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…And Then Things Got Weird….

Artemis’ Second Visit / from the sophisticated novel Shark Fin Soup

The Following Evening…

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Bernie awoke to Artemis was sitting on his bed studying her slender right hand in the moonlight. Her fingers were electrified, buzzing with a green aura. She’d returned for the second night in a row. A healer’s’ work is never done.

Oh, this might be useful! she thought, looking at her humming hand — a  recent development.

Bernie was staring—in wonder, and beginning to salivate. Oh, that might be useful!

Suddenly she spoke: “Your little rental is a pigsty.”

“Gee, thanks. I only sleep here and…”

“That bathroom is atrocious. At least get yourself some decent towels. I can help you fix this place up, so it’s fit for human habitation. I’m afraid to see what you keep in your fridge. Are you listening?”

“Sorry, Artie, but I have to try this.” Bernie, held the goddesses face in the palms of his hands, pulled her close, and planted a tender smooch on her astonished red lips. He waited. No home run slap — yet. She didn’t kill me. Okay, that’s a good thing. However, after unlocking lips, he found his eyes seriously crossed and seeing double. Dizzy, he closed them, still anticipating a well-deserved ass whooping.

Artemis, feeling strange, changed the subject. “Hey, Bernie! How about them Mets!”

Baseball?

The towering goddess suddenly grand slammed Bernie across the face—hard. “That’s for calling me Artie and…and…insolently kissing me. How dare you, mortal! If it weren’t for your godly friends, I’d Babe Ruth your empty head out of the park and into orbit like space junk!”

There was a pause.

“Ah, *⦻⟐⧲⧻* it! Is this what you want your cherry-lipped Dauna to do to you?” Artemis grabbed the frightened Human by the ears and planted her lips, squarely, on his. 

#

The deep kiss burned out star system (# HJ456), which was located over five hundred light years from our Milky Way. HJ456 had existed for seven billion years. All the life on its sixteen thriving planets had been fried! Immolated(!), as Bernie’s pain, on a scale of 10, hit 16.

#

“That ought to teach you.” the goddess sat up straight and tall, all business — again. ‘All business’ only made her look sexier. Artemis swallowed and held her eyes closed to regain her composure. “I’ll let you live,” poker-faced, she finally said. “Enough foolishness. Bomba and I have to go. One day soon I’m going to take you shopping, buy you some better clothes, and fix this place up. Except for the old can of cat food, your refrigerator is empty. We’ll have to get some healthy food into you, Braden.”

“It’s Bernie.”

  “Whatever. Do you like ribs? I need to take you to Adam’s Ribs on Sawtelle. All that you can eat on Tuesdays. ”

“Ribs? Wait. Last night you told me that you were an animal lover.”

She smiled. “Yum.” Artemis closed Bernie’s speechless lips with two fingers vibrating in sync with Bomba’s powerful purr. “Now, quiet. Get some rest.” The long perfect fingers lingered like a kiss. “Whew!” She slapped herself. “Sun’s up. We gotta go, hot shot.”

Go ahead, Bomba, Bernie thought. Abandon me for this…this…wow. Go with her, you big dumb animal. Bernie, after watching his cat and his punching-bag-of-a-heart follow the six-foot-six braided dreamsicle out the door, he gave up, calmed down and tried really, really hard to fall asleep. Ow!

Bomba’s new-bestest-long-leggiest-goddess friend had left the half asleep human a souvenir. One of her signature golden arrows stuck out from Bernie’s pillow. The arrow was vibrating and still sticky with chili. The beautiful Artemis.

Half dreaming, Bernie heard the voices of his blue caped cat and the goddess, outside, laughing hysterically as they walked toward Artemis’ fine set of wheels. “Did you see the look on chew toy’s face?” the two said in chorus.

Bomba, looked down at a phantom of Bernie’s broken heart laying on the car’s front seat between them, and let out a sigh of surrender. Bernie’s cat’s new-bestest-long-leggiest-goddess friend EVER seemed to be amused by the imploded human they left behind. He’ll heal, she thought to herself.

The daunting goddess and the mighty Bomba took a sip from their root beer floats and sped off toward the setting moon.

“Calling you a big, dumb animal. The big sap.” She patted the growing kitty on his head and smiled. “He should talk.” Bomba spat a hairball the size of a baseball into the endless void (Within two days, Bomba’s projectile, traveling at a rate of 17,500 mph, would cause extensive and expensive damage to the Soyuz Space Station).

Perhaps, thought Artemis, my job is done. Tag and release. He’ll heal. “Why am I tingling, Bomba?”

“Meow?”

