Wiltshire County, Great Britain-1963
The two aliens hovered their ship The Lollipop above the farming village of Hangover, near Stonehenge, in the county of Wiltshire, on the Salisbury plane.
The night before they landed, Buddy, acting like an advanced alien from another world is supposed to act, was busy drawing giant dicks, boobs and the word ‘fuck’ across the English countryside as though the wheat fields below were his personal Etch-A-Sketch.
Some of Buddy’s sketches were more than a quarter mile wide. He designed the patterns on the space ship’s computer and then precision cut the artful images upon the green pastoral landscape below.
At 1:30 a.m., on June 28, 1963, while the residents of Hangover slept, Ada, his mate, demanded Buddy “go to bed and stop drawing your silly stick-figure porn with humungous butts and boobies.”
* * * *
Jolly Lord Capersmith
At two a.m., a distinguished gap-toothed mustached old duffer wearing a bowler hat, Lord Joseph Capersmith, was driving home from the Laughing Gravy Pub. He pulled his Bentley over to the side of the road that faced his family’s Ancestral Castle upon his vast Capersmithshireton Estate.
“Wot?” said Lord Joseph.
Something exciting was afoot in the fields below. His Lordship quickly grabbed his silver-tipped cane along with his fine hand-tooled leather attaché case from motorcar’s passenger seat. Inside the case were his thermos, and a brand new brass fox hunting pistol. He removed his bowler hat and replaced it with a more appropriate deer stalker cap. Lord Joseph furtively tiptoed down the slope to investigate the strange lights illuminating the wheat fields below.
“By Jove! Naughty stick figures. I doooooo say. Delightful!”
In the field, on his property no less, also stood what looked like…
“Pip. Pip,” he said while twirling his handlebar mustache.
“It’s a bloody American Juke box. Rahthah! Jolly good show, old bean.”
Step — step — step.
“It must be Princess Maggie’s idea of making merry,” his Lordship quipped. “A jest, I’m sure!”
“I’ll sit on this jolly old stump, pour myself a hot cup of tea, take aim at the doodad-thingamajig with my pistol, and give myself a bit of a respite! Simply smashing!”
Though the tipsy Lord Joseph fired and missed the juke box shaped space ship, the loud shots woke up the ever-testy alien musician, Ada, who was thoroughly enjoying an erotic dream wherein the radical Inventor, Nikola Tesla, was demonstrating his hot new invention, the Personal Harmonic Resonance Vibration Oscillator upon her squeezable alien marshmallow butt.
Capersmith stopped shooting when an invisible hand pulled back the window shade on the ship. “Something” inside the space ship struggled and cursed while trying to open the window on the front of the giant juke box. Dried paint had glued the window sill shut. Before Lord Joseph could say, with a stiff upper lip, “Oh bugger,” the window shot upward, and….
“Tallyho, Sir Asshole!” said Ada while she implemented the magic of the jolly olde ACME Auto-Suc upon Lord Joseph Capersmith, and thus deposited Lord Joseph’s royal rump within the Good Ship Lollipop.
Repeated screams of “Unhand me, knaves! Do you know who I am? I’m Lord Capersmith, a personal friend and royal subject of her majesty!” echoed deep into Jolly Olde Sherwood forest.
Ada restored the tranquility of the spacecraft when she respectfully presented His Lordship with a formal printed invitation:
“A Night To Remember
Time: June 28,1963
Location: The Bollocks Probing Pub of the Lollipop Space Craft
Hors d’oeuvres and Cocktails at 8 p.m.
Dinner immediately following
As Lord Capersmith sipped a glass of champagne, Buddy approached from behind wheeling Farmer Joe’s borrowed and glowing red, jalapeño coated rototiller.
Huh? Did you hear what this motherfucker said to me, Chester?”
“You skinny prick. If I weren’t just a huge, doughy, outa-fuckin’-shape desk jockey with a bad ticker, I’d stomp your sorry ass, punk,” said the lard-ass-on-wheels named Chester. “Nobody talks to my fuckin’ bitch like that!”
“Hey! I was just admiring the old heap’s artwork, man. Her tattoos are awesome.”
The willowy Mina spoke up: “He’s gonna be a prince and I’m gonna be his princess someday.”
“Oh reeeeally?”said Brutehilda. “You two look the part now. Take my advice, ya better do it while you’re still a stick figure, flower child. That goes for you too, granola breath.”
Mina, always the saleswoman, reached into her purse and produced a small jar of cream. “I can perk up that flab for you, ma’am. My name is Mina.”
