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Prey-Lewd (Intro from BATS ^^ö^^)

Prey-Lewd

(Enemy Territory) Another unwanted tour bus invades Damnalot, Transylvania

unnamed

art by Fred Barnett

Čachtice, Slovakia (Formerly Hungary)

Inside his melon-sized head, the bus driver heard the menacing voice of Boris Karloff: “Even your buth is dead, Kimo.”

Please! Anywhere but here. Not in front of creepy Čachtice Castle, thought the Type A Tours driver with the name tag: ‘Aloha, My name is Big Kimo.’ 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Kimo announced, “we may be here awhile, so you can get out of the bus, walk around a little and stretch if you like.”

Bats and huge fanged moths — the kind that would happily eat your shorts—with you in them — were attracted to the lights within the bus and began pounding themselves against the windows. Anyone who was about to ‘go outside and stretch’ quickly gave up on the foolish idea.

“Look, driver!” Someone stood and pointed out of the right side of the bus. Big Kimo couldn’t see anything, at first.

“It’s a lady!” said a British woman in back.

Oh, boy…and she has dogs!” said her son.

Four shadows trotted from the parked Bats Mobile and took their places behind the Countess. *12112405_10207686432867883_3500608364248925822_n 2

 

They held baskets in their mouths.

Sure enough, a tall beautiful woman was approaching the bus from the car. She was bathed in moonlight. She wore a bouffant hairdo and a checkered blue homemakers dress straight out of the 1950s. The lovely redhead waved at Kimo through the closed door. She held up a pitcher of an ice-cold beverage and a stack of Dixie Cups. He relaxed.

“Oh goody, goody!” a child in the front seat squealed. “The nice lady brought us Kool-Aid!”

What the tourists thought was rain, started to hit the windows. The drops were plague tears. The sound of the wind was a sickening wheeze.

“Let her in, driver! The poor woman’s blouse is soaked,” a woman from Ireland called out. All of the men were suddenly interested. “It must be the lady of the house,” she said.

I hope it isn’t the lady of the house, thought Kimo. The 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 tall beauty, a very well-put-together June Cleaverhe thought, stepped up into the bus taking a wide stance in front in of the passengers. The “nice lady,” wet, was 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. June Cleaver!” Elizabeth Bathory, The Bloody Countess lied.

Kimo was taken back. Cleaver? Why don’t I like that name?

Her 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 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 falling tears of regret and moaning thunder, and decided that he didn’t like the size of those dogs. They were very well behaved and they were all wearing white kerchiefs. No, those are bibs! Cleaver. Cleaver. The name still made him nervous.

“We’re proud of our Fritz Haarmann cutlery,” said the perky housewife. “Mr. Haarmann was originally a meat salesman from Germany, but now he makes and tests his fine cutlery products right here in Transylvania.” She smiled at the man sitting in front of her. “Are you from Germany, sir? Then you would certainly appreciate the craftsmanship. I mean, just look at this beautiful cleeeeeeeeaver!” The big bald German didn’t understand one word. While he smiled up at the outline of her ‘chilled’ nipples above, she took aim on his shiny head. She raised her cleaver, “Just feel this edge!”

Soon, Mrs. 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 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.

(*Photo from the glamorous Shauna Lee)

Grey Matter : An excerpt from Bats ^^ö^^


 

JPEG Final Tragic Mountain LARGE FLATTENED copy

 

Elizabeth, dressed in her sweats, was flying casual laps around the turrets of Poenari. She thought back upon her brilliant plan from hours before.

There was that motorcycle gang that had passed my castle at Čachtice a few days ago. Gang? “Those fat old farts!!!!!!!!!!!!!” The only exercise that those porkers ever get is twisting a throttle and lifting a can of beer!!! What the fute was I thinking?!

A week ago Dr. Osândă had told her, “You must calm down, Countess. In times of stress, take a deep breath and focus only on the good.” The eminent psychiatrist had said this ten seconds before Elizabeth eviscerated him, while searching for the suspected broom handle lodged up his rectului.

