Lupta Axe, the witch waved her cane and began to recite one of her famous stories:
“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!’”
Giant Tor turned to Chester. “Holy Swiss cheese, Chester!”
“Holy…It’s really her!” said Brutehilda.
Fuckin’ illiterates, thought Lupta.
“Yup. That’s Infinity Upton-Downes, alright,” 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 next to her deluxe Willie Wanker Bar Vibrator.
Seven-foot Tor bent down and kissed Lupta’s black heavy heeled shoes and began to bawl like a baby.
“Enough, my Swedish meatball. You kids won’t find the god-blessed Countess and Prince Vlad at home neither!”
“Of course they’re not home,” said Brutehilda. “Vlad the Impaler and Bathory the Bloody Countess died hundreds of years ago.”
Lupta pointed her crooked cane at the Challenger. “Do you see the hottie behind the wheel with red pinstripes in her hair and glowing boobs next to the guy with the funny mustache smoking god-knows-what-unfortunate-creature in his pipe while wiping the unicorn shit off of his shoe? Well, that’s them sitting in the car, turd loaf. You’re looking at the genuine Prince Vlad the Impaler Dracula Tepes,” (From behind the windshield, Vlad smiled and mimed “Hi!” as he lifted his Meerschaum pipe and eyebrows.) “and the Bloody Countess Elizabeth ‘Hot Wheels’ Bathory, the real deal.” (Elizabeth grinned like a bear trap while flashing her glowing red-hot nipples …. . .-.. .-.. —, which in Morse code translated to “Hello.” They even beeped.)
The Countess Elizabeth Bathory materialized outside of her car and smiled as she approached the Hell’s Angles Motorcycle Club. She smiled the same smile that drove Vlad to extinction nearly every night — Oh, how she loved to watch the Prince, blind with lust, batter himself to pieces against the battlements in a mayfly’s mating frenzy.
One biker, wider than he was tall, wearing thick glasses, black slacks, and a white dress shirt beneath his colors moved to the front of the group. “I…I’m Morris Weisman. At your service.”
“Weisman? You don’t look…”
“I don’t look what? Jewish?”
“No. You don’t look…Morris.”
The Countess licked her lips and winked at him. He blushed. Nice color, she thought. Juicy. I bet that any one of these bloated nerds could fill my entire bathtub to the brim with virgin blood.
Morris Weisman, standing next to a Harley Fatboy, continued, “Maybe I’m out of my league in the presence of such beauty, ma’am. Here’s my card. I do renovations for my architect buddies and I want to say that I really admire a set of nice headlights.” He was making Elizabeth very uncomfortable, staring so hard that he was practically looking through the Countess. — He was looking through her.
Vlad, holding a hand over the bump on his head, gasped. “Shall I kill this impudent little man for you, Snugglevumps?”
“Those headlights! Can I kiss them?” said Morris.
“What?! I mean vhat?!” Vlad fired back. His angry mustache started to flap wildly.
“The headlights, ma’am,” said Morris. “ I have to know. Is that a 1970 Barracuda?”
“Huh? Why? Uh… No,” said Elizabeth, a little shaken. “Challenger.”
“Wow!” continued the oblong man. “It’s a 1970 Challenger hemi. At first I thought it was a Barracuda. It does share some of the same components.”
“It’s a 1970 R/T 440 Magnum with the high-output 7.2L 440 cid Magnum big-block V8 engine.”
Morris trembled and fell to his knees and burst into tears of joy.
“Don’t mind Morris,” said a short saucer-shaped biker named Onan. “Morris is a mechaphile.”
“Oh! Morris is a mechanic?” said Elizabeth.
“Well, no, ma’am,” said Morris. “You might say that I really love cars.”
“A mechaphile,” said Onan.” You might say that Morris is into auto erotica!”
“A mechaphile, Countess,” said Onan.
Jonathan turned to Elizabeth, “Morris wants to make love to your car, Countess.”
“Seriously,” said Onan. “Morris is perfectly harmless. He burnt himself romancing the tailpipe of a Masurati Gran Turismo that had only been parked for five minutes.”
“Well, that’s some sick shit,” said Lupta the witch.
“You’re hired,” said Vlad D. Impaler.
“Yeah! We bad, little mama!” said Morris.
“I’m bad too, Countess!” said a Dane named Magnus, who respectfully bowed down on one knee. He began to cry tears of shame and had a confession to make. “I…I don’t bring my own shopping bags!”
Another biker bowed. A Norwegian named Hakon. Shaking, he also confessed. “I don’t signal when I turn!”
“I…I leave the seat up,” said someone somewhat shamefully from the back of the crowd.
“Me too! I leave the toilet seat up!”
“Toilet seat, also.”
“Don’t listen to these wimps, Countess!” said a handsome Swede name Sigurd. “I cut farts and blame the dog.”
“You’ll tag along in back,” said Vlad.
The confessions went on for ten minutes.
“I steal ketchup packets from McDonalds!”
“I remove furniture tags!”
“Me, Tor…” (Knowing Tor’s vicious reputation, the crowd paused in anticipation) “I do not place my dirty dishes in the dishwasher!”
Fists shot up! Mighty war cries echoed across Bicaz Canyon.
Lupta, standing on the roof of the Bats Mobile, pointed her cane at the Angles. Thin sparks covered the hairy crowd beneath a web of light. “You are going to be bad!” She squeaked. “Timeout bad!”
“Sleep on the couch bad?” someone asked.
“Yes! Go-to-bed-without-dessert bad!” replied the Crone. “Who is the baddest among you all?”
“My husband Siegfried is on our local board of education,” said Inga. “It’s because of him that our kids are now given healthy snacks in school!”
“You bastard! I’ll fucking kill you and your family!” someone yelled. They shuddered. The bikers were confronting the faces of true evil among their own ranks. They’d never met genuine demons. Slack-jawed, they nearly froze beneath a sudden downpour of cold sweat.