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Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

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.’  

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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

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.

Deep, Delicate, Fruity, Peppery and Elegant.

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REBIRTH

And hallelujah, Bernie Benedict was to be reborn.

A voice called him ‘apotheothenai’ during his dream. It meant that Bernie had become one of “the apotheosized ones, reborn as a god” just as Hercules and Dionysus had done before him.

Artemis had his body and soul expedited through the River Styx where it went through its final upgrade. Upon Bernie’s golden cart, were his accolades, a God Certificate, a custom monogrammed bathrobe, an official and uncomfortable  golden head wreath along with a fifty-dollar meal credit coupon for the Thank ME,  It’s Friday’s restaurant, inside the Olympus Mall.

After being boinked to death by the goddess Artemis, Bernie now resembled Cary Grant and was fully registered as an “unclassified god.”

He was assigned the new name, Cupcaecius and was given a temporary number by Zeus, until a new position on Olympus was created.

Cupcaecius #6753XB had become the newest addition to the great Pantheon on Mount Olympus, after the induction of Salsalius #6754XB, who’d been named “The God of Tacos.”

Cupcaecius emerged from the Styx coffee bar wearing his new bathrobe and holding a steaming cup of Dauna, the shark goddess’, premium blend, Warp-Speed-Get-The-Fuck-Outta-My-Way-Asshole coffee — a product of the blood-soaked island of Kupiao, Fiji.

______________________

A few hours later, Bernie found himself back in his earthly hotel room, watching The God Channel, back in Cleveland at the Flamingo Arms Hotel. The sun was up. Artemis was gone, but her intoxicating scent lingered on his lips; deep, delicate, fruity, peppery and elegant.

Bernie could only remember a few sexy seconds about his date night with the now devirginized Artemis on the moon — Whoa! — vowing that he’d never get that drunk again.

The next afternoon, Artemis and Bomba the Kitty God drove Bernie back up to Mount Olympus to buy more clothing. Still groggy, in his robe, he appeared to be like any other brain-dead god who’d ever been dragged through Olympus Mall. Artemis helped him find a few god-in-training outfits, comprising of a handsome selection of suits and day and evening wear imported from London’s Savile Row. No more blinding Bermuda shorts for the ex Bolsa Chico Surf Patrol Chief. He was now a god and was expected to dress accordingly.

Bernie, despite feeling drained of all bodily fluids, felt more fit than he’d ever felt when he was a lowly human bug.

The next morning, he would pack for a trip down to Earth, where all fucked-out and all reborn-n’-shit, he would join the other love of his life-death-life, Dauna, the shark goddess, at JFK Airport… where, if she saw his ruined chastity trap, there would be some ‘splainin’ to dooooooo.’

Next stop: The Battle Royale of the Shark Gods, on New Year’s Eve, in Jamaica Bay, in Fuckin’ New Yawk.

Love among the Thorns of Peonari Castle

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“Groan.”

“Vhat the fote????” Said Vlad.

“Grooooaaaannn…” said a voice from within the crowd of the newly ‘evolved’ Hell’s Angles architect/bikers.

“Grooooaaaannn!”

Vlad’s eyes, full of venom, scanned his new army for the source of the interruption. “Such impudence! Who…?”

“Grooooaaaannn…” said the walking-dead-as-a-walking-doornail wretched maidservant Penelope as she began to shamble between the motorcycles, through the thorns and down the moonlit hill.

Curious about the zombie’s motives, the crowd watched her in silence.

“Mwoooooohhhhh annnnhhh,” groaned piteous Penelope, continuing her trademark shamble.

“What did she say?” asked Chester. “Where is the unfortunate creature headed, Your Highness?”

The Countess Bathory answered, “Penelope is telling us that through these thorns (sniff), brambles, and poison ivy (sniff) is the path…to true love. She was always the optimist, that poor, poor shell of a woman.”

Penelope’s heartbreaking groans faded as she headed deeper into the dense brush. “Mnnnnnungph…!”

“Jeez, she smells,” said one of the newly badass-ed motorcyclists.

Which was a good thing, because…

Downwind, at Poenari Castle, Huthbert Grieves, Vlad’s downcast moping zombie butler, who had bravely remained behind to defend the castle, had caught a scent of something he hadn’t dreamt about for nearly two hundred years. His neck creaked as he looked up toward the ridge outside. No, not smell like  brains. What was that? He sniffed the air and inhelled a smell as sweet and familiar as dead flowers. “P-P-P-P-P…It’sssss herrrrrrr!” He dropped his serving tray and shambled toward the cold moonlight streaming through the window.

Huthbert’s first smile in centuries cracked the parchment skin around his dusty mouth. Her name, buried in his desiccated heart, rumbled and found its way out of his papery lungs and across the lolling stub that was once his tongue. The sound, seeking life, broke to the surface. “Peh-Pehnelllllopeeeee…”

Mayhem and Mayday Aboard the Vinnie Maru

New Shark Fin Titled

Dauna, the shark goddess, feeling all sharky an’ shit, partied as she snapped and slashed at MacHeath’s crew. Suddenly, the entire cannibal crew of the Vinnie Maru, following the example of their crazed leader MacHeath were involved in a defiant bird-finger flipping frenzy. All were screaming:

“Son of a bitch!”

“दुष्ट!”

“κάθαρμα!”

“Drittsekk!”

“Figlio di una cagna!”

“זון פון אַ הור!”

“王八蛋!”

Cannibal heads rolled across the deck, knocking other cannibals over the railings like bowling pins.

Within seconds, Dauna had destroyed all but Captain Debas and…Where’s that yellow-belly MacHeath?

Above the thunder and wind, their fellow half -timbered agent T.K. toppled upon Captain Debas. The two struggled, stood, and tumbled over the railing, the captain defiantly and prominently displayed his yata yata yata blah blah blah for the last time.

Bernie slid backward, covering himself with the blue tarp while trying to avoid Dauna, the shark goddess’ lethal teeth, tail and toxic Tourettes that would make old Barnacle Bill, himself blush.

Bernie would never forget looking into Dauna’s deep brown eyes. “Don’t!” he pleaded. Her eyes were staring directly through Bernie’s while he tried in vain to back away and slipped into the unforgiving metal gunwale, hitting his head. Bernie was nearly unconscious when Dauna,—Sorry about this, sailor— bit into his groin. Snap!

“Chomp, chomp! (“No, I didn’t change his religion,” Dauna would later tell Frankie. “It was only a nibble.”)  That was the last thing that Bernie heard that afternoon, except when Dauna went into another obscenity-laced discourse on the benefits of public mastication.

 

Delirious, Bernie awoke inside of one of the ship’s cabins to the smell of cigarette smoke. A baritone voice repeated as if in a song, “You’re safe now. Are you still with us?”

Frankie had packed Bernie’s groin area with a rank poultice made of pulverized sea stars and seaweed peeled off of the Vinnie Maru’s giant nets.

Bernie had peeked at one point. What the hell is Frankie knitting down there? A sweater? And why is he smoking and sipping a cocktail while he’s OUCH!?

“Stay with me, pal. C’mon, buddy boy? You shouldn’t be wearing bloodstains after five, Clyde. Life’s too short to dress like a shark attack victim.”

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.

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