Elizabeth tried to calm herself down as she sailed through the cool night. Yes, she needed to think positively. She took a deep breath and thought about utilizing the biker gang again. Gang?

“Those fat old farts!” she repeated. Elizabeth was proud of herself. That was much better. Calm, she thought, and with a dozen fewer exclamation marks than the first time .

***

In the final hour of sleep Vlad had moved to the rafters, where he hung upside down to restore blood flow, from his nether regions, back to his head, which may have ruptured after the fireplace romp with the Countess. In a dream, he flew beside the Poenari walls, counting the impaled bodies of his ancient enemies.

Elizabeth had returned from her night flight wide awake and sizzling . Excitement always made her smell like bacon. She put on her fireproof negligee and walked back down to the cool waters of the River Styx. “Hmmm. What the…?” The bats were crawling upon the yeti-skin rug where she and Vlad had made love earlier. “Hey, what are you kids up to?” she asked the colony.

“Occipital lobes,” they squeaked. “Nommy, nommy, nom, nom.”

She noticed that they were feasting upon small bits of gray matter that had leaked out of both vampires’ pointy ears and were scattered about the snow-white fur. “Unholy guano!” Elizabeth needed to wake Vlad. It was time to break out the good stuff. After six hundred years, the couple had just reached a milestone in their love life: We megbaszed our kibaszott brains out!

The Countess howled up through the tunnels and up toward the battlements to wake her lover. She yearned to tell him about her big plan to save their home, the bats, and oh, what a lovely mess they’d made. It would take something nuclear to really clean that yeti rug.

The disgusted Grim Reaper (I am not your blessed maid!”) had already threatened to resign last night.

*** Adorned in matching…

Barnett, Fred. Bats (Kindle Locations 1906-1930). . Kindle Edition.

 

Forget Passover. We’re having leftovers.

01 Plague Season for Web

From the novel BATS ^^ö^^

Chapter 6: Plague Season:

Young Jonathan Tepes visit’s his great-great-great-great-great grandfather Vlad Tepes Dracula. After being questioned by the two gargoyles on top of the drawbridge during Plague Season, in full swing, outside, Jonathan finally meets old Vlad.

“Speaking of bats,” asked Jonathan, “what kind of bats were those outside?””

“Ve don’t have…bats. Those vere mosquitos. Big vuns! Velcome home, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson! Those bats that ve don’t have, do you find them…scary?”

“No. Not scary, sir.” Tired of scrunching his eyelids together, Jonathan took his phone out of his pocket and turned on the candle app called Fliqer that simply displayed a video of a burning candle.

(Eleven-year-old Myron Frickleberg designed Fliqer for rock fans to wave around in the air, like a lighter, during rock ‘n’ roll anthems. Fliqer became a standard for informal candlelit dinners and Myron quickly became a millionaire.)

By the eerie glow of his Fliqer app, Jonathan saw his nefarious ancestor Vlad the Impaler for the first time.

Wow! he thought. The old sucker could be my twin if it weren’t for that silly porn mustache—and he’s evil and much older and not as cool as I am.

Behind the Prince, propped against the wall, Jonathan saw the form of a corpse dressed in a butler’s uniform.

“Follow me into my dining room. There is better light for…reading. The Prince lit his phone’s candle app named Happy Birthday. He opened a hidden section of wall that revealed a long staircase that led into a basement. He spoke as they descended hundreds of feet below the earth. “I vas told by my aunty, who is a vorld-renowned vriter, that you vere seeking out great letters of love and loss. Years ago, a beaten man came to my door. He had been attacked by a rabid badger vhile valking near my castle. Before he collapsed at my feet, he vhispered the name Penelope. I found these letters in his pocket and recognized their significance immediately. The whole vorld had been following the correspondence between Lord Huthbert and Lady Penelope for two centuries. I have…in my possession, the original copy of the final letter sent to Lady Penelope, vherever she is now, dated May 31, 1784.”

