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And Then Things Got Weird….

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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.

The Further Adventures of the Cannibalistic Sawney Beane Clan.

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(An excerpt from Shark Fin Soup — A tale of sharks, cannibals, gods and true love.) 

The Beane Stalkers

Once Magistrate Wallass had been given the description of the two trampled Beane children with their unicorn pony, everything suddenly came together in his mind…. Missing people, pickled parts near the beaches where the mysterious Beanes were sometimes spotted. Wallass quickly dispatched a Guaranteed-Over-Month-Delivery message to King James to request reinforcements. 

Wallass needed at least a hundred men to deal with the large Beane family. The outraged King himself joined his best officers plus 400 of his personal guard to deal with this threat to decency and local tourism.

Two months later, The King’s men “immediately” began to sweep the Galloway area.  While patrolling the rocky shore near the cave, search dogs began to howl. The scent of death hovered in the approaching thick fog. Some of the hounds began to dig through the wet sand near the water covered entrance of the cave. As the soldiers rode along the shoreline the tide started to recede. Within an hour the saturated blood-soaked sandstone arch of the cave entrance, and a terrible stench was revealed (Would you like flies with that?).

With flaming torches and swords drawn, the Kings men began to experience the living quarters of “a really unique group of individuals.”

Within the glimmering light of their torches, the damp walls of the cave revealed human body parts-not hung like the spoiled sides of beef on rusty old hooks as in Connor’s Meat Shop-but tastefully displayed, in glorious tableaus, much like one would find painted on the side of an ancient erotic Greek vase. The ghostly glow of the soldier’s torches, divulged bundles of fine clothes and piles of jewelry in many side rooms.

Then little Sprout’s own treasure room was discovered. “Sprout’s Mountain of Bones” the crude sign on the draped door proudly announced (Sprout had learned to read while wandering through victim’s belongings). Inside the cavernous room an amazing sculpture, resembling “a terrible fearsome fish” was displayed as if in a modern natural history museum. It was a grotesque 90 foot monstrosity that had been growing and growing, bone by human bone, for over 8 years.

The terrible Fish Goddess Urtha, also known as Egad.

Count your Beanes

Since they were a very “close” family, the authorities found all 48 Beanes (Yes, there were many new Beaney babies), together in the Great Dining Hall. They had prepared themselves a great “Stew”-Lord Stewart of Gahoolie, and were busy eating him at the Great Round Dinner Table. They did not notice the intrusion of the 400 party crashers.

The quiet family dinner suddenly erupted into chaos when one of the hidden King’s men accidentally passed gas and other soldiers started to groan and chuckle within the shadows.

The Hell’s Angles Motorcycle Club (Architects) Meet the Vampires on the road to Poenari Castle. ^^ö^^ ^^*^^

1. 4x7 BATS 8-25 MAP Print Proof Flattened w Rose V3 copy

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!”

“What?”

“A mechaphile, Countess,” said Onan.

Jonathan turned to Elizabeth, “Morris wants to make love to your car, Countess.”

“Seriously?”

“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.”

“Toilet seat.”

“Seat.” 

“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.

From my novel BATS ^^ö^^: Jonathan’s Ride to Poenary Castle, Transylvania

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Poenari Castle’s broken silhouette passed hundreds of feet above Jonathan, framed by the rising moon and the black branches reaching out in “velcome.” The handsome laid back, mellow, and easygoing smasher-of-heads-against-breakwaters-and-pavement ex-lifeguard peered through the glass, breathless. The rain, thick as plasma, began to block his view from the taxi.

Despite the increasingly narrow passages, looming mountains and biblical weather, he texted Mina another time.

Bună ziua! (Good evening!) I am now in Romania near Poenari Castle. Up until now there has been no actual Wi-Fi. Earlier the driver, who wears a black  mask, told me about a free service called Si-Fi that has to do with antennas placed on, of all things, bats! I am well. In fact, I am even cooler than I was last month…and that’s pretty cool!

Cele mai bune urări (Best wishes),

Jonathan

The driver looked into the rear-view mirror and wondered, Is my passenger still…alive? He turned his head 360 degrees around, then another 180 degrees toward Jonathan and asked, “Are you there…sir? Let it be known, young sir, that breathing can attract a variety of…undesirables.” In the Prince’s hemorrhaging neck of the woods, breathing was regarded as overrated.

A long exhalation of foul human breath rushed from the backseat.

What the heaven has this human been eating? Plants? “Look, young sir!” said the driver. “Ve’re almost home! Ve’ll get you some real food.”

