Search

…And Then Things Got Weird….

Books, Cartoons and Podcast

Month

June 2018

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! 

Inhale….

 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?”

Halloween is right around the corner, holding a knife. My YA (young adult) stories illustrated by Anita Benson.

https://www.amazon.com/Bug-House-Fred-Barnett-ebook/dp/B07595FQKY/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

MIDNIGHT

Laszlo kicked Boldizsár’s bony ass all over the churchyard until he could kick no more. After a short rest and a drink from his flask, Laszlo dragged the broken parts back inside the mausoleum, dumped them back inside the coffin and took a few  cellphone photos —  one of an inscription on the wall above:

“Lehet, hogy rúgta a csontos seggem, kemény fickó. De még mindig kopasz vagy.”  

The author, satisfied with the bony ass kicking, didn’t review the inscription until he arrived back home in the states

“Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass.” …from Bug House (YA ghost stories)

 

Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass.” 

mexican shark attacks107Because of Laszlo’s large skeletal bald head, which appeared on the covers of all his novels, Laszlo Toth was easily recognized by his legions of fans. Though Laszlo became famous by writing about the supernatural, he based his novels on fact and prided himself on being a rational man.

Laszlo did believe in science and while studying genetics for his new novel, became involved with the a group called BlameYourAncestors.com. Within two weeks after sending their headquarters a DNA sample he discovered he was 87% Hungarian and, apparently, 13 percent cheese, citing a few stray genetic threads to Luxembourg, Switzerland and four other cheesy countries. 

Thanks to BlameYourAncestors he was also able to narrow his search back his Hungarian family, the Tóths. 

With a little bit of digging, he discovered a recent family portrait. The Tóths all looked ‘polished,’ like Laszlo. Cueballs. Melon heads. The men, women and children all suffered from a severe form of early male pattern baldness (androgenic alopecia).

Laszlo sent more money to expand the DNA search and finally received the results that he’d been hoping for. The ‘bald problem’ that plagued his life was traced back to a   singular   human   monster.

Count Oszkár Tóth ruled 16th century Walachia and was buried at the Tóth Citadel churchyard in Ploiești. 

The Count once possessed long flowing locks that  made him look like a golden hero on the cover of a bodice-ripping romance novel. The vain Oszkár combed his proud mane day and night. One evening he summoned his magic golden comb — Yeah, right, Give me a break — only to find out that the comb had been stolen.

 Oszkár’s mother, Cynthia, told her son that she had seen a well known local magician, Madik, running away from the castle and into the Nagyon Sotet (Very Dark) Forest carrying a shiny yellow object in his hand. 

After apprehending Madik, Laszlo ordered the Magician to be burned at the stake. At the Barbeque, Laszlo, himself, was cursed by the magician’s wife, a powerful witch named Eegahd. 

The next morning, as Oszkár combed, his glorious mane shed. The hair that made him such a ‘wench magnet’ fell to the ground.  

As a result of the Eegahd’s curse, all of Count Oszkár’s children, male and female, became bald as well; that is until in October 31, 1712, when the entire clan were tortured, murdered, dismembered, and turned into a savory paprika goulash by a nomadic Gibors. 

Only one Tóth escaped the massacre, the youngest noble in line, Boldizsár, who continued to selfishly spread the Tóth family curse throughout the western world. 

“The Bastard!” Thoughts of revenge pushed their tendrils in into Laszlo’s rational mind. Online, he  hired úr Harker, a Hungarian scholar, to help him  track down Boldizsár’s resting place. That is when Laszlo  made the first irrational decision since his seventh marriage, to visit his cursed ancestor’s crypt and ‘kick his bony ass to Hell.’

The following October, before the frost set in, Laszlo made his trip, alone, to Walachia. 

Unfazed by local superstition, Laszlo arrived ten minutes before midnight at Tóth Citadel in Ploiești., in the woods outside of Ploiești. He quietly drove his rent-a-car around the back to the cemetery, parked and opened the trunk and removed a new Road Rager Crowbar. 

Laszlo found the rusty cemetery gate open, and by the light of the full moon, jimmied his way into the Tóth Mausoleum. Once inside, he lit his lantern, shooed away the vermin and began to go to work. He located the Count and slid the heavy lid off Boldizsár’s stone coffin.  

