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…And Then Things Got Weird….

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BATS (The novel. Soon to be named BATSHIT) Sample: Cailfornia Screamin.’

Chapter 3: California Screamin’

It was a hot July morning in California. Jonathan had just begun his new day job as a temporary lifeguard at Santa Monica Beach. After opening up the No. 4 lifeguard station’s window panels, he walked down the tower’s wooden gangplank to check out the large south swell rolling over the breakwater near the old pier.

The currents were strong. There would be little time for playing his guitar and posing, regardless of how bitchin’ he looked. It was going to be a busy day, thought the young lifeguard and literature student who had been finishing up his research project — “Huthbert and Penelope: The World’s Most Tragic Love Story—Up Until Freida Kahlo’s Ill-Fated Eyebrows Met in Mexico City in 1915.” Another dream was to be like James Taylor and find the perfect chick-magnetizing chord.

Imagine, dear readers, that it was a perfect summer’s morn in Santa Monica, when Lupta Axe, the world’s best witch, studied young Jonathan Tepes as he readied the lifeguard station in the bright mid-day sun. The crone strolled down the beach, shielding herself with a black umbrella and a tattered black shawl. She approached the lifeguard tower and tapped her crooked cane on the ramp. Jonathan, seeing her, moved inside of the tower and began to sign and shuffle blank papers as if he were actually doing something. The witch realized the he was avoiding her gaze by faking work and decided, Ah, fute it!, she’d return later. She continued to curse everyone and everything (“Muthafotensfiudecățeanemernici!”) as she hobbled along the hot sand toward the Ferris wheel at the top of Santa Monica Pier. For Lupta, cursing was akin to singing.

Thank goodness she’s gone, Jonathan thought. Creepy old bat, like something right out of a Grimm’s fairy tale.

Near noon, the Crone walked back to Jonathan’s lifeguard tower, wearing a black one-piece bathing suit with the black shawl covering her head. By this time the beach was overflowing with people. On the beach, The Crone was not at all daunting, as she must have weighed less than sixty pounds—soaking wet.

An angry blonde teen pressing the unfastened top of her bikini against her perky breasts followed the black shadowy figure across the hot sand. She, in turn, was being followed by every set of male eyes on the beach.

“Hey, lifeguard! This old bitch…”

“Witch!” snapped Lupta Axe.

“This old bitch threw ice cubes…”

“Spat,” said the Crone.

“This old bitch threw…”

“Spat!”

“…ice on my back just so everyone on the beach would see my …”

“Really?” Jonathan tried to avert his gaze. “Now, why would this little old woman throw ice water on you?” Pervert.

“IIIIIIII spat on her, rahat-pentru-creier (shit-for-brains)!” said Lupta.

“Spat on her? Was she bothering you?”

“She was going to,” said the crow-like figure in black.

“No I wasn’t! Can’t you arrest her or shoot her or something?” the perfect beach bunny asked while pointing to the Crone.

“I’m sure she’s just a harmless …,” Jonathan said.

“Hey! You look like what’s-his-name!” said the bunny.

Jonathan nodded and said, “I know. James Taylor. When he had hair.”

“I was going to say Vlad the Impaler. I’m reading this graphic novel about him. Tragic Lust. Prince Vlad was a hero. See?” The girl showed Jonathan the cover. “Isn’t Vlad dreamy? My friends at school think that he’s phat. Except for that dumb mustache.”

“I look like him? I look fat? Look at this ten pack!”

The Crone turned to the young girl. “Oh! Tragic Lust? Such a fine historical novel. It’s all true, you know, nubile nymph. My name is Lupta Axe, dearie. I was just pranking you because I’m the fairest!” Lupta put her leathery arm around the girl’s shoulder. “Can I interest you in a nice red juicy apple, my child?”

The teen pulled away. “Eeeeuwww…no way. Did I do something to offend you?” she asked.

“You just finked on me!”

“Finked? What’s finked?”

“Tattled. Ratted on me like a low-down stool pigeon. You sung like a canary. Squeeeeealed. You, my pretty, are an informer!”

“But you dropped the ice on my back, first!” cried the girl.

“Spat! Call it a preemptive strike. Early revenge. That’s how we always do things where I come from, sugar nibs.”

The stunned girl walked away thinking, Hmmmm…finked. I’m gonna text that word to my homies. Lupta, who’s magic had always been based on childish pranks, hacked up a thick loogie on a sheet of paper and while the teen texted her friends, snuck up behind her, and stuck a “Kick Me!” sign to the girl’s back.

The Crone added to the cacophony with a voice of a crow as she cawed at the girl walking back to her towel. “IIIIII’ll get you! I’ll turn that sweet ass into gingerbread! By the time you get home, butter buns, that perky pair of shortcakes will be pointing down to perdition! Heeheeheeheeheeheehee!” She cackled manically.

Jonathan was thinking hard about the “butter buns,” “gingerbread ass,” and “perky shortcakes” as the Guatemalan woman holding up two fingers three hundred feet beyond the waves went beneath the sparkling water the second time unnoticed. His attention was riveted toward the evil-eye gaze of the Crone.

“Where do you come from, woman?” asked Jonathan.

“I come from Transylvania. My name is Lupta. Lupta Axe. And YOU are Jonathan! Arăți la fel ca el! (You DOOOO look just like him!)” she said in Romanian.

