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Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

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Freddy Barnett

http://www.amazon.com/Fred-Barnett/e/B002N60GRQ Books: "Bloody Good" (True shark stories), "The Kingdom of the Cats" "Bats" Coming soon: "Shark Fin Soup" "Amok" NetworkedBlogsBlog:Freddy BarnettTopics: Fantasy, Horror, Humor  Follow my bloghttp://widget.networkedblogs.com/getwidget?bid=1453548

For Halloween!!! BATS ^^ö^^!!!! The Hell’s Angle’s meet their hero.

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000038_00060]“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?”

“Huh?”

“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.

Milwaukee Crime Scene (Shark Fin Soup)

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The Milwaukee chief of police, William ‘Boulder Balls Bill’ Sagamore, had just shown up. “I hate hot weather. You must be agent Bernie. Whoa! It’s much too early for those blinding shorts.  ” Boulder Balls walked toward the shoreline, “Sure smells ripe. With this hot weather we’ve been getting ’em ripe.”

Two more “ripples” offshore distracted agent Bernie. The waters of Lake Michigan sure looked inviting this morning.

Had it not been for the tattooed body parts strewn along the banks, kids would have been swimming in the toxic muck from the Milwaukee within a few hours.

“Torsos! I hate headless, armless, legless, genital-less, ass-less hairless torsos,” Chief Big Balls Bill grumbled on. “It looks just like the stuffed derma my Aunt Minnie used to cook — but not as smelly or pale. I mean the bodies aren’t as smelly or as pale. And, look! They took all these guy’s belly buttons!” Belly-buttonless.

Doctor Green spat from his tobacco-stained teeth, “No face, no prints, no belly buttons =  no service. We’re gonna have to get some DNA. By the way, Bernie, your friend T.K. messaged me that belly buttons are a prized snack among New Guinea’s Hotat tribe.”

________________

Another pattern of killings. Bernie had also been following a string of decapitated animals that would take him eastward.

Reports of mysterious animal deaths were being noticed by news organizations across the U.S. Bernie hoped that the cannibal killings wouldn’t be linked to his big hungry kitty. 

Each of Bomba’s latest victims was larger than the previous. The cat was leaving his old “can opener,” Bernie, gifts strewn across the U.S. Thanks, Bomba. I miss you, too. What Bernie and the two local detectives found on that muggy Milwaukee night was the ruination of a very large snow-white bird. There were feathers and wing bones strewn across the alley. The head was missing as was the bottom half of the poor animal. Bernie’s partner, Frankie had picked up a piece of evidence that he held outward on a stick.

“Check it out, buddy boy. Some angel lost his halo. That’s nutty.” Frankie held out a golden ring that was about a foot in diameter and pulsed with light.

“Ooowee, this place stinks!” A powerful smell forced Bernie to move back toward the curb. Bernie could barely breathe as it burned his lungs. The smell came from Bomba’s acidic urine. The big kitty had not only marked his territory, but also etched Bernie’s, radioactive luminescing name into the alley’s brick wall.

 

 

Halloween Fun for the Entire (Manson) Family.

Frankenshark (A Halloween Tale from Bug House)

 

cartoon castle demon102(Based on a true story)

DURBAN, South Africa

August 17, 1959

On the Eastern horizon, distant flashes of a storm illuminated the hot August sky, a hint of the unspeakable horror about to visit sleepy little Durban. As the night progressed, vicious bolts of lightning lashed out far and low across night’s black shroud. Crackling branches of electricity reached out blindly, like the thin, pale, twisted arms of a bloated parasite in search of a fresh host.  

At 1 a.m., the tendrils of that far off storm, quietly receded with the tide. 

The night hung silent and heavy. Sticky, like drying blood. (yuk.)

A Bull Shark’s lifeless body, lay wrapped in filthy linen before a group of three “mad” (disgruntled) scientists at the Durban Aquarium. Because of the late hour, the tired, and still “very upset” group of academics, placed the cold eight-foot  corpse (that the foul smelling, grotesque, one-eyed fisherman affectionately called “Willie,” into an old bathtub for later observation. 