#

Dauna Robinson’s Office / Interpol “Here, let me.” Agent Dauna smiled and wiped Bernie’s mouth with a handkerchief drawn from her bra. “You’re drooling, like the first time I saw you, Pavlov.” Though the shark goddess loved to toy with her prey, she knew that she had to play nice with Interpol’s new star, Bernie “Eggs” Benedict, the ‘god whisperer.’ The details of Dauna Robinson’s office slowly emerged. It was more or less a cocktail lounge with sultry saxophone tunes playing on an old Philco console. There were no books or even a computer in the dispatcher’s office. Chief Lyman said that she had a porno…uh…photographic mind. Ms. Robinson’s desk was simply a small round table with an old coffee-stained manila folder on top, two uncomfortable office chairs with blood-red stains and an overstuffed couch. Bernie didn’t see booze on the mini bar. Instead there were a few dozen bottles of water. She only drinks water? It wasn’t just any old water. It was Bernie’s own Instant Hawaiian Ocean Splash — my own creation, my brand! Bernie had originally designed the ‘Splash’ as a gag gift, for splashing, not drinking, when he was a young surfer in Bolsa Chico. It had remained a great success. Has she been dousing herself in my ‘Splash,’ or is it really that steamy in here? What does she know about me? Dauna opened up the window shade, turned her head and studied Bernie from beneath a thick mane of wet, gray-streaked, shoulder length hair. In the rays of sunlight, her complexion was the color a rich coffee latte beneath a cream-colored blouse — which was soaked throughout. Her “girls” appeared to wink at Bernie from beneath the wet cloth. She reached behind her and took a cigarette from a pack on her desk while gauging Bernie’s reaction. “Something wrong, sailor? Oh, yeah, sorry, but this blouse sticks.” Dauna’s 45-22-24 figure was further highlighted by the pencil skirt that clung to her like a second skin. He noticed Dauna’s pair of black pumps tossed into the corner. They’d been chewed on. Chewed on? Bernie began to feel uneasy. “I’m sure that I know you from somewhere, Agent Robinson.” “Really, Einstein?” “But I can’t put my finger on it.” “You will, sweetie.” “I-I-I-I…?” “Aye aye aye aye? Ah, mi chorizo!” She pinched Bernie’s cheek. “Do you like magic? Señor, would you like to see a little trick that I picked up in a classy Tijuana bar? ¿Sí?” Dauna spun toward her cocktail bar, then leaned back against it on one elbow. “Obsérvame.” She zeroed in on Bernie and then drew down an entire cigarette in one continuous breath. He’d seen her as the Queen of Kupaio do something that. However, this was a better. From beneath the hem of her skirt, a trail of smoke descended like a slo-mo waterfall into a pool about her delicate feet. “Did you like that? Do you talk?” Dauna’s soft eyes were drinking in her new human chew-toy from head to toe. “Oh, I see you did like that.” Bernie watched her rub her cigarette butt into her masochistic ashtray. ‘Masochistic?’ Why would an ashtray be masochistic? What’s wrong with me? Locked and loaded, rocking her curves, she closed in. The rhythm! She is the shark that I saw while diving! THIS might be a good time to panic. The shark! The Queen! The waitress! Bernie covering his shrinking embarrassment, cautiously backed toward the door as she came in for the kill, mercilessly dipping and swirling her thick hair beneath his nose, filling his useless head with a dose of Home Wrecker Perfume. Dauna the Fijian Shark Goddess relished watching the silly mortal turn into easy-to-digest mush. Bernie fell into an angry chair. The chair didn’t go for hairy man butts. Dauna Robinson spun again, this time into her office bathroom, she said, “Make yourself comfortable while I adjust my goodies.” Goodies. Bernie took a deep breath and tried to relax. Relax. Fat chance. “How do you like working with the COED, the Crimes of Exotica Division, hun?” she asked from the behind the door. “T.K. and Frankie are a hoot. Oh, and, uh FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” “Agent Robinson, is something wrong?” Dauna poked her head around the corner. “Just having my morning Tourette’s, sweetie.” She stared. “Can I ask, where the Hell you dug up your wardrobe? Bad Will?” Bernie had been asked by T.K. to study up on the subject of Panpsychism (“All things have a soul”) before moving to Hawaii. He didn’t know why — until now. Bernie had a feeling that everything in Dauna Robinson’s office was alive. The newly adjusted goddess who had entered the room wearing a fresh white top and a matching tight skirt, set her soft bottom upon the thrilled sill. Bernie’s heart paused in deep silent reverence for the old painted wooden board. Dauna paused to light another happy cigarette and admire another bit of Hawaiian ‘scenery,’ derelicts sleeping in pee on the sidewalks of Chinatown. “SNAP OUT OF IT, BERNIE!” demanded a second woman’s voice from the ‘the Bernie file’ on Dauna’s desk. Bernie jumped up, staring at the folder. “Dammit! Who the hell?” “What is it, hun?” asked Dauna. Both of them saw the image of the Virgin Mary spreading like a coffee stain across the manila folder. Uh, oh shit…sorry, ma’am, Bernie apologized to the folder. Mother Mary had appeared on his browser a couple of times, but the two never spoke. Mary scared all of her lonely son’s friends away with her icy condescending looks. “I said snap out of it, Mr. Cupcake!” said Mother Mary, “or it’s your funeral!” “Funeral? Please! Not now!” “Who are you talking to, hun?” asked Dauna. “Is there someone on the folder? It isn’t your new pal, Lion Chow, again, is it?” “Lion chow? Jesus? No. It’s his mom. Ms. Robinson, did you just call Mary’s son, Jesus, lion chow?” Flat Mary rolled her eyes toward heaven and said in Latin, “Odio hoc canis (I hate this bitch).” The mother of God shook her haloed head in disgust and disappeared from the folder. “P-leeeeeease, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou,” said Dauna. It seemed that Jesus’ mom had left the building. Dauna looked at Bernie, “Agent Benedict, let me tell you the truth about Mrs. Goody Two Sandals.” “Who?” “Mrs. Sno-fucking-White thinks that I’m trying to corrupt her precious little boy, Jesus. Do you know what I think? I think that your melancholy, haloed hippie pal wants to lay his blessings on my pink tang.’ The kid should be dating. Did you know that his dad, or mom, or their family cat cursed me with Tourette’s after I used the old man’s name in vain? So, I, Ms. Potty Mouth, have a free ticket to call Merkin Man whatever I want.” “Merkin Man?” Merkin Man sounds like a commercial. “What? Should I ask Mr. Love-In to forgive me? He knows that I’d just start cussing again.” She smiled at Bernie. “Do you know what? I think that it turns him on.” Dauna turned away and lit yet another overjoyed, happy-to-die cigarette. The small smooth scars on Dauna’s neck caught Bernie’s attention. The marks reminded him of a Youtube video that showed sharks mating — brutally. Dauna knew what the new agent was thinking, even as she faced the window. “On my island, we call these scars ‘shark hickeys.’” Shark Hickeys? What is she? Bernie was fascinated — dumbfounded. “Give your peepers a rest, chew toy. Because if you were looking for panty lines, you’re shit outta luck. I need you to listen. Interpol, and I, both need your special powers. You can see beings that I can’t, and I can see plenty,” she said, sizing up the new agent. “Yeah, plenty.” She inhaled her very-Lucky Strike. “Here, let me.” Agent Dauna smiled and wiped Bernie’s mouth with a handkerchief drawn from her bra. “You’re drooling, like the first time I saw you, Pavlov.” Though the shark goddess loved to toy with her prey, she knew that she had to play nice with Interpol’s new star, Bernie “Eggs” Benedict, the ‘god whisperer.’ The details of Dauna Robinson’s office slowly emerged. It was more or less a cocktail lounge with sultry saxophone tunes playing on an old Philco console. There were no books or even a computer in the dispatcher’s office. Chief Lyman said that she had a porno…uh…photographic mind. Ms. Robinson’s desk was simply a small round table with an old coffee-stained manila folder on top, two uncomfortable office chairs with blood-red stains and an overstuffed couch. Bernie didn’t see booze on the mini bar. Instead there were a few dozen bottles of water. She only drinks water? It wasn’t just any old water. It was Bernie’s own Instant Hawaiian Ocean Splash — my own creation, my brand! Bernie had originally designed the ‘Splash’ as a gag gift, for splashing, not drinking, when he was a young surfer in Bolsa Chico. It had remained a great success. Has she been dousing herself in my ‘Splash,’ or is it really that steamy in here? What does she know about me? Dauna opened up the window shade, turned her head and studied Bernie from beneath a thick mane of wet, gray-streaked, shoulder length hair. In the rays of sunlight, her complexion was the color a rich coffee latte beneath a cream-colored blouse — which was soaked throughout. Her “girls” appeared to wink at Bernie from beneath the wet cloth. She reached behind her and took a cigarette from a pack on her desk while gauging Bernie’s reaction. “Something wrong, sailor? Oh, yeah, sorry, but this blouse sticks.” Dauna’s 45-22-24 figure was further highlighted by the pencil skirt that clung to her like a second skin. He noticed Dauna’s pair of black pumps tossed into the corner. They’d been chewed on. Chewed on? Bernie began to feel uneasy. “I’m sure that I know you from somewhere, Agent Robinson.” “Really, Einstein?” “But I can’t put my finger on it.” “You will, sweetie.” “I-I-I-I…?” “Aye aye aye aye? Ah, mi chorizo!” She pinched Bernie’s cheek. “Do you like magic? Señor, would you like to see a little trick that I picked up in a classy Tijuana bar? ¿Sí?” Dauna spun toward her cocktail bar, then leaned back against it on one elbow. “Obsérvame.” She zeroed in on Bernie and then drew down an entire cigarette in one continuous breath. He’d seen her as the Queen of Kupaio do something that. However, this was a better. From beneath the hem of her skirt, a trail of smoke descended like a slo-mo waterfall into a pool about her delicate feet. “Did you like that? Do you talk?” Dauna’s soft eyes were drinking in her new human chew-toy from head to toe. “Oh, I see you did like that.” Bernie watched her rub her cigarette butt into her masochistic ashtray. ‘Masochistic?’ Why would an ashtray be masochistic? What’s wrong with me? Locked and loaded, rocking her curves, she closed in. The rhythm! She is the shark that I saw while diving! THIS might be a good time to panic. The shark! The Queen! The waitress! Bernie covering his shrinking embarrassment, cautiously backed toward the door as she came in for the kill, mercilessly dipping and swirling her thick hair beneath his nose, filling his useless head with a dose of Home Wrecker Perfume. Dauna the Fijian Shark Goddess relished watching the silly mortal turn into easy-to-digest mush. Bernie fell into an angry chair. The chair didn’t go for hairy man butts. Dauna Robinson spun again, this time into her office bathroom, she said, “Make yourself comfortable while I adjust my goodies.” Goodies. Bernie took a deep breath and tried to relax. Relax. Fat chance. “How do you like working with the COED, the Crimes of Exotica Division, hun?” she asked from the behind the door. “T.K. and Frankie are a hoot. Oh, and, uh FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” “Agent Robinson, is something wrong?” Dauna poked her head around the corner. “Just having my morning Tourette’s, sweetie.” She stared. “Can I ask, where the Hell you dug up your wardrobe? Bad Will?” Bernie had been asked by T.K. to study up on the subject of Panpsychism (“All things have a soul”) before moving to Hawaii. He didn’t know why — until now. Bernie had a feeling that everything in Dauna Robinson’s office was alive. The newly adjusted goddess who had entered the room wearing a fresh white top and a matching tight skirt, set her soft bottom upon the thrilled sill. Bernie’s heart paused in deep silent reverence for the old painted wooden board. Dauna paused to light another happy cigarette and admire another bit of Hawaiian ‘scenery,’ derelicts sleeping in pee on the sidewalks of Chinatown. “SNAP OUT OF IT, BERNIE!” demanded a second woman’s voice from the ‘the Bernie file’ on Dauna’s desk. Bernie jumped up, staring at the folder. “Dammit! Who the hell?” “What is it, hun?” asked Dauna. Both of them saw the image of the Virgin Mary spreading like a coffee stain across the manila folder. Uh, oh shit…sorry, ma’am, Bernie apologized to the folder. Mother Mary had appeared on his browser a couple of times, but the two never spoke. Mary scared all of her lonely son’s friends away with her icy condescending looks. “I said snap out of it, Mr. Cupcake!” said Mother Mary, “or it’s your funeral!” “Funeral? Please! Not now!” “Who are you talking to, hun?” asked Dauna. “Is there someone on the folder? It isn’t your new pal, Lion Chow, again, is it?” “Lion chow? Jesus? No. It’s his mom. Ms. Robinson, did you just call Mary’s son, Jesus, lion chow?” Flat Mary rolled her eyes toward heaven and said in Latin, “Odio hoc canis (I hate this bitch).” The mother of God shook her haloed head in disgust and disappeared from the folder. “P-leeeeeease, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou,” said Dauna. It seemed that Jesus’ mom had left the building. Dauna looked at Bernie, “Agent Benedict, let me tell you the truth about Mrs. Goody Two Sandals.” “Who?” “Mrs. Sno-fucking-White thinks that I’m trying to corrupt her precious little boy, Jesus. Do you know what I think? I think that your melancholy, haloed hippie pal wants to lay his blessings on my pink tang.’ The kid should be dating. Did you know that his dad, or mom, or their family cat cursed me with Tourette’s after I used the old man’s name in vain? So, I, Ms. Potty Mouth, have a free ticket to call Merkin Man whatever I want.” “Merkin Man?” Merkin Man sounds like a commercial. “What? Should I ask Mr. Love-In to forgive me? He knows that I’d just start cussing again.” She smiled at Bernie. “Do you know what? I think that it turns him on.” Dauna turned away and lit yet another overjoyed, happy-to-die cigarette. The small smooth scars on Dauna’s neck caught Bernie’s attention. The marks reminded him of a Youtube video that showed sharks mating — brutally. Dauna knew what the new agent was thinking, even as she faced the window. “On my island, we call these scars ‘shark hickeys.’” Shark Hickeys? What is she? Bernie was fascinated — dumbfounded. “Give your peepers a rest, chew toy. Because if you were looking for panty lines, you’re shit outta luck. I need you to listen. Interpol, and I, both need your special powers. You can see beings that I can’t, and I can see plenty,” she said, sizing up the new agent. “Yeah, plenty.” She inhaled her very-Lucky Strike. “Here, let me.” Agent Dauna smiled and wiped Bernie’s mouth with a handkerchief drawn from her bra. “You’re drooling, like the first time I saw you, Pavlov.” Though the shark goddess loved to toy with her prey, she knew that she had to play nice with Interpol’s new star, Bernie “Eggs” Benedict, the ‘god whisperer.’ The details of Dauna Robinson’s office slowly emerged. It was more or less a cocktail lounge with sultry saxophone tunes playing on an old Philco console. There were no books or even a computer in the dispatcher’s office. Chief Lyman said that she had a porno…uh…photographic mind. Ms. Robinson’s desk was simply a small round table with an old coffee-stained manila folder on top, two uncomfortable office chairs with blood-red stains and an overstuffed couch. Bernie didn’t see booze on the mini bar. Instead there were a few dozen bottles of water. She only drinks water? It wasn’t just any old water. It was Bernie’s own Instant Hawaiian Ocean Splash — my own creation, my brand! Bernie had originally designed the ‘Splash’ as a gag gift, for splashing, not drinking, when he was a young surfer in Bolsa Chico. It had remained a great success. Has she been dousing herself in my ‘Splash,’ or is it really that steamy in here? What does she know about me? Dauna opened up the window shade, turned her head and studied Bernie from beneath a thick mane of wet, gray-streaked, shoulder length hair. In the rays of sunlight, her complexion was the color a rich coffee latte beneath a cream-colored blouse — which was soaked throughout. Her “girls” appeared to wink at Bernie from beneath the wet cloth. She reached behind her and took a cigarette from a pack on her desk while gauging Bernie’s reaction. “Something wrong, sailor? Oh, yeah, sorry, but this blouse sticks.” Dauna’s 45-22-24 figure was further highlighted by the pencil skirt that clung to her like a second skin. He noticed Dauna’s pair of black pumps tossed into the corner. They’d been chewed on. Chewed on? Bernie began to feel uneasy. “I’m sure that I know you from somewhere, Agent Robinson.” “Really, Einstein?” “But I can’t put my finger on it.” “You will, sweetie.” “I-I-I-I…?” “Aye aye aye aye? Ah, mi chorizo!” She pinched Bernie’s cheek. “Do you like magic? Señor, would you like to see a little trick that I picked up in a classy Tijuana bar? ¿Sí?” Dauna spun toward her cocktail bar, then leaned back against it on one elbow. “Obsérvame.” She zeroed in on Bernie and then drew down an entire cigarette in one continuous breath. He’d seen her as the Queen of Kupaio do something that. However, this was a better. From beneath the hem of her skirt, a trail of smoke descended like a slo-mo waterfall into a pool about her delicate feet. “Did you like that? Do you talk?” Dauna’s soft eyes were drinking in her new human chew-toy from head to toe. “Oh, I see you did like that.” Bernie watched her rub her cigarette butt into her masochistic ashtray. ‘Masochistic?’ Why would an ashtray be masochistic? What’s wrong with me? Locked and loaded, rocking her curves, she closed in. The rhythm! She is the shark that I saw while diving! THIS might be a good time to panic. The shark! The Queen! The waitress! Bernie covering his shrinking embarrassment, cautiously backed toward the door as she came in for the kill, mercilessly dipping and swirling her thick hair beneath his nose, filling his useless head with a dose of Home Wrecker Perfume. Dauna the Fijian Shark Goddess relished watching the silly mortal turn into easy-to-digest mush. Bernie fell into an angry chair. The chair didn’t go for hairy man butts. Dauna Robinson spun again, this time into her office bathroom, she said, “Make yourself comfortable while I adjust my goodies.” Goodies. Bernie took a deep breath and tried to relax. Relax. Fat chance. “How do you like working with the COED, the Crimes of Exotica Division, hun?” she asked from the behind the door. “T.K. and Frankie are a hoot. Oh, and, uh FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” “Agent Robinson, is something wrong?” Dauna poked her head around the corner. “Just having my morning Tourette’s, sweetie.” She stared. “Can I ask, where the Hell you dug up your wardrobe? Bad Will?” Bernie had been asked by T.K. to study up on the subject of Panpsychism (“All things have a soul”) before moving to Hawaii. He didn’t know why — until now. Bernie had a feeling that everything in Dauna Robinson’s office was alive. The newly adjusted goddess who had entered the room wearing a fresh white top and a matching tight skirt, set her soft bottom upon the thrilled sill. Bernie’s heart paused in deep silent reverence for the old painted wooden board. Dauna paused to light another happy cigarette and admire another bit of Hawaiian ‘scenery,’ derelicts sleeping in pee on the sidewalks of Chinatown. “SNAP OUT OF IT, BERNIE!” demanded a second woman’s voice from the ‘the Bernie file’ on Dauna’s desk. Bernie jumped up, staring at the folder. “Dammit! Who the hell?” “What is it, hun?” asked Dauna. Both of them saw the image of the Virgin Mary spreading like a coffee stain across the manila folder. Uh, oh shit…sorry, ma’am, Bernie apologized to the folder. Mother Mary had appeared on his browser a couple of times, but the two never spoke. Mary scared all of her lonely son’s friends away with her icy condescending looks. “I said snap out of it, Mr. Cupcake!” said Mother Mary, “or it’s your funeral!” “Funeral? Please! Not now!” “Who are you talking to, hun?” asked Dauna. “Is there someone on the folder? It isn’t your new pal, Lion Chow, again, is it?” “Lion chow? Jesus? No. It’s his mom. Ms. Robinson, did you just call Mary’s son, Jesus, lion chow?” Flat Mary rolled her eyes toward heaven and said in Latin, “Odio hoc canis (I hate this bitch).” The mother of God shook her haloed head in disgust and disappeared from the folder. “P-leeeeeease, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou,” said Dauna. It seemed that Jesus’ mom had left the building. Dauna looked at Bernie, “Agent Benedict, let me tell you the truth about Mrs. Goody Two Sandals.” “Who?” “Mrs. Sno-fucking-White thinks that I’m trying to corrupt her precious little boy, Jesus. Do you know what I think? I think that your melancholy, haloed hippie pal wants to lay his blessings on my pink tang.’ The kid should be dating. Did you know that his dad, or mom, or their family cat cursed me with Tourette’s after I used the old man’s name in vain? So, I, Ms. Potty Mouth, have a free ticket to call Merkin Man whatever I want.” “Merkin Man?” Merkin Man sounds like a commercial. “What? Should I ask Mr. Love-In to forgive me? He knows that I’d just start cussing again.” She smiled at Bernie. “Do you know what? I think that it turns him on.” Dauna turned away and lit yet another overjoyed, happy-to-die cigarette. The small smooth scars on Dauna’s neck caught Bernie’s attention. The marks reminded him of a Youtube video that showed sharks mating — brutally. Dauna knew what the new agent was thinking, even as she faced the window. “On my island, we call these scars ‘shark hickeys.’” Shark Hickeys? What is she? Bernie was fascinated — dumbfounded. “Give your peepers a rest, chew toy. Because if you were looking for panty lines, you’re shit outta luck. I need you to listen. Interpol, and I, both need your special powers. You can see beings that I can’t, and I can see plenty,” she said, sizing up the new agent. “Yeah, plenty.” She inhaled her very-Lucky Strike.