“No way!”

“Vay.”

Jonathan gulped. “Thank you, sir. I can finish my work.”

“No, young Jonathan. As Karen Carpenter, that cute little skeleton, alvays sang, ‘Ve’ve only just begunnnnnnn.’”

Apparently, Vlad was as tone-deaf as his kin Jonathan.

“I hear that you vere looking for my banker Karoly. He got a little hung up, but your own father told me to make sure that I gave you…your inheritance.” 

“From his last will?”

“His most recent vill, anyvays. Catch.”

The Prince flung a roll of moldy cash that landed in Jonathan’s hand.

 

 

Here’s What You Do With a Drunken Sailor.

New Shark Fin Titled

Meanwhile in Long Beach, California… 

Here’s What You Do With a Drunken Sailor.

“It’s only me, from across the sea said Barnacle Balls the Sailor.”

The evil MacHeath hired a detective, Captain ‘Marlin’ Bill, friend with a great and sensitive snout, to follow Dauna’s (his love’s) pheromone trail across the Pacific. The captain sang as he anchored his boat, The Kegger on a small sand bar near  California’s Anna Copulata Island. That is where he had ‘sniffed out’ the shark goddess asleep at the edge of the water. Bill grabbed a net and sung a line from Minnie the Mermaid, “We lost our morals among the corals,” as he staggered toward her.

#

At noon, Dauna had found herself a quiet sand bar outside of San Pedro. A place  to rest before heading into the insanity of LA.

Upon the soft sand, with the water gently lapping at her tail, Dauna had fallen asleep.

Tales of mermaids abound. Some sport the tail of a codfish. Dauna, the Fijian shark goddess, in transition from fish to human form, was sporting the lower half — the deadly sword-like tail — of a thresher shark.

Dauna’s long, smooth, rear end kept a slow, rhythmical sway in the cool shallow water. The phantom image of a human wearing funny shorts — the tourist who visited her island — kept finding his way into her dreams.

While Dauna dreamt, her head turned and her eyes squinted to get a different  perspective of the strange human that she’d met before leaving her island home.“Bula, my name is Bernie,” his I.D. tag said. It had been foretold by the island’s crone, that the human with the cheesy Bermuda shorts would save her people. (Humans. Ugh.) Sure they’d have a few laughs, a coupla’ drinks, maybe even a dance or two. And afterward, well, she would chomp on him and wash him down with a hot aromatic cup of ‘A Rocket Up Your Ass,’ her newest coffee blend.  Despite the recent demise of her arranged-marriage husband, Bunji, on the way toward their honeymoon destination only a few days earlier, the journey to California remained important. During the long swim across the Pacific, she’d been contemplating the book Eat, Prey, Spawn — Seeking the predator within. Dauna felt Oprah- style empowered as she swam toward her destiny. 

As she lay face down, a hand began to rub her back. Sensing alarm, she awoke to the scent of dead mackerel, a whiff of peppermint schnapps, beer, Southern Comfort, Seagrams, tobacco, BO and urine, almost hiding the unmistakable scent of “long pig.” A filthy human hand dares to touch me!

Dauna felt the stranger’s shadow looming above, but kept herself still.

Even it’s shadow smelled bad. The disgusting thing was standing behind her, trying to … A net?

Yes, a net. Captain Bill suddenly threw a heavy section of fish netting over her head, and with compulsory drooling, he began to run his hands over the rest of her still half-fish body. He began calling her “his prize” and “his fortune.” He squatted next to her with the intent of lifting the sleeping mermaid into his boat.

She was dead weight, and he was too drunk to budge her.

“Damn! Well, what doooo we have here?” Bill whispered in her ear. “I’ve been following you, my fine little filet. Your boyfriend Mr. MacHeath, told me to look after you! I should take you home with me, and stuff you.” He began to stumble backward but managed to stay standing. “Maybe I’ll sell you to a fuggin’ museum.” Bill was now trying to unzip the button fly on his pants. Wait a goddamn second, babeeeee. How do fuggin’ mermaids make wookie, anyways?” 

