“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.