Renfeld

At 3 a.m., Left alone in the laboratory, was Daucina Renfeld, the new assistant from Tavenui, Fiji. Ms. Renfeld was an “odd rough skinned woman” with a deformity of the spine that resembled a sharp hump on her back. While closing up that night, she slipped on fish guts and fell, accidentally knocking her “combination hair dryer / portable radio” into the Willie’s tub. Sparks shot out, immediately swallowed up by total darkness. The young lab assistant lay motionless where she had hit her forehead on the worn porcelain edge. Blood dripped from the small wound, into the foul water.

Strong and silent, a dark new power suddenly surged, pumping its way through dead wires, into the shark’s waiting heart. 

When the lights flickered back to life—so… did… WILLIE!!!!

Cold, slow, weak at first, the heart began to take on speed and power. Thump. Thump. Thump.

On the morning of August 15, Ms. Renfeld had vanished. She was never seen or heard from again. Willie, on the other hand, was found swimming happily in the new “Predators of the Sea” tank. The three scientists, who had left before the power failure, could not figure out how their 105-pound assistant had moved nearly 300 pounds of a once-dead shark into the new tank all by herself, or why she would suddenly disappear. 

The night before, when the smelly carcass first appeared on an old wooden cart in their doorway with the hideous dark fisherman, the scientists were certain that Willie was a “DUD” (dead upon delivery). Somehow, through some mysterious cosmic blunder, the creature was alive. Swimming. Hungry.

That week, the three mad disgruntled scientists left their jobs at the Durban Aquarium, driven even more mad by the perplexing mystery of Willie, and further budget cuts.

Three months later

By December, “Willie” had grown huge. He was doing well at the Durban Aquarium. Too well. He was eating everything in the aquarium tank, including the other sharks. Once the prized pregnant female Dusky Shark had fallen victim to Willie’s huge appetite, the curators finally decided that it was time to get rid of the beast. 

The other aquariums did not did not want wanton Willie — “Wild Bill” as he was being called these days. Returning him to the ocean was not an option. Letting a vicious, blood thirsty Bull Shark loose upon the swimming public would be dangerous, and wasn’t worth the risk.

The decision was made. 

There would be no “FREE WILLIE” this time.

The gruesome Willie, who had become a favorite of visitors, would have to be disposed of.

Quietly.

The deed was done in the middle of the night, when death does its best, most stealthy handiwork.

After hours of wrangling, Willie was finally caught on a triple hook and “humanely” clubbed to death. He was then mercifully cut up into smaller chunks and stuffed into a reeking dumpster.

Early morning visitors wanted an explanation for the sudden disappearance of their favorite fish. So the aquarium’s manager, Mr. Cabebe told the families that Willie was found floating dead early that morning. Cabebe had also delicately let slip that “Willie now sleeps with the coffee grounds” — in the smelly dumpster. 

Hundreds of Durban school children gathered around the outside alleyway of the aquarium. In a great outpouring of sorrow, they shed gallons of salty tears into the dumpster while they said their farewells over the ripe trash bags full of the lovable scoundrel.

Ms. Renfeld returned that night and stole the brine soaked bags. From the laboratory, she also took the curator’s favorite “pet”…a jar labeled ‘the Brain’. This was “the Brain” which used to sit quietly and patiently upon a shelf, not far from Willie’s tub.

 In that jar, beneath a milky white fluid, rested the brain of a blood-crazed 25-foot-long Great White Shark who’d been named Abby. This demented Great White had eaten a Priest during an early morning Baptismal at Bloody Murder Beach only a week before.

That shark, was caught and  killed. Abby’s body was mounted in the aquarium’s entrance and her brain was removed for study. 

Somewhere in California’s Red Triangle, in the dead of night, high up on a hill an electric light can be seen flickering through the shuttered window of the ex-assistant, Renfeld.

She stands hunched over a rusty bathtub filled with cold sea water. Beneath Renfield’s bloody lab coat, numerous scars cover her back. “Love bites” from that night, over one year ago, at the Durban Aquarium. 

She use to weigh under 105 pounds, but now she has ballooned up to almost 175.

Ms. Renfeld drinks another glass of salt-water as blood oozes from her cut finger and drips into the foul tub of sashimi below.

“I am the bride of Frankenshark!!!”

The pups would need their father soon.

“The Brain” had been installed, and the chunks of Willie were all sewn up.

The combination hair dryer / radio was poised in her other hand…ready to drop.

The room went black.