Before he could jam his filthy hands into the sand beneath her human breasts, Dauna’s scythe-shaped tail swiftly raised itself from the sand and sliced off Bill’s pickled head. The graceful tail quickly transformed into shapely human legs. She stood and tossed the net aside. Take a breath Dauna.

Fully human now, Dauna checked out her fine ass in the reflection of Bill’s sunglasses. She put the glasses on, stripped the captain of his shirt and pants, slipped them on and dragged the headless body across the sand, back to The Kegger. Eighty-proof blood poured from the man’s throat like a spigot. Dauna, a five-foot-four powerhouse, lifted the fisherman’s body by its feet, smashed it against the side of the cabin and spilled the remaining guts on the deck. — All this before Bill’s pickled, brain, bobbing jauntily in the shore-break had a chance to spark its last.

Dauna tossed the head onto a pile of rocks for the harbor seals to play ball with. She sliced and diced the captain with an axe she found aboard and fed the bite-sized chunks pieces to the starving tuna imprisoned in the vessel’s hold. In the crowded tank, over a dozen large fish swam in patient circles around Bill‘s cold beers.

“Let’s have lunch!” Dauna said, tossing scraps and drinking a beer. “Sorry I couldn’t give you something better. Don’t get too drunk off of CAPTAIN FUCKFACE! And before you go home, pick yourselves a designated swimmer.”

Bill’s excess trimmings were tossed overboard for the crabs. The moment that the tuna were done eating, Dauna released her blitzed, but satiated new friends back into Mother Ocean.

“The word ‘dispatch’ came to mind. I like that word. I just dispatched that two legged pile of detritus! Dauna downed a beer screamed to the heavens in her loudest booziest whoriest voice. “Hey MacHeath, you asshole, wherever you are. I just killed your SCHEISSE FUR GEHIRNE (shit for brains) captain! Just call me the FUCKIN’ DISPATCHA!”

Dauna fired up The Kegger’s engine and swerved in the direction of LA and destiny.

Fish often “vocalize” through a series of body movements and grunts.

That night, the school of stewed tuna belched, “I love you, man,” to their buds — between bouts of blowing gastric chunkage. The dudes didn’t seem to care that their freakin’ heads would be pounding major ass the next morning.

Wind. Fred Barnett. 3-21-18

(Painting) DAFUQUE, IOWA – Fred Barnett

Dafuque, Iowa 3-21-18 Fred Barnett

An Elegant in the Room (Updated 3-12-18)

There’s an Elegant in the Room

01 Artemis C27 copy

5:25 a.m. The Interpol Lounge, First floor

Artemis “happened” in the halls of the LAs Interpol offices on a pre-dawn Monday morning.

Sam, the Interpol bartender, was busy washing glasses when he saw the maritime compass on the wall leap into a wild spin. Magnetic storm, he thought, and dismissed the idea, thinking, Hell, this is California. The Interpol bar’s dim lights blinked and failed. Now what?

The bar’s patrons, the agents of Interpol, turned their attention toward the fading moonlight that filled the wide doorway. The moon goddess/goddess of the hunt, Artemis, strutted by the doorway, then backed up to check out the agent with the ‘gift,’ the one that Interpol called ‘the god whisperer.’ She wanted to see what the big deal was about Bernie Benedict, before she headed upstairs to meet with her new friend, the Fijian shark goddess, Dauna.

Artemis’ short white tunic barely covered her six-foot-six athletic body. Her midnight blue braid swung around her bare white shoulder as she turned her head in search of her prey. 

Wounded and calloused, Bernie Benedict, the agency’s newest ‘star’ and investigator of divine apparitions had started drinking with the pre-dawn crowd. He looked up when he saw his co-workers, of all sexes, wheel their heads toward the door. His eyes followed their slack-jawed rapture. Artemis’ dark eyes beamed only at Bernie.