“Here, let me.” Agent Dauna smiled and wiped Bernie’s mouth with a handkerchief drawn from her bra. “You’re drooling, like the first time I saw you, Pavlov.” Though the shark goddess loved to toy with her prey, she knew that she had to play nice with Interpol’s new star, Agent Bernie “Eggs” Benedict, the ‘god whisperer.’

The details of Dauna Robinson’s office slowly emerged. It was more or less a cocktail lounge with sultry saxophone tunes playing on an old Philco console. There were no books or even a computer in the dispatcher’s office. Chief Lyman said that she had a porno…uh…photographic mind. Ms. Robinson’s desk was simply a small round table with an old coffee-stained manila folder on top, two uncomfortable office chairs with blood-red stains and an overstuffed couch. Bernie didn’t see booze on the mini bar. Instead there were a few dozen bottles of water. She only drinks water?

It wasn’t just any old water. It was Bernie’s own Instant Hawaiian Ocean Splash — my own creation, my brand! Bernie had originally designed the ‘Splash’ as a gag gift, for splashing, not drinking, when he was a young surfer in Bolsa Chico. It had remained a great success. Has she been dousing herself in my ‘Splash,’ or is it really that steamy in here? What does she know about me?

Dauna opened up the window shade, turned her head and studied Bernie from beneath a thick mane of wet, gray-streaked, shoulder length hair. In the rays of sunlight, her complexion was the color a rich coffee latte beneath a cream-colored blouse — which was soaked throughout. Her “girls” appeared to wink at Bernie from beneath the wet cloth. She reached behind her and took a cigarette from a pack on her desk while gauging Bernie’s reaction. “Something wrong, sailor? Oh, yeah, sorry, but this blouse sticks.” Dauna’s 45-22-24 figure was further highlighted by the pencil skirt that clung to her like a second skin. He noticed Dauna’s pair of black pumps tossed into the corner. They’d been chewed on. Chewed on? Bernie began to feel uneasy.

“I’m sure that I know you from somewhere, Agent Robinson.”

“Really, Einstein?”

“But I can’t put my finger on it.”

“You will, sweetie.”

“I-I-I-I…?”

“Aye aye aye aye? Ah, mi chorizo!” She pinched Bernie’s cheek. “Do you like magic? Señor, would you like to see a little trick that I picked up in a classy Tijuana bar? ¿Sí?”

Dauna spun toward her cocktail bar, then leaned back against it on one elbow. “Obsérvame.” She zeroed in on Bernie and then drew down an entire cigarette in one continuous breath. He’d seen her as the Queen of Kupaio do something that. However, this was a better. From beneath the hem of her skirt, a trail of smoke descended like a slo-mo waterfall into a pool about her delicate feet.

“Did you like that? Do you talk?” Dauna’s soft eyes were drinking in her new human chew-toy from head to toe. “Oh, I see you did like that.”

Bernie watched her rub her cigarette butt into her masochistic ashtray. ‘Masochistic?Why would an ashtray be masochistic? What’s wrong with me? Locked and loaded, rocking her curves, she closed in.

The rhythm! She is the shark that I saw while diving! THIS might be a good time to panic. The shark! The Queen! The waitress!

Bernie covering his shrinking embarrassment, cautiously backed toward the door as she came in for the kill, mercilessly dipping and swirling her thick hair beneath his nose, filling his useless head with a dose of Home Wrecker Perfume.

Dauna the Fijian Shark Goddess relished watching the silly mortal turn into easy-to-digest mush. Bernie fell into an angry chair. The chair didn’t go for hairy man butts.

Dauna Robinson spun again, this time into her office bathroom, she said, “Make yourself comfortable while I adjust my goodies.”

Goodies. Bernie took a deep breath and tried to relax. Relax. Fat chance.

“How do you like working with the COED, the Crimes of Exotica Division, hun?” she asked from the behind the door. “T.K. and Frankie are a hoot. Oh, and, uh FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

“Agent Robinson, is something wrong?”

Dauna poked her head around the corner. “Just having my morning Tourette’s, sweetie.” She stared. “Can I ask, where the Hell you dug up your wardrobe? Bad Will?”

Bernie had been asked by T.K. to study up on the subject of Panpsychism (“All things have a soul”) before moving to Hawaii. He didn’t know why — until now. Bernie had a feeling that everything in Dauna Robinson’s office was alive. The newly adjusted goddess who had entered the room wearing a fresh white top and a matching tight skirt, set her soft bottom upon the thrilled sill. Bernie’s heart paused in deep silent reverence for the old painted wooden board. Dauna paused to light another happy cigarette and admire another bit of Hawaiian ‘scenery,’ derelicts sleeping in pee on the sidewalks of Chinatown.

“SNAP OUT OF IT, BERNIE!” demanded a second woman’s voice from the ‘the Bernie file’ on Dauna’s desk.

Bernie jumped up, staring at the folder. “Dammit! Who the hell?”

“What is it, hun?” asked Dauna.

Both of them saw the image of the Virgin Mary spreading like a coffee stain across the manila folder. Uh, oh shit…sorry, ma’am, Bernie apologized to the folder. Mother Mary had appeared on his browser a couple of times, but the two never spoke. Mary scared all of her lonely son’s friends away with her icy condescending looks.

“I said snap out of it, Mr. Cupcake!” said Mother Mary, “or it’s your funeral!”

“Funeral? Please! Not now!”

“Who are you talking to, hun?” asked Dauna. “Is there someone on the folder? It isn’t your new pal, Lion Chow, again, is it?”

“Lion chow? Jesus? No. It’s his mom. Ms. Robinson, did you just call Mary’s son, Jesus, lion chow?”