“Come to mama….Come to mama,” she repeated.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

#

Note: The basis for this story is true. There was a real bull shark named Willie who was brought DEAD to the Durban Aquarium, in August of 1959. Some hours later, he did come back to life in a small observation tank. Willie was the aquarium’s top star attraction until he began to eat nearly all of his tank mates, including the pregnant Dusky Shark. 

And yes, “They” did murder him and chop him up in secret.

May he rest in pieces.

Frankenshark is dead.

At least that’s what THEY would like us to believe.

__________________

It’s (all) Who You Know — (from BugHouse -YA stories for Halloween)


It’s (all) Who You Know

When I saw my first school, the Hamilton House, it looked so lonely on the barren dunes of Far Rockaway. I never got to eat my lunch that day because my mom had come back to fetch me so soon. Her frantic walk was framed by the tranquil Atlantic behind her.

Dressed in black, the head teacher, ‘flinty’ Mrs. Hamilton, towered behind me. As my mom, approached, Mrs. Hamilton tightened her ironwood claws into my tiny shoulders.

 

anitas-scans

 

My mom had questions: “Are you Mrs.Hamilton? Why did you call? Is my son okay? Where’s the young teacher that I talked to yesterday?”

“I’m Hamilton. It’s my school,” she said unhooking me. “Your boy is fine, but there is a problem. He borrrrrrres easily.”

“Really,” said my mom.

To prove Mrs. Hamilton’s point, I interrupted the conversation, “What’s that, mommy?” I asked, pointing to a stone statue that stood in the sandy path, knee high to my mom.

Mrs. Hamilton raised a long talon, “Pagans dumped that thing in my yard. That blasphemy is going into the trash, today.”

 

anitas-poseidon-dark

 

“Ooooh, I like him,” my mom said. “This a statue of the Greek god of the sea, Freddy. His name is Poseidon. He looks very old.”

“Is he friendly?” I asked.

“You want to be his friend,” my mom said. “Mr. Poseidon can turn angry in a snap! Mom snapped her fingers. “He brings vengeance upon his enemies with great storms.”

“He’s ugly,” said Ms. Hamilton.

The sound of a large wave, pounding the shore, caught our attention. A strong breeze buffeted us with sand. Ms. Hamilton’s tight hair bun remained steadfast. It began to drizzle. Grasping her cane, Mrs. Hamilton said, “Please come inside, it seems that the weather is changing. What a world.”

As we entered the old house, Mrs. Hamilton  pointed to a painting on the wall. “That a picture my dead husband Dorian. It makes him look so old.” We followed her down the hall. “This morning, I gave little Freddy some time in our arts and crafts room to see if he had a creative streak.”

She’d locked me in the spare classroom, alone, because I kicked her in the shins — I was certain it was her. I was sure she was Dorothy’s Wicked Witch.

“He destroyed the room with three gallons of red paint meant for the outside. Come here, dearies.” She opened the door to the windowless art room.

My mom’s eyes widened and took in the panorama. “It looks like someone was murdered here,” she said, while I was thinking, more blood.

“We’ll never get this cleaned up! Your son may end up a housepainter like…ahem, that German feller with the little mustache. Look at this mess. I thought it over and well,” Mrs. Hamilton  said scratching the hairy mole on her chin, “You’ll have to find young Freddy another school. I think that he may be a danger to the other children.”

My mother looked around. There were no other children. “Where are the others?” Mom was staring at an old straw broom against a tall stack of red splattered boxes, labeled ‘Gingerbread Cookies.’

Nervous, my mom turned to me. “Freddy, tell your teacher that you’re sorry. Do it now.”

“Mommy! She hit me!” I lied, rubbing make-believe  tears.

“ Is that true, Freddy?” My mom stared at the harridan.

Before I could lie to my own mother, again, Ms. Hamilton said,“For such a little gentleman, Freddy tells very tall tales.” Then, adding an evil eye, she continued, “He’s got some imagination, I’m saying.”

“Are you calling my boy a liar? Just a few moments ago you called him a little Hitler!”

I kept my lip zipped as I was already in enough trouble.

“Let’s go.” Suddenly, my mother grabbed my hand and marched me away from the school, no doubt saving me from becoming one of Mrs. Hamilton’s gingerbread cookies. We were about to pass Poseidon when an idea struck me. I turned back to Mrs. Hamilton and said, “My mom says that you should be friendly to the statue!”

“If you sinners like that awful thing so much, take it home with you!”

