The Gibors stared back at the Van Helsings, the twin sphincters who called themselves “bosses.” They were bewildered! Perplexed! Being idiots, the Gibors never had an idea what anybody was talking about.

“No one tells my Gibor children what to do, Gretel Van Helsing!” roared the twenty-foot high Saturn who had burst through the door and took a place in front of Vlad’s crew. He squatted and opened his arms to the stupid trusting Gibors. “Come to Daddy, kids!”

“This doesn’t look good, brother!” said Gretel. “We should make like lightning, and bolt!”

Always obedient, the repulsive Gibors ran into the arms of their daddy, Saturn, who had created their miserable but delectable race long ago in ancient Mesopotamia. Daddy Saturn began to bite their heads off in quick succession. The entire room, already sick to their stomachs, was startled to see a continuous splattering loop of Francisco Goya’s Saturn Eating His Son (and all of his son’s Buddies).

Drooling, the giant smiled with his mouth full, burped, and asked, “Who’s got the Sriracha?”

Reluctantly, the ‘Bloody Countess’ Elizabeth began to climb the wall using her nails, pissed because she had just had them done. She wouldn’t bite the Van Helsing’s guests because there was the risk that they could become immortal. The countess swooped in from above, struck Hansel with her left claw and Gretel with her right, gashing both on their foreheads. Bullseye! Hideo the Van Helsing’s vulture dropped a flurry of cash for the Van Helsing family to use as a cover. Elizabeth had lost track of the Van Helsings, blinded by wads of money and a crowd of their money-grabbing friends! Vlad D. Impaler swung from the lights, laughing.

Hansel and Gretel Van Helsing, spearheaded by their football-hero nephews, Heinrich and Heidrich, were bloodied but alive. The two idiot brothers led them toward the exit with an end run around the commotion toward the doorway and smashed out into the night.

Saturn commenced to his chomping and blood popping as the little Gibors yelled, “Me next, Daddy! Me next!”

There was blood, torn flesh, and empty Gibor heads rolling across the floor. That was all fine and dandy. Gore, guts, cannibalism, blah, blah, blah.

The audience suddenly shifted its focus when the only thing hotter than the spicy buffet food entered the hall.

The entrance door was kicked open by the long shapely right leg of Mina Bathory. She carried a Colt revolver holstered around her too-short Annie Oakley fringe skirt and wore the meanest pair of Fuck-Y’all Heels north of the Danube. “DO WHAT I SAY…AND EVERYONE GETS HURT!” she demanded.