“I’m Brutehilda and everyone calls this laugh-a-minute turd Chester the Jester!”
“I sell an anti-gravity skin cream that is far more than a simple moisturizer,” said Mina. “It will firm you up. Just rub some there and there…”
The change was magical. Visibly, the sinking ship tattoo on Brutehilda’s arm became buoyant. Beneath the biker mama’s jeans, the weeping willow tattoo on her thigh became a proud oak, reaching toward the sunny warmth of her ‘hoo hah.’
“Keep a sample,” said Mina. “Let me know how it works. My email is on the jar. In a few days I’m off to Slovakia. I got a letter from a woman named Lupta Axe who represents a rich countess whom she says I am related to. Imagine that! So, this Countess Bathory claims that she has found an all-natural ingredient that can rejuvenate not only the skin, but the entire body. It’s supposed to be the real deal.”
“I’ve heard that nonsense before,” said Chester.
“I’m bringing my ingredients to Slovakia. The Countess says that she’ll fly me over and purchase everything that I can make.”
“Me and the wife here are taking some business associates and some Nordic friends on a bike trip through there and along the Danube in a couple of weeks,” said Chester.
“If this stuff works, I’ll buy everything you’ve got here in town,” said Brutehilda. “Maybe we’ll see you in Europe .”
“Unless the skinny bitch turns sideways,” said her old man Chester.
“Ha. Ha. Don’t listen to the old fool, string bean.” Brutehida’s stood up to stretch her six-foot-nine, no, six-foot-ten-inch frame.
Jonathan stepped forward assuming Mina would need protection against the imposing beast.
“Don’t worry, kid,” said Chester. “Brutie’s as gentle as a bear. She won’t crush your little friend. Besides, there ain’t enough meat on her bones.”
Mina stepped back to look up at her imposing new friend. “Yeah. Maybe we’ll see you around.”
“…and around and around,” said Jonathan. “Around Mrs. Monstro here, that would be quite a hike.” He tried to suppress a laugh.
“Orrrrrrrr…unless your dainty T. Rexstands in front of the sun and causes a total eclipse,” said Mina with an elbow to Jonathan’s ribs. She couldn’t stop giggling. Neither could Jonathan. “We’re really sorry,” said Mina.
“Hey!” said Chester. “Noooooobody talks to my fuckin’ bitch like that!”
Jonathan sobered instantly and grabbed the neck of his guitar ready for a fight.
Chester broke into a big laugh. “Chill out, boy. I’m only joshin’!”
Jonathan and Mina looked at the mighty Brutehilda for a reaction, knowing that she could have pounded either of them into poi for the way that they were talking about her.
Then they all joined Chester the Jester in a hearty laugh. (Hardy fuckin’ har har.) There was nothing particularly funny said that afternoon in Santa Monica. It was just that the biker couple had been tooting nitrous oxide (laughing gas or N2O/O2) continuously. Chester and Brutehilda (‘Brutie’ had a dentist brother named Kong) always inhaled a tankful on Sundays, before they cruised the Pacific Coast Highway.
Mina had to rush home to make cream that afternoon. When she re-entered her Venice beachfront studio, she found a large puddle in front of her refrigerator. The electrical plug had been pulled out of the wall. On the floor, next to the plug was an empty package of Witchy Snack’s Wasabi Newt Eye. A witch snack? thought Mina. Meanwhile, Mina’s new skin cream “ingredients” (a drunk who’d been sleeping in the planter outside of her ground-floor apartment window) were rotting and leaking out onto the tile floor.
An old six-shooter, $5000 in bloodstained cash, and a handwritten note from Lupta Axe sat on her white Formica kitchenette table. Who the fute is Lupta Axe? And why did I just say “fute?”
The note read:
I’m so sorry about the mess, deeeeeeearie, but you have to leave Los Angeles. Now. Opportunity awaits you overseas. This gun used to belong to the outlaw Belle Starr in the 1880s. It’s a Colt Single Action Army pistol, custom made for Belle. It always protected her. No bushwhackers ever whacked Belle’s bush as long as she had it on her. Don’t let TSA find it, dearie. There are also three boxes of silver-tipped bullets in the bag. All of the documents that you need have been taken care of by order of the Countess. There will be a taxi waiting for you in Budapest. The Elizabeth’s personal chauffeur will take you to Čachtice Castle in Slovakia. Happy travels! FYI: Fute means “fuck” in Romanian.
