What the tourists thought was rain, started to hit the windows. The drops were the plague tears that came from forgotten angels. The sound of the wind was a sickening wheeze from a grove of dreary and dying mourning wood trees.
“Let her in, driver! The poor woman’s blouse is getting soaked,” a woman from Ireland called out. All of the men, suddenly ‘concerned,’ stood up to get an eyeful. One elderly woman said, “It must be the lady of the house. Let her in.”
I hope it isn’t the lady of the house, thought Kimo. Bloody Countess!!!! Elizabeth Bathory once lived here. That was centuries ago. Still, it IS Čachtice!
The canines stood guard in shadows behind their mistress. Kimo opened the glass door—Oh, what the hell—with a hiss. “The dogs will have to stay outside.” The well-rounded ‘June Cleaver type’ stepped up into the bus and took a wide, aggressive stance in front in of the passengers. The ‘nice lady’ was soaking wet, a great deal “nicer” than most had expected. She captured everyone’s complete attention despite their age, sex, race, nationality, or even in the case of Mrs. Bernstein, in the back, species.
“Hello, you nice people. I’m Mrs. Cleaver! Call me June,” lied The Bloody Countess through the pretty red lips that concealed her deadly incisors.
Kimo was taken back. Cleaver? Why don’t I like that name?
‘June’s’ audience was riveted on the icy pitcher of swirling sky blue liquid that she displayed.
“I brought you some refreshments while you are waiting to be rescued,” said the beguiling all-American housewife. “I’ve got dozens of our best local Batina’s cookies and something to quench your thirst. Here! Pass them back. Thank you. If it’s all right with Big Kimo, maybe I could teach you nice folks a little bit about our local cuisine.”
The tired driver nodded, stared out the bus window into the downpour which had turned sickly along with the dull thunder of his irritated bowels. Kimo decided that he didn’t like the size of those dogs. They seemed well behaved but they all wore cute red doggy bibs around their thick necks. Bibs?! Cleaver. Cleaver. The name still made him nervous.
“We’re proud of our Fritz Haarmann cutlery,” said perky ‘June.’ “Mr. Haarmann was originally a meat salesman from Germany, but now he makes and tests his fine cutlery products right here in Transylvania. Look at the detail in the snake motif on this knife!”
“Schone asp! (Nice asp!)” said the big jolly drunk sitting in front of her.
“Are you from Germany, sir? Then you would certainly appreciate the craftsmanship. I mean, just look at this edge.” The big bald German didn’t understand one word. While he smiled up at the outline of June’s ‘chilled’ nipples above, June took a bead on his shiny head. “Just feel this edge!” Her arm shot up to the lights ——— then down.
Soon, Mrs. June Cleaver/Elizabeth was doing the backstroke up and down the blood-filled center aisle of the bus as her good doggies dragged piles of tourist-flavored vittles into the Countess’ sob-flooded front yard.
The Countess Elizabeth’s housekeeper, Penelope, disposed of the bus with an explosion fueled by Transylvania’s largest export, Premium Bat Guano (also an ingredient used in the country’s famous Raise the Dead Pöcs (dicks) Coffee.
All of this took five minutes.
The flapping bats applauded.
Elizabeth, curtsied, leapt into her muscle car, and floored the gas pedal five-hundred miles to Poenari.