Flat Mary rolled her eyes toward heaven and said in Latin, “Odio hoc canis (I hate this bitch).” The mother of God shook her haloed head in disgust and disappeared from the folder.

“P-leeeeeease, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou,” said Dauna. It seemed that Jesus’ mom had left the building. Dauna looked at Bernie, “Agent Benedict, let me tell you the truth about Mrs. Goody Two Sandals.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Sno-fucking-White thinks that I’m trying to corrupt her precious little boy, Jesus. Do you know what I think? I think that your melancholy, haloed hippie pal wants to lay his blessings on my pink tang.’ The kid should be dating. Did you know that his dad, or mom, or their family cat cursed me with Tourette’s after I used the old man’s name in vain? So, I, Ms. Potty Mouth, have a free ticket to call Merkin Man whatever I want.”

“Merkin Man?” Merkin Man sounds like a commercial.

“What? Should I ask Mr. Love-In to forgive me? He knows that I’d just start cussing again.” She smiled at Bernie. “Do you know what? I think that it turns him on.” Dauna turned away and lit yet another overjoyed, happy-to-die cigarette. The small smooth scars on Dauna’s neck caught Bernie’s attention. The marks reminded him of a Youtube video that showed sharks mating — brutally.

Dauna knew what the new agent was thinking, even as she faced the window. “On my island, we call these scars ‘shark hickeys.’”

Shark Hickeys? What is she? Bernie was fascinated — dumbfounded.

“Give your peepers a rest, chew toy. Because if you were looking for panty lines, you’re shit outta luck. I need you to listen. Interpol, and I, both need your special powers. You can see beings that I can’t, and I can see plenty,” she said, sizing up the new agent. “Yeah, plenty.” She inhaled her very-Lucky Strike.

Introducing The Love Muscle! The Tommy’s Music Festival 1967

Their rock star dreams, once blazing, were snuffed out.

Jimi Hendrix was the real thing. The music that flowed through this man’s feet was unearthly. “The Goddess sang that riff to me in a dream last night,” Jimi said to the young band members sharing his trailer. “She told me to play my guitar with my feet — despite my acute bromodosis.”

* * * *

You would think that Johnny’s band would have been inspired by Jimi’s talent.

Instead, when the boys left the trailer on their way toward the stage, they walked slowly as if they were going to their own funeral. They simply wanted to go home. The Nuclear Threat did not feel like a threat any longer.

“Since we no longer give a fuck,” Johnny stated, “I’m going to change the name of the band when we get on that stage. I like Walt’s suggestion. Let’s go up there and announce ourselves as The Love Muscle.”

Johnny’s band members nodded and, almost laughing at Walt’s suggestive name, headed toward the stage with their guitars in hand. Still, they were feeling unworthy to ever pick up their instruments again. They might as well have been climbing a gallows instead of the honored stairway that led to the stage of the most important rock festival in Los Angeles’ history. Heads down, ignoring the crowd of thousands at their feet, facing their amps, they plugged in.

* * * *

“You’re on, kids!”

The rain began to fall when Johnny quietly introduced his band under their new we-don’t-give-a-fuck name, The Love Muscle. The audience waited to see what this ‘new’ band with its naughty name was all about. Plugged in, the members of The Love Muscle (snicker, snicker) secretly prayed to ‘load jeebus’ for a lethal electrical explosion. There was none.

Still alive, they would have to perform.

After a disastrous opening number entitled “Who Wants to Go for Tacos?” they were already, embarrassingly, out of tune. During their second song, “Double-Chili-Cheeseburger,” one by one, the amps started to sputter and blow speakers. The limp ‘Muscle’ then played a brief, distorted, instrumental number apparently titled “Annoying Feedback with Group Tourette’s Syndrome,” which nearly ended their set, until Steve Miller and his band quickly set them up with new amplifiers, thus extending their nightmare.

The Love Muscle’s set was almost over.

Johnny started to sing Walt’s original song “My Dirty Hairy Smelly Hippie Chick.” Walt dedicated the new tune to his girlfriend Susie, who sat in front of the stage a few yards from Johnny’s girl, Rebel. After the first performance of Walt’s song, the band was greeted by such an air of doom that even the swarms of flies around the swarms of hippies stopped buzzing.

A stunned silence.

Johnny and his group felt devastated, embarrassed in front of the crowd which now numbered over fifteen thousand. Convinced that they should have burned their guitars after hearing Jimi warm up in the trailer, they turned their backs to the audience. Ready to end their pain, they began to unplug their “crappy guitars,” and the “shitty Farfisa organ.”

If they hurried home, there was still time to enlist before the Vietnam War ended.

More silence.

A fly buzzed.

Other flies joined in. The buzzing got louder.

After what seemed like decades, one person began to clap. Then the clapping grew into thunder. The band turned around to see the audience rising to its feet stomping and demanding an encore. Though it was still morning, cigarette lighters swayed. Underwear began to land at the band’s feet. Bloomers! Boxers! And briefs, Oh my! Johnny’s childhood dream!

There were “no bras allowed” at this hippie love-in in 1967.

As a rainbow of panties flooded the stage, Johnny’s eyes became misty. Memories of childhood in his parents’ lingerie store came rushing back to him.

Johnny looked out to the crowd and spotted Rebel and her long legs a few yards away, smiling and winking.

Walt, the singer, resumed singing and playing his tune, ‘Dirty, Hairy, Smelly, Hippie Chick.’ Even though Susie was kinda insulted, she was kinda flattered and screamed and applauded with the rest of the crowd. Of course, that didn’t stop her from running off with an even dirtier, hairier, smellier hippie dude, named Sasquatch, when the set was over.

Go ahead. Go with that bum, Susie. Take everyone home with you, Walt was thinking.

As Susie walked away with Sasquatch, Walt stepped up to the mic and calmly announced, “ Hey,Susie! You &$%@# B!#8%!!! You’ve got enough crab lice for the entire city, you — ——F%^$*ing ——— o#@%£§~!!!!

Shark Fin Soup — Artemis Beneath the Constellations

The entire zodiac, from the heaven’s hemispheres, were intertwining to the primitive beats of the Frank Samidino Swing Band from the wedding party below.

“Stop!” demanded Artemis, looking to the skies, “Show some decency!”

Artemis abruptly grasped onto a nearby palm tree. She felt helpless. Satan’s playground, Earth, was beginning to show its corrupt effects on her virtuous mind and wholesome body. Artemis dropped her bow and quiver full of golden arrows onto the soft sand.