Over the centuries, Vlad and Elizabeth had consumed their entire human armies. They never once considered their “nom-nom-nom’s” or victimelor (victim’s) advice about creating new armies made up of the undead that had, for decades, been utilized successfully at the Department of Motor Vehicles. The Prince and Countess had “lost” their household staffs years ago. They’d also slaughtered their so-called “friends” and loyal subjects who did no more than plead for their puny lives. Elizabeth asked Lupta if she could “dig up a few distant relatives” after both herself and Vlad had had children centuries ago, all who eventually “flew the belfry.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said the witch. “I’ve got a line on two of your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandkids who so far are, well, not that great. There are some shadows in their lives. Hmmm, they might have potential. Right now, they just look like a couple of smelly hippies.”
After extensive research, Lupta pinpointed the two youngsters—both living far away, like in, fer sure, sunny Southern California. This looks promising! Both their addresses were listed exactly where the crystal iBall had indicated, near Santa Monica. And both could be found on the dating site Blacksheepshame.com, “Where the lowest common denominator of psychopaths meet!”
Vlad’s great-grandson, eight times removed, was one of them. He was Jonathan Tepes, a part-time junior college literature teacher, Santa Monica lifeguard, and tone-deaf folk singer. The young man looked very much like Vlad—without the mustache—who also had a striking resemblance to the singer James Taylor—before Mr. Taylor had lost all-his-fuckin’ hair. Blacksheepshame.com also showed that Jonathan had a “history,” a string of assaults on his police record.
Wilhelmina (Mina) Bathory Blythe (the Countess Bathory’s great-granddaughter, eight times removed) was a lithesome blonde, age thirty-two, who owned a small cosmetics company. Young Mina also had a passion for guns and was once arrested for “ghoulish behavior” and the illegal trafficking of human organs…(?!) If she were dark haired, Lupta the witch thought, she would look like a thinner Elizabeth. That cute ass of her’s nails it. On a dating app description she’d listed herself as “all willowy an’ shit.”
Transylvania needed new blood—now. Lupta would make both of these children offers that they couldn’t refuse. The two young people had never met, until Lupta put her spells in motion …one day…
I feel so “willowy” today, Mina thought. I’m young, blonde, thin, and springtime fresh! (She wasn’t that young.)
(Imagine, dear reader: Can you picture her long fine hair blowing in the late afternoon breeze as she walks along Palisades Park above the sparkling Pacific? Can you see her as she kneels to pick flowers on her way toward her “favoritest” bench overlooking the Santa Monica pier? Oh look! There sits a handsome minstrel!)
Graceful Mina, holding a fistful of traumatized wildflowers viciously torn from their roots, approached the young man in slow motion. The smooth, shirtless, and easygoing young fellow was butchering James Taylor’s hit song, “Laid Back and Cool,” on his guitar beneath an oak tree.
“You sound just like James Taylor!” said the willowy one who, luckily for Jonathan, was also tone-deaf.
“I assume that you mean the young James Taylor, the carefree James with long, thick hair. Alas! Fair maiden! You look just like Gwyneth Paltrow. All willowy an’ shit,” said His Mellowness.
“My name is Wilhelmina Blythe. You, my handsome thirty-something-year-old irresponsible type, can call me Mina,” said the thirty-something-year-old faux Paltrow. “Someday I will be a princess!”
“Aye, my princess, my name is Jonny, short for Jonathan. The life of an irresponsible musician is in my blood. My father, Jonathan Tepes, was also a musician. He too was a talentless irresponsible leech…‘cept he’s bald and old. Observe, dear maiden, I’m lanky and young and cool without a care in the world. I don’t carry a wallet or wear a shirt. You, my dear, look extra extra extra willowy to me.” He attempted a few major sixth and seventh chords from a song by Bread. He knew that those soft romantic chords were willowy chick magnetizers.
“I am willowy,” Mina said. “You could blow me away with a fart.”
Jonathan, who had just eaten at Tito’s Tacos, tooted. A breeze ruffled through the green grass. She grabbed onto a nearby tree for safety.
Jonathan smiled. “A fart straight from my heart, dear maiden. I haven’t bathed in a week or washed my underwear in a month. I pray that it doesn’t offend thee. I’ve been living off of the land, our Mother Earth, since this morning.”
Kokonuts (of Kauai) ran as a daily cartoon strip in The Garden Island News of Kauai (Mahalo to editor Jeanne Holmes) from 1981 until 1983, when we departed Kauai (months after the decimation caused by Hurricane Iwa on November 19, 1982). Here is an early introduction to the cast of Kokonuts (1981)…PLUS another early cartoon…There were approximately 500 cartoon strips.
Sneaking out of Town.