“I’m on a vegetarian diet, sir. I no longer eat anything with a face.”

Oy. Vun of those! The driver thought. “No problem young man! You can alvays rip the face off first.”

“Driver? Do you know where I can find a Mr. Karoly Tepesthe? He has some money put aside for me.”

The driver only belched.

“You didn’t eat him, did you?” Jonathan joked.

“No. I didn’t, sir. Haven’t you heard about Mr. Tepesthe’s terrible accident?”

“Oh, no. No, I haven’t.”

“Apparently Karoly was on his way home from the bank after he withdrew a million dolari in cash, tripped, and stumbled onto a very sharp twenty-foot pole—sorry, of course you couldn’t have heard. It doesn’t happen until tomorrow.”

Feeling All Willowy an’ Sh*t (BATS ^^ö^^)

When two psychopaths fall in love…..

BATS

I feel so “willowy” today, Mina thought. I’m young, blonde, thin, and springtime fresh! (She wasn’t that young.)

(Imagine, young 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 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 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 chick magnetizers.

“I am willowy,” Mina said. “You could blow me away with a fart.”

He 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.”

The willowy one was holding her breath, deep in thought, recalling a favorite quote. “Das Vaterland,” she finally exhaled to the flowers that she had picked on her way toward the top of the hill. She looked up toward the handsome singer. “‘Once again the songs of the fatherland roared to the heavens along the endless marching columns.’”

“Who said that?” asked Jonny.

“Hitler.”

“I’ve heard that Adolf was a vegetarian. Are you a vegetarian?”

“Mostly. I don’t eat much. If I farted I might…”

“…blow yourself away. I mean, do you eat any meat at all, fair one?”

“I once bathed in the blood of a friend’s placenta after I’d helped her give birth. My guru, Clem Choudhury, suggested it. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He was so beautiful. He told me that placenta is good for the complexion. That changed my life forever. Today I have my own business manufacturing my own brand of skincare products.”

Placentae.”

“What?”

“Sorry, the Latin plural for placenta is placentae. During the school year I study language and sometimes teach Elizabethan literature. This summer I’m just a cool, handsome lifeguard in Santa Monica. Can I be your prince, fair maiden? Where would you like to rule, my lady?”

“Hungary. My parents came here from a part of Hungary that is now part of Slovakia. I’ll be going over there soon for business. Someone is very interested in my products. I may look up some of my original family.”

PART 2

05 Brunehilda Flattened Web-2

“I may also travel to Europe soon. I’m researching a book and have applied, long ago, for grants. I’m a fan of eighteenth-century Romanticism.”

Shortly after the two young people exchanged emails, Facebook pages, phone numbers, Twitter and Linkedin accounts, and just about anything short of bodily fluids, the afternoon’s peace was shattered.

Two weekend bikers broke the silence of the Sunday afternoon as they approached the hill on a thundering Harley. They both wore blue jean outfits. The woman’s tattoo-covered flab was spilling out of her short-sleeved vest and shorts.

“Oh, look! Grizzly slobs,” Jonathan said to Mina. “You look like a Salvador Dali painting,” said the make-believe James Taylor to the weekend-biker mama, a sixty-year-old monstrosity with sagging tattoos, named Brutehilda.

 

“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.”

“Fuckin’ punk.”

“He’s gonna be a prince and I’m gonna be his princess someday,” said the willowy Mina.

“Oh reeeeally? 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 cosmetics saleswoman, turned to the woman on the bike. “I can perk up that skin 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. The sinking ship tattoo on Brutehilda’s arm became buoyant. The weeping willow tree on her thigh instantly became a proud oak, pointing toward 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. This countess 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.

“This jar is on me. I’m bringing my ingredients to Slovakia. The Countess says that she’ll 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 else you’ve got,” said Brutehilda. “Maybe we’ll see you over there.”

“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 Bruthilda. That would be quite a hike.” He tried to suppress a laugh.

“Orrrrrrrr…unless your dainty T. rex stands 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 Brutehilda for a reaction, knowing that she could have pounded either of them into the ground like a fence post for the way that they were talking about her.

They other three joined Chester the Jester in a hearty laugh. (Hardy fuckin’ har har.) There was nothing particularly funny said that afternoon in Santa Monica, it’s just that the biker couple had been tooting nitrous oxide (laughing gas or N2O/O2) continuously. Chester and Brutehilda, who had a dentist brother, always inhaled a tankful on Sundays, before they cruised the Pacific Coast Highway.

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