Training Your Humu Humu Part 2 with misspelled ‘congratulations.’

Traing Part 2 & misspelling ‘congratulations.’

Training Your Humu Humu Part 1

Training your Humu Humu and spelling ‘congratulations’ wrong.

Elizabeth comes a-courtin.’ Or, Date Night at Poenari Castle. (Updated BATSHIT (Bats)

Vlad, the evil Master-bat-or, was hanging forty feet above the tour group, hidden and hurting like a drug addict. The hunger pangs were not in Vlad’s stomach. He wasn’t thinking of the camera-toting blood bags milling about on the castle floor beneath him. His soul was starving for Elizabeth Bathory the Bloody Countess, (or Betty as he called her). They rarely got to see each other as she had her own castle to attend to.

Elizabeth Comes a-Courtin’

For four hundred years The Bloody Countess had danced her wanton bodily-fluid-boogaloo upon Vlad’s pike. Tonight was their ‘Date Night.’

She’s probably in the bath, thought Vlad. He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his wings, and kiss the bloodbles sliding down her ţâţe vith all the subtle finesse of a slobbering mastiff.

There! I can see her in my mind’s eye! Hubbah hubba! Vlad could see that ‘Betty’ was reading his mind across hundreds of fog-shrouded miles, while she picked out her trashiest pantyhose for their date.

Betty, the Bloody Countess, the direct daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Satan, was awakened earlier that day in her bath by the another noisy busload of Gibor plasma pouches outside her own castle walls.

When Betty was upset, the blood in her tub would begin to boil.

Over the ages, the countess’s supply of fresh female virgin blood had dwindled. The disappearance of the innocent maidens of yore had attracted the attention of authorities, which meant the countess was now forced to bathe in the unwholesome blood of Gibors — who no one, even their own families, ever missed. Most of Elizabeth’s higher quality bathwater only came from the fresh blood of virgin males who lived in their basements of their parent’s homes. These pallid geeks, hardly seen were seldom missed. Guys with names like Irving, Seymour, Poindexter, and Marvin. Bathing in Le Nectar des Dorks had its plus side. Real virgin sap made her already impressive mellükön larger and decidedly perkier. Extracto empollón (nerd extract) was also good for firming up her yumalicious fenék. It also served as a coolant when the Countess’ overheated bod would threaten to spontaneously combust.

Back at Poenari Vlad was thinking: Should I ask her to move in, despite the three humorless old bats already living…uh, undying in my cellar? He could feel Betty looking back at him, drooling over him, from over five hundred miles away—as if he were a rack of Famous Dave’s spareribs.

Vlad’s deep thoughts were interrupted “Blattttttt” by the sounds of twenty Gibors having a farting contest below in the main hall and laughing at their own echoes. Even on the sacred Sundays, Jack Lord’s day of rest. How could such a tiny country produce so many noisy, dirty, ill-mannered, annoying little…ewwwww, just the thought gave Vlad shivers.

He twirled his aerodynamic mustache, When fate gives you lemmings, make lemming-ade! swooped down, eyes ablaze, and within his devilish trick of the five-second time shift, he was able to lift a Gibor woman up onto the rafters, chomp down on her fat neck, and extract all of her blood before anyone in the crowd could blink. The Gibor slobs were far below, farting in the long hallway, taking photos, and busy stealing clippings of Vlad’s tapestries. But, the imbeciles were moving in a slower parallel world as he enveloped his prey. The woman’s husband, Morty, only witnessed her dripping blood and gore running down a column. He was busily snapping photos when he noticed (“Hey, Lucy! Look at this ancient W(V)ibrator!”) that had actually fallen out of Lucy’s purse. She’s probably in the gift shop, he thought.Morty snapped a few hundred more shots as his louse-spouse’s splatter was licked up by several wampyre bats that had escaped from the confines of Vlad’s faster parallel world.

“Vinged varmints! Get back up here!” Vlad demanded in a high-frequency whisper.

Morty the Gibor husband never thought to look up, or report his missing spouse to the big New Guinea tour bus driver, Xomerang, who was busy eating the jerky-like pieces of his own grandfather’s buttocks as a snack.

Vlad had to get the crowds out of here — now(!) Betty is bringing her entire volf pack vith her this evening. Tonight is date night! Which reminded him…

Within another half-minute, Vlad snagged another half-dozen Gibors for his Gibor-matic chopper. He was going to make salsa to go with his Lupta’s Nerd Chips ©.

An hour later….

Vlad was so happy to see Betty that he could barely contain himself. So, he didn’t.

“Betty!” He flashed her his phosphorescent flunker-wagger schnitzer from the battlement.

Elizabeth laughed as her bats draped a naughty nighty upon her nudity. Nonetheless, Vlad would negate the negligible negligee down in the “vhine cellar” (his torture chamber for wretched kvetches).

Pokey old Grieves would soon ring the dinner bell. Tonight, Grieves had added a real ghoul to the Gulyas.

The State Fish of Hawaii in Art

The State Fish of Hawaii in Art

The State Fish of Hawaii in Art

I’m working on new cover art for my novel BATS (soon to be retitled “Batshit).”

Seasons (Kokonuts)

Seasons, like underwear, change once every 3 months.

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