There was silence. A question had popped into everyone’s mind: Why Bernie? In their minds, another word followed: Bastard!

Artemis took in a second look, and giggled as she turned to leave. Bernie didn’t know why he was thinking, Uh-oh. I’m fucked. Shooting stars spun from Sam’s compass on the wall behind the bar and followed the goddess’ mighty stride toward the elevator. Eyeballs collided in the hallway trying to give her twice and thrice-overs.

There was a collective sigh and exhale from the lounge. All the agents had seen her—though they weren’t sure exactly what it was that they saw. There were gasps and tears, as a trail of broken hearts, dreams and longing had lain down in surrender, more than willing, hoping, to die in her wake.

And it was still only 5:30 a.m.

Bernie’s partner, agent Frankie Samidino, had stopped in mid-drink to fill his baby blues. Wow-wee-wow-wow. He’d forgotten all about the two twin Interpol code-breakers, both named Sheila at his side. The Sheila’s were all that, but nowhere near the divine “all” or “that” as the Olympian goddess in the moonbeams. Artemis never had to work at it. She just was.

Pier Pressure (From Shark Fin Soup)

MoonGoddess

Bernie, who was now the god Cupcaecius, turned over on his back, looking very much like Cary Grant in the morning light. He smiled up at the very ‘fit’ moon goddess Artemis’ from the pier planks. She stood heroically astride him. He blinked. “New knickers, darling?” he asked.

“Good morning, moon pie,” Artemis said, ignoring his comment. She always gave a generous berth to infinite male stupidity. She stepped to the side so that she could keep her captive’s feeble attention. He was happy to see her wearing the white star-studded tunic that he’d seen her wearing the first time they’d met. The familiar long braid swung around her bare white shoulder. She turned to him. Her dark eyes twinkled with mischief and ‘hithering.’ “Listen to me, Cake. Now that you’re immortal, you cannot afford to forget that another god can still kill you.”

“Hmmmm.” Oh, my. Look at her. He hadn’t heard a single word that she said.

“I’m sorry that I made love to you to death,” she said suddenly.

Cupcaecius / Bernie was thinking, How would Cary Grant say it? He sat up rail straight and spoke. “The nerve, darling. You’ve made a laughing stock out of me in front of all of my close friends and associates. I’ll never be able to show my face at The Polo Lounge again. Do you seriously think that a mere apology can heal my damaged soul? Having relations with someone—to death—is serious, young lady!”

“I said I was sorry. I brought you back as a god, didn’t I.”

“Yes! But only so that Dauna could ‘be intimate’ with me—to death—again! Look at me, darling. I’m damaged!”

“Awwwwwwwww. You ungrateful φαλλός,” said Artemis. “By the way, nice slacks.”

“Thanks. Is my shirt still presentable? Never mind. Don’t either of you ladies feel any remorse? Well, Miss High-and-Mighty, Artemis, I’d like to see you try to RMTD (romance me to death) now that I have become, Cupcaecius! I dare you to MWWMTD (make whoopie with me to death). Let’s see who can MWTD (mate who to death) now!”

Bomba growled at the spoiled, handsome bastard who still managed to complain like a brat.

“The slaughter of your nemesis, Edwin MacHeath, was my wedding gift to you and Miss Sloppy Seconds”

“Sloppy Who?”

“Your waif of a wife. I had my way with you first,” said the proud and competitive Olympian, “So, I won. And, you turned out all right didn’t you?”

“I love that super-hero goddess stance, dear. What’s wrong?”

“You married her!” Artemis had backed up into the carved pirate statue near the cafe entrance and knocked it over. She whispered, “Shhhh. Your waif is coming! I wouldn’t want to see the mother hen-pecker get her panties all in a—too late.”

“Panties? I don’t have the time,” said Dauna smoking in the doorway. “Well, well, well look what the three slutty fate sisters blew in.”  

 

Mysteries of the Deep / Fred Barnett

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