Quiver.

The ‘uncontrollable factor’ scared her. Am I sweating? Her immortal “cool” had left the building. Is this how my friend Tempestus Stormius feels when she unleashes a hurricane? Five thousand years of sexual tension slowly began to well up, then exploded. The more she dug into the tree’s trunk, the more she shook. Coconuts tumbled from the treetops, barely missing her head. Newborn volcanoes began to explode along the black edge of Kupaio’s barrier reef like festive party poppers.

Artemis dropped onto the beach. Weak and humbled, after a few moments of tranquility, she’d realized that she should return to the wedding. She grabbed a palm frond and pulled herself to her feet. Then, Oh no! A second tsunami of thrillisquious energy rushed through her fabulisquious body forcing her to her crumbling knees. Her ‘Look-no-hands-ma!’ orgasm fanned out across the night sand causing thousands of perturbed ghost crabs to leap from their tunnels.

Artemis felt a slight tinge of “mortal” (i.e., in need of a cuddle and a cigarette.)

What she really felt was “γαμημένος great!” as though she could melt right into the γαμημένος earth. Her contented dulang-dulang-dulang purred like her a fluffy kitten with a big red bow and a tummy full of warm cream on Christmas morning.

Don’t get too comfortable yet, baby…

Mr. Greencheese —the moon— moved across the heavens to shield the overheated goddess from the eyes of her parents above.

  The goddess lie still waiting for her breath to return.

Instead, there was a weaker third orgasm, though still powerful enough to set off car alarms as far away as the Guadalajara Mexican Restaurant on 3rd Street in Santa Monica.

A final wave of warm energy washed through her.

She turned her head seaward and exhaled. “Ιερά χάλια! (Holy crap!) Whoa. That’s better. Whew. Γαμώτο! (Damn it!) What happened? What…was…that?” She turned her head back toward the sky. “Can anyone tell me what just the γαμώ happened?” Then Artemis began to itch. “God γαμώτο! My κόλπος is full of γαμημένος sand!”

The remaining stars winked and nudged each other silently, knowingly.

“Ευχαριστώ, μαλάκες! (Thanks, assholes!)” She sighed. Spent, Artemis quickly fell asleep on the red powdery sand of Kupaio as her disorientated, moon friend, Mr. Greencheese, set in the east.

Most of her gang on Olympus missed it.

Many of them were still sick in bed or on their jewel encrusted crappers with the Nosoi Flu (aka the atomic trots).

“I think that she was faking it,” said the blissful Mmbopalula from behind a thicket of succulents to her beaming Hotat spy hubby, Monq. Her own well-beamed sweet dulang-dulang-dulang was also purring — like a fluffy kitten etc. etc.

“What will you report to MacHeath? We never even saw the ceremony,” she asked. “What will you tell him?”

“He’s got to see the legs on the new goddess in town.”

“What???? You son of a bitch bastard! Keep that filthy thing away from me!”

Shark Fin Soup (A tale of sharks, gods, cannibals, mad cows and endless love. )

During a storm, Jesus appeared on a blue tarp upon the deck of The Vinnie Maru, demanding that agent Bernie Benedict find him a date.

For thousands of years two ancient Pacific cannibal tribes have fought over which of their respective shark gods (Macelaca and Dakawaka) should rule the Seven Seas. Today, the 3000-year-old Melanesian war has reached the shores of the US.

‘Word on the street’ has it that the shark gods and their peckish followers are gearing up for a final, pay-per-view televised battle which will take place in Jamaica Bay, NY, on New Year’s Eve.

Leading up to the match, Interpol agent Bernie ‘The God Whisperer’ Benedict and his paranormal crew are following the body count along US waterfronts.

And Jesus still wants a date.

Soon, our hero finds himself in dangerous waters as the ‘prize’ in an over-heated mating game between two beautiful deities, the majestic virgin moon goddess, Artemis, and her luscious friend, the potty-mouthed Fijian goddess, Dauna. Join the merriment as Agent Bernie, whose talents used to only be only the ability to talk to apparitions, has now become ‘THE’ dating service for gods of all types.

After his ‘forbidden relations’ with both Artemis and Dauna, he, himself, is becoming a deity.

Soon, ‘regular guy’ Bernie Benedict, will be transformed into the sophisticated and handsome Cupcaecius, a dead ringer for Cary Grant and the first new god on Mount Olympus in over five millenia.

Fred Barnett

The Man From Nantucket. BRAND NUDE …uh NEW short novella! R-Rated $.99

What it lacks in length and depth and taste, it makes up for in ‘F’ words. The Man from Nantucket — A true American Hero.

BUY IT HERE!

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/459533

IMG_0122

Here’s a goddamned X-cerpt:

Young Sam and his granddad, Mr. William Balls

Born on the Island of Nantucket, in 1906, Sam Swathorn was the only surviving grandson of the celebrated William “Barnacle” Balls (the sailor). In the early 20th century kids matured early and that is when young Sam sprung forth, like a boner, to take his place in the world as The Man From Nantucket.

One sunny afternoon, grandfather Balls, drunk and broke, trolled through the seaside town of Nantucket with his “chick bait” infant grandson , Sam, showing him off to the town’s teenage girls. After many unsuccessful hours and an impending case of the trots seaman Balls decided to drag his grandson into Nantucket’s oldest whorehouse, Madam Tillie’s. William was always welcome there. Tillie, the most battle scarred hussy on the Eastern seaboard was in love with the free-spirited Mr. Balls. She loved to listen to “My Balls,” as she called him, sing sea shanties to her about his adventures in foreign ports.

What if we should have a boy? What if we should have a boy? What if we should have a boy?” asked the fair young maiden.

 “He’ll go off to sea and fuck like me,” said Barnacle Balls the Sailor. “He’ll go off to sea and fuck like me,” said Barnacle Balls the Sailor.

William held up the little boy and made his introductions. “This, young Sam, is Madam Tillie,” and this Madam Tillie, is madam grandkid.”

“Handsome looking grandson, Balls.”

“He should be! I’m also his father! Har! (Fart)”

 

The Man from Nantucket copy

AAA 2019 Map of Transylvania and vicinity

Another tender love scene from my novel BATS — for Halloween !

She smiled as she watched him circle the ceiling above her tub in preparation for a major swoop. She wore only self-confidence beneath the sliding bubbles of gory icky yuck.