My mom picked Poseidon up and held him in her arms like a newborn. “C’mon, Freddy.” She propelled us home, away from the Beach. She looked worried.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

Wind and rain had been building since we’d started walking. By the time we reached the tall brick stairway that led up to our house the rain began to sweep horizontally. The tall pine tree in front was rocking wildly. Mom rushed me up the stairs and into the hallway as the sky began to turn black. She turned to secure the potted plants, slipped on the top step, and cut open her ankle.

The wicked witch did this! I thought. Angry, I shook my stuffed dog at the lightning.

My mom had forgotten about my decorating and fibbing. She was in pain when she pushed me into my room. “Play your records, Freddy. I’ll be right back” She held back tears as she closed my door. At my bedroom window, I saw the churning clouds and, hidden within, the bearded face of Poseidon.

I ran to the front hall and hugged the statue. There and then I promised the god my prized Patti Page record, “How Much is that Doggy in the Window?” if  he would help my mommy. I’d played the record two-thousand times and had already moved on to hipper music, ‘Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier.’

Poseidon must have been a Patti Paige fan, because ten minutes later the sea god had washed the Hamilton School into the grey Atlantic wielding a mighty hurricane that bore my mom’s name, Claire.

anitas-hurricane-dark

 

The next morning, the record, along with my record player, were gone from my room. The floor was wet and sandy. “Mommy!” I yelled, a little frightened. I calmed after recalling what I’d done.

My dad, tired, had returned from his business trip to find that the storm had washed our pine tree, westward into Jamaica Bay. After lunch, mom told dad about my mischief at the School and our hurricane adventure. Dad paused, stood up tall, removed the smelly cigar from his mouth and, looking down, told me that he was proud I’d learned a very important life lesson that he himself used in business.

“Lesson?” I asked, having no idea what a lesson was, or life was, or business was.

“When you need something done right, young man,” my dad said with a wink, “you must always, always go straight to the top.”

Freddy Deutsch, Age 4

Far Rockaway Beach, 1954

The Tragic Life and Death of Igorrina

The Tragic Life and Death of Igorrina  

 

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“I’m bored,” said young Mina, who sat with her face in her hands.

“Me too. Can we go now?” asked the whiny, childish 20-year-old Jonathan while plunking on his dreadfully-out-of-tune guitar.

“Oh, children. I thought that you were enjoying our picnic,” said the very adult and reprehensi… I mean, responsible Countess Elizabeth. 

“There’s hardly anything left of Nic to pick on,” moaned Mina.

“You kids these days,” Elizabeth continued. “Let me tell you a story about patience. There was once a lonely little girl named Igorrina who lived just down the road in the haunted forest.”

“Is there any other kind of forest?” asked Mina.

“No. Now listen, my children of the night. Igorinna, who couldn’t even find a friend to play Toe Tag with, was convinced that there was nothing in her future. So, not giving a damn,  she always took her futen time doing things. She was never in a big hurry to go…anywhere. 

One day, Igorinna decided that she’d had enough of this world. She tied the end of a rope around the neck that connected her useless head to her nondescript body and the other end of the rope to a young spruce tree, determined to stay there until either death took her away or her dream-boy Prince Charmin’ arrived on his white steed to rescue her from her misery. Even the local wolves, lynx, and bears found Igorinna uninteresting and unappetizing. Poor Igorrina spent most of her life tied to that spruce tree in Hoia-Baciu Forest, watching the bats and ghosts fly by in the evening, while protected only by vicious badgers who lived in the dens that circled her. 

Why did they protect her? The badgers didn’t care for Igorrina, but were curious to see what might happen to her in the end. They kept her minimally fed with worms, grubs, and insects. Over time, Igorrina had begun to grow old and ugly while tied to the same branch of that same tree for forty-five years until …”

“Until what, Countess?” asked Jonathan. “A handsome woodsman came along?”

“Fah!” said Uncle Vlad.

“A knight in shining armor?” asked Mina.

“Fat futin’ chance!” said Elizabeth. “You children can be so gruesome.”

“Of course! The handsome prince!” said Granny Lupta Axe.

“No vay,” said Vlad. “Prince Charmin’, the ass vipe, never showed up.”

Elizabeth continued. “So, sad Igorrina sat, leaning against the tree trunk until, you know, one lovely grey day the spruce finally grew tall enough…tall enough to slowly pull Igorrina up by her neck and hang her.”

