake? ’Cause you’re talkin’ to her, ya big ugly bastard! What happened to your eye?”


“Your eye! Are ya deaf too? Bend down and let me take a look you got something…right there!” She poked it. “Nyuk, nyuk.”

“Ow! Old bat!”

“I am rubber, you are glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks back to you! Ohhh, stop your whining. You’re fine, petal. Look through this telescope. See!” The telescope left a big black greasy circle around Tor’s poked eye. “So, you don’t believe that I am the famous Infinity? Have you read Tragic Lust #34? Of course you haven’t! I just finished writing it. It’s a romantic called Go-Go West, Young Man.”

Lupta waved her cane and began to recite:

“Ahem… Time. Stood. Still. Broken by an intensifying vibration, Thunder’s glistening bronze thighs began to quake. Handsome Jack’s mighty maracas nearly shook loose. The Paiute guide howled when she clamped down and crushed the stunned studly Spillwell’s notorious hardened spike… The wagon master’s dying wail triggered the legendary Montana avalanche known by all school-age children today as ‘Fuckin’ awesome!’”

Tor turned to Chester. “Holy Swiss cheese, Chester!”

“Holy…It’s really her!” said Brutehilda.

Fuckin’ illiterates, thought Lupta.

“Yup. That’s Infinity,” said a Viking-helmeted man in a business suit, named Lutefisk.

Willowy Mina shook her head. She still couldn’t believe that her own aunty, Lupta Axe, was the famous author of the disturbing books that she had been hiding beneath her mattress with her deluxe Willie Wanker Bar.

Milwaukee Crime Scene (Shark Fin Soup)


The Milwaukee chief of police, William ‘Boulder Balls Bill’ Sagamore, had just shown up. “I hate hot weather. You must be agent Bernie. Whoa! It’s much too early for those blinding shorts.  ” Boulder Balls walked toward the shoreline, “Sure smells ripe. With this hot weather we’ve been getting ’em ripe.”

Two more “ripples” offshore distracted agent Bernie. The waters of Lake Michigan sure looked inviting this morning.

Had it not been for the tattooed body parts strewn along the banks, kids would have been swimming in the toxic muck from the Milwaukee within a few hours.

“Torsos! I hate headless, armless, legless, genital-less, ass-less hairless torsos,” Chief Big Balls Bill grumbled on. “It looks just like the stuffed derma my Aunt Minnie used to cook — but not as smelly or pale. I mean the bodies aren’t as smelly or as pale. And, look! They took all these guy’s belly buttons!” Belly-buttonless.

Doctor Green spat from his tobacco-stained teeth, “No face, no prints, no belly buttons =  no service. We’re gonna have to get some DNA. By the way, Bernie, your friend T.K. messaged me that belly buttons are a prized snack among New Guinea’s Hotat tribe.”


Another pattern of killings. Bernie had also been following a string of decapitated animals that would take him eastward.

Reports of mysterious animal deaths were being noticed by news organizations across the U.S. Bernie hoped that the cannibal killings wouldn’t be linked to his big hungry kitty. 

Each of Bomba’s latest victims was larger than the previous. The cat was leaving his old “can opener,” Bernie, gifts strewn across the U.S. Thanks, Bomba. I miss you, too. What Bernie and the two local detectives found on that muggy Milwaukee night was the ruination of a very large snow-white bird. There were feathers and wing bones strewn across the alley. The head was missing as was the bottom half of the poor animal. Bernie’s partner, Frankie had picked up a piece of evidence that he held outward on a stick.

“Check it out, buddy boy. Some angel lost his halo. That’s nutty.” Frankie held out a golden ring that was about a foot in diameter and pulsed with light.

“Ooowee, this place stinks!” A powerful smell forced Bernie to move back toward the curb. Bernie could barely breathe as it burned his lungs. The smell came from Bomba’s acidic urine. The big kitty had not only marked his territory, but also etched Bernie’s, radioactive luminescing name into the alley’s brick wall.



Frankenshark (A Halloween Tale from Bug House)


cartoon castle demon102(Based on a true story)

DURBAN, South Africa

August 17, 1959

On the Eastern horizon, distant flashes of a storm illuminated the hot August sky, a hint of the unspeakable horror about to visit sleepy little Durban. As the night progressed, vicious bolts of lightning lashed out far and low across night’s black shroud. Crackling branches of electricity reached out blindly, like the thin, pale, twisted arms of a bloated parasite in search of a fresh host.  

At 1 a.m., the tendrils of that far off storm, quietly receded with the tide. 

The night hung silent and heavy. Sticky, like drying blood. (yuk.)

A Bull Shark’s lifeless body, lay wrapped in filthy linen before a group of three “mad” (disgruntled) scientists at the Durban Aquarium. Because of the late hour, the tired, and still “very upset” group of academics, placed the cold eight-foot  corpse (that the foul smelling, grotesque, one-eyed fisherman affectionately called “Willie,” into an old bathtub for later observation. 