Beneath his cape, the Prince wore only his death day suit. “Incoming,” he screamed, then bounced off the ceiling. Elizabeth ducked …

(“Thufferin’ Thuckatash!” Thaid Mina who was reading this same story.)

…as Vlad smashed into the stone floor, breaking into a gazillion dark beads. Each bead sprouted tiny legs and began to run up her wall. Hundreds of black widowers moved and changed like an obscene Etch-a-sketch and formed a coat of arms displaying the words ‘Bautura. Prada. Pofta!’ (Drink. Prey. Lust!)”

“Your sick display,” Elizabeth said with her back toward him. “This is what I think of it!” Like a turret, the Countess spun and aimed her felisquious huzzas at the cluster of Vlad-spiders. The room exploded! Rat-a-Tat-Tat! Vlad’s coat of arms burst into in flames.

“So you’re in the mood for ‘creepy,’ my pulsing Prince? Then let me change into something more—-ahem, more comfortable.”

Vlad’s bits of burning wreckage hit the floor as the remaining blood droplets poured off of the ascending Elizabeth’s aforementioned bodaquilacious huzza-huzzas and sumpqualisquis Wahwahzoozie and into the tub. Four bats held a corner of Elizabeth’s fluffy Gasper the Fiendly Ghost towel, thus concealing her succulesquois body from of the recovering Prince (Vlad was still trying to deal with a multitude of confusing occulisqious eye images).

With an echoloquatious ‘Tah-Dahhhhhh!” the four bats dropped Elizabeth’s towel. — She was wearing something new. A negligent! The rear of the red hourglass design neatly framed her panoramaraculous Mrar-mrar-mrar.

Vlad’s mustață (Mustache) began to flap at Elizabeth, madly, seeking her sweet nectar. The Countess seemed guarded at first. I’ve got to slow him down.

“Does it please you, Malady?” he asked.

She took charge. “Come here you adorable biscuit tickler. Down boy.” Elizabeth grabbed the tips of his mustache and gently twirled them around her damp fingers — and slowly reeled in the impudent pelt. “Gently, now. Ah! That’s a nice brush that you have Prince.”

“Mgnmnupfmmngmnomnomnom… (Translation: Thank you.)

“It makes you look so …extinguished.”

A true gent, Vlad, tipped his frontal cranial bone, releasing steam, as Elizabeth, flat on her back, stretched her six arms up and across the room and spun a web of silken signs:

1. “Do you realize the danger that you’ve gotten yourself into, darling?”

2. “Do you realize that the nibble of a văduva neagră (black widow), of which I am many times over, can cause a painful pulă rigiditate (stiffy) that may last for six hours?”

3. “Do you realize that I’ll have to eat you afterward”.

“Mwa! Minoki Hokawaki Waki!” The crumbled fiend chuckled. She had driven him mad, again, and, oh, how he reveled in it.

The countess then bared her pink ….

(Mina, who was still reading this ‘ filth’ was dialing 912!)

…venomous pulsing gums. “Nod, if you understand what I’ve written,” she asked her drooling idiot slave. (He nodded.) “Good! Weren’t you carrying a scroll, earlier?”

“Ak,” said Vlad as he pointed to a singed roll of parchment, smoking in the corner. She picked it up with a long arm and unrolled it. “Oh, dear, do you think that we can cover this entire list in only six hours? Come here, nibbles.”

__________________________________

At the end of ‘date night,’ Vlad and Elizabeth surrendered to their favorite recording: The Puccini Arias performed by Fratelli Lupo and The Wolf Brothers, Luciano and Mariano. Afterward, the lovers hung from the mast, wrapped in each other’s wings, beneath the sky of shimmering black holes. They slept and shuddered through daymares together as the River Styx barge slid lazily through the oily water.

It was the greatest love affair to span the ages. Credit their healthy diet, active life(?)style, regular exorcise and the addition of their natural psychopathy to keep them fit.

Of course there was also the excessive, extreme and highly experimental Mrahmrahmrah that would have wiped out most major cities.—

Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass

Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass.”

Illustrations by the incredible Anita Benson-Bradley

For decades, Lazlo Toth has been one of the world’s most famous authors. Until 2019, he always wore a wig of thick brown hair that made him appear young, healthy and virile. Last March, while he was being interviewed on the Red Carpet at the Oscars. That night, in front of a billions, a sudden gust blew the expensive toupee right off of his head, exposing him as the vain “cueball,” that he is.

Laszlo wrote novels about the supernatural. They were based on scientific fact and he prided himself on being a rational man. He became interested in genetics while working on a new novel, and joined the group called BlameYourAncestors.com.

Within two weeks after sending in his DNA sample, Laszlo 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.

With a little bit of digging, he discovered an old Tóth family portrait. The Tóths in the painting, all the men, some of the women and even a few of the children and even a few family pets (hairless dogs and cats) suffered from severe baldness (alopecia).

Laszlo allocated another fortune, that he’d saved on haircuts, 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.

The monster’s name was Count Oszkár Tóth. He was a rich landowner in 16th century Walachia.

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 desired a grooming, and summoned his magic golden comb — Magic comb? Yeah, right, Give me a break — only to find out that the comb had been stolen.

Oszkár’s mother, The Countess Cynthia, told her son that she had seen a well known local magician, named Madik, running away from the castle and into the Scary 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, was cornered and 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 baldness curse throughout the western world.

“The Bastard!” Thoughts of revenge pushed their tendrils in into Laszlo’s vain and twisted mind. Online, he hired a Hungarian scholar, to help him track down ‘Baldy’ 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.. He quietly drove his rent-a-car around the back to the cemetery, parked and opened the trunk and removed a lantern and a 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 (Bald rats!) and quickly began to go to work. He located the Count and slid the heavy lid off Boldizsár’s stone coffin, only to find out that most the Count’s bones had already been defiled. The pelvic bone, the skeleton’s ‘ass,’ was still in tact.

Jubilant, he carried the pelvis outside among the gravestones.

MIDNIGHT

Laszlo kicked Boldizsár’s bone ass all over the churchyard until he could kick no more. After a short rest and a drink from his flask, Laszlo gathered up the broken pelvis parts back inside the mausoleum, dumped them back into the coffin and took a cellphone photos — including one of the inscription on the wall above:

Lehet, hogy halott vagyok, bolond utódom, de még mindig kopasz!’

The author, satisfied with the bony ass kicking, didn’t review the inscription until he arrived back home in the states.

Translation:

“I may be dead, asshole, but you’re still bald.”

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