“No guano! That is so cool,” said Jonathan.

“Talk about patience!” said Mina.

“You kids should see her,” said Elizabeth. “Igorrina can wear a choker, a string of pearls, a locket, and ten necklaces…all at once!”

Vlad’s eyes seemed to catch fire. His mustache bristled. “Fute patience!” He pounded the table. “I vant all of the wisitors and tourists out of my castle! Now!”

“Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass.” — from Bughouse (Halloween 2017)

Art by Anita Benson Bradley!

Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass.” 

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Because 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.

Anita's bald family copy

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.

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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.

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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.’  

Balthizar 2

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.”

The Origins of the Sawney Beane Clan: The Family that Preys Together

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The Family that preys together

(The Sawney Beane family lived on the Scottish coast of Galloway in the fourteenth century. For over twenty-five years the fiendish clan robbed and ate wayward visitors while living in a coastal cave hidden by the rough surf of the untamed northern Atlantic.)

In the jolly bonnie merry auld 17th century, where the jolly green hills of bonny auld Scotland meet the Jolly auld *Southern Sea, there once lived a very large, jolly, close — very close — family called the Beanes. They lived together at the furthest edge of the southern coast of bonnie Galloway. It was here, beneath the craggy cliffs, beside that cold, gray dreary windswept sea, that the happy Beane clan snuggled every night deep within their warm and fuzzy cave.

And it was in the close proximity of that same warm, fuzzy, snuggly, cuddly, boodgey-woodgey cave, that the Beanes kidnapped, robbed and ate perhaps thousands of “wayfaring human meals on the hoof” for over twenty-five years.

The father and leader of the clan was a big, brawny, toothy, red bearded charmer of Viking descent. His “loving” parents had named him Sawney Eric Beane. The soon-to-be-dreaded Sawney was born within a few miles of Edinburgh during reign of King James the 6th.

Sawney’s own father, Haas, who had married a winsome lass named Naier, was a poor, broken vegetable farmer with a terrible scarred face. Haas, who had raised potatoes on his farm by the “doon” near the “burn” near the meadow’s of heather had become literally afraid of all meat.

Legend says, that Ol…I mean … Auld Haas had been kicked in the head by a bull that he had been cooking, alive, in an open pit barbecue. Sawney and his dear old mum witnessed the incident when Haas, who “just couldn’t wait for the animal to die before he stuck his big stupid head into the pit for a bite,” thus setting his tar-coated beard aflame. Even the lice, living in the tangled coarse mat were smart enough to get away from the heat and bailed. Other assorted and providential vermin were sent sailing from Haas’s beard and into the air when the slightly peeved bovine kicked Haas” literally across his nearly vacant bean.

Haas and Naier Beane became strict vegetarians for the rest of their lives.

At a very early age, Haas’ only son, Sawney, quickly began to tire of his family’s vegetable fare of fungi and potatoes, potatoes and weeds, bark and potatoes and pebbles, bark, roots and potato with fried twigs, sand and mold. When all of the other families were dreaming of sugar plums all snug in their beds, the wee lad would sneak out of his bedroom, clutching his favorite stuffed potato, to hungrily search for rats within the families modest home. During the day, Sawney would hunt bunnies from Updock Bog, insects, and any other available protein.

The young boy began to show subtle traits of viciousness and cunning while still a shiny faced lad. Once, while in a mischievous mood, he ate the neighbors daughter,, and then when asked by local magistrates about her sudden disappearance, “blamed the savage attack on his pet dog Feedo, the pooch already famous for eating Sawney’s tedious homework. Since the excuse seemed plausible enough, the ten pound Scotch terrier puppy, was humanely put to sleep, by Sawney’s uncle Howya Beane, with 150 decibel bagpipe blasts in both of it’s ultra-sensitive fwoppy wittew doggy ears.

* The Southern Sea is historically the same sea that untrustworthy Bonnie lied over. Could never trust her.

Shark Week is Upon us…and it won’t cost you an arm and a leg.

https://www.amazon.com/Bloody-Good-True-Shark-Stories-ebook/dp/B00DU48RTY/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8Cover Bloody Good 2013https://www.amazon.com/Bloody-Good-True-Shark-Stories-ebook/dp/B00DU48RTY/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

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