At 3 a.m., Left alone in the laboratory, was Daucina Renfeld, the new assistant from Tavenui, Fiji. Ms. Renfeld was an “odd rough skinned woman” with a deformity of the spine that resembled a sharp hump on her back. While closing up that night, she slipped on fish guts and fell, accidentally knocking her “combination hair dryer / portable radio” into the Willie’s tub. Sparks shot out, immediately swallowed up by total darkness. The young lab assistant lay motionless where she had hit her forehead on the worn porcelain edge. Blood dripped from the small wound, into the foul water.

Strong and silent, a dark new power suddenly surged, pumping its way through dead wires, into the shark’s waiting heart. 

When the lights flickered back to life—so… did… WILLIE!!!!

Cold, slow, weak at first, the heart began to take on speed and power. Thump. Thump. Thump.

On the morning of August 15, Ms. Renfeld had vanished. She was never seen or heard from again. Willie, on the other hand, was found swimming happily in the new “Predators of the Sea” tank. The three scientists, who had left before the power failure, could not figure out how their 105-pound assistant had moved nearly 300 pounds of a once-dead shark into the new tank all by herself, or why she would suddenly disappear. 

The night before, when the smelly carcass first appeared on an old wooden cart in their doorway with the hideous dark fisherman, the scientists were certain that Willie was a “DUD” (dead upon delivery). Somehow, through some mysterious cosmic blunder, the creature was alive. Swimming. Hungry.

That week, the three mad disgruntled scientists left their jobs at the Durban Aquarium, driven even more mad by the perplexing mystery of Willie, and further budget cuts.

Three months later

By December, “Willie” had grown huge. He was doing well at the Durban Aquarium. Too well. He was eating everything in the aquarium tank, including the other sharks. Once the prized pregnant female Dusky Shark had fallen victim to Willie’s huge appetite, the curators finally decided that it was time to get rid of the beast. 

The other aquariums did not did not want wanton Willie — “Wild Bill” as he was being called these days. Returning him to the ocean was not an option. Letting a vicious, blood thirsty Bull Shark loose upon the swimming public would be dangerous, and wasn’t worth the risk.

The decision was made. 

There would be no “FREE WILLIE” this time.

The gruesome Willie, who had become a favorite of visitors, would have to be disposed of.


The deed was done in the middle of the night, when death does its best, most stealthy handiwork.

After hours of wrangling, Willie was finally caught on a triple hook and “humanely” clubbed to death. He was then mercifully cut up into smaller chunks and stuffed into a reeking dumpster.

Early morning visitors wanted an explanation for the sudden disappearance of their favorite fish. So the aquarium’s manager, Mr. Cabebe told the families that Willie was found floating dead early that morning. Cabebe had also delicately let slip that “Willie now sleeps with the coffee grounds” — in the smelly dumpster. 

Hundreds of Durban school children gathered around the outside alleyway of the aquarium. In a great outpouring of sorrow, they shed gallons of salty tears into the dumpster while they said their farewells over the ripe trash bags full of the lovable scoundrel.

Ms. Renfeld returned that night and stole the brine soaked bags. From the laboratory, she also took the curator’s favorite “pet”…a jar labeled ‘the Brain’. This was “the Brain” which used to sit quietly and patiently upon a shelf, not far from Willie’s tub.

 In that jar, beneath a milky white fluid, rested the brain of a blood-crazed 25-foot-long Great White Shark who’d been named Abby. This demented Great White had eaten a Priest during an early morning Baptismal at Bloody Murder Beach only a week before.

That shark, was caught and  killed. Abby’s body was mounted in the aquarium’s entrance and her brain was removed for study. 

Somewhere in California’s Red Triangle, in the dead of night, high up on a hill an electric light can be seen flickering through the shuttered window of the ex-assistant, Renfeld.

She stands hunched over a rusty bathtub filled with cold sea water. Beneath Renfield’s bloody lab coat, numerous scars cover her back. “Love bites” from that night, over one year ago, at the Durban Aquarium. 

She use to weigh under 105 pounds, but now she has ballooned up to almost 175.

Ms. Renfeld drinks another glass of salt-water as blood oozes from her cut finger and drips into the foul tub of sashimi below.

“I am the bride of Frankenshark!!!”

The pups would need their father soon.

“The Brain” had been installed, and the chunks of Willie were all sewn up.

The combination hair dryer / radio was poised in her other hand…ready to drop.

The room went black.

“Come to mama….Come to mama,” she repeated.

Thump. Thump. Thump.


Note: The basis for this story is true. There was a real bull shark named Willie who was brought DEAD to the Durban Aquarium, in August of 1959. Some hours later, he did come back to life in a small observation tank. Willie was the aquarium’s top star attraction until he began to eat nearly all of his tank mates, including the pregnant Dusky Shark. 

And yes, “They” did murder him and chop him up in secret.

May he rest in pieces.

Frankenshark is dead.

At least that’s what THEY would like us to believe.


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