Jubilant, he dragged the Count’s loosely connected skeleton outside among the gravestones. 

MIDNIGHT

Laszlo kicked Boldizsár’s bony ass all over the churchyard until he could kick no more. After a short rest and a drink from his flask, Laszlo dragged the broken parts back inside the mausoleum, dumped them back inside the coffin and took a cellphone photos —  one of the inscription on the wall above:

Lehet, hogy meghalt, de még mindig halott.’  

The author, satisfied with the bony ass kicking, didn’t review the inscription until he arrived back home in the states:

‘Lehet, hogy meghalt, Laszlo, de még mindig halott.’

Translation: 

“I may be dead, Laszlo, but you’re still bald.” 

BATS ^^ö^^ The Taxi to Poenary Castle

 

BATS 2018 -Forty new pages with forty new outrages! Buy your copy on Amazon!

JPEG Final Tragic Mountain LARGE FLATTENED copy

Something dark fluttered by Jonathan’s taxi window and grinned and flipped him off with both third fingers at the tip of its wings, startling him. “Whatever it was” had disappeared in a blink. Die Fledermaus (The Bat), by Johann Strauss, played jauntily on the taxi’s radio as the driver tapped the beat with his long nails on the steering wheel. The evening’s thunderclouds began to settle for the night. Ridges of towering cliffs bookmarked by waterfalls began to unfold. The monumental pages of the old Carpathian Mountains, ghostly white and empty, were wide open in expectation of a new chapter. Young Jonathan decided that he needed to write to his willowy Mina. Oh, how he missed her. Within the shadow of the mountains, he expected the phone signal to be weak. Jonathan texted Mina: “I am near Poenari and closer to learning the truth about Huthbert and Penelope. I’m so happy. I can’t think of anything else as exciting. ”

Mina responded with a simple photo which only hinted to Jonathan that she may, or may not, be wearing any underwear.

Ahead, at Poenari, the ancient butler Huthbert’s remaining ear perked up as Jonathan, a teacher of Elizabethan literature, picked up his copy of Great Love Letters for inspiration, and read aloud the tragic, incomplete, war correspondence between two eighteenth-century lovers known as Lord Huthbert and Lady Penelope.

April 32, 1779

Dearest Darling Penelope,

The artillery has stopped momentarily. As I lie awake in my muddy foxhole beneath the night sky of Ghoolkhamish, gazing upon your portrait in my hand—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 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

Poenari Castle’s broken silhouette passed hundreds of feet above Jonathan, framed by the rising moon and the black branches reaching out in “velcome.” The handsome laid back, mellow, and easygoing smasher-of-heads-against-breakwaters-and-pavement ex-lifeguard peered through the glass, breathless. The rain, thick as plasma, began to block his view from the taxi.

Despite the increasingly narrow passages, looming mountains and biblical weather, he texted Mina another time.

Bună ziua! (Good evening!) I am now in Romania near Poenari Castle. Up until now there has been no actual Wi-Fi. Earlier the driver, who wears a black  mask, told me about a free service called Si-Fi that has to do with antennas placed on, of all things, bats! I am well. In fact, I am even cooler than I was last month…and that’s pretty cool!

Cele mai bune urări (Best wishes),

Jonathan

Due to the inclement weather, Mina’s attempt to answer Jonathan’s  ‘panty’ question, with another photo, that either failed to send or was intercepted by Interpol. 

The driver looked into the rear-view mirror and wondered, Is my passenger still…alive? He turned his head 360 degrees around, then another 180 degrees toward Jonathan and asked, “Are you there…sir? Let it be known, young sir, that breathing may attract a variety of…undesirables.” In the Prince’s hemorrhaging neck of the woods, breathing was regarded as overrated.

A long exhalation of foul human breath rushed from the backseat.

What the heaven has this kid been eating? Plants? “Look, young sir!” said the driver. “Ve’re almost home! Ve’ll get you something real to eat. Something varm that vill grow hair on your palms.”

“I’m a vegetarian, sir. I won’t eat anything with a face.”

Oy. Vun of those! The driver thought. “No problem young man. We can alvays rip off the face!”

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: