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…And Then Things Got Weird….

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Ghosts

“Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass.”

Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass.” With only a few of the fine illustrations by 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.com 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 suffered from severe baldness (alopecia). Alopecia was also his grandmother’s name.

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 creature’s name was Count Oszkár Tóth. He’d been a rich landowner in sixteenth century Walachia. 

The Count was legendary for his long flowing locks that  made him look like a golden hero on the cover of an ©Infinity Upton Downes’ bodice-ripping novel. The vain Oszkár combed his proud mane day and night. One evening, when a hair was out of place, he  summoned his magic golden comb — Magic comb? Yeah, right, Give me a break — only to find out that the famous comb had been stolen.

Oszkár’s mother, The Countess Cynthia, told her son that she had seen a well known local magician, named Mah-dik, running away from the castle and into the nearby Petrifying Forest carrying a shiny yellow object in his hand. 

Laszlo ordered the local police to “find Mah-dik!” Once captured, he ordered the Magician to be burned at the stake. 

At the Barbecue, 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 eleventh failed 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 of the ancient structure to the bone yard, parked and opened the trunk to remove a lantern and a heavy 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 Boldizsár’s resting place and slid the heavy lid off the count’s stone coffin, only to find out that most the bones had already been defiled.  

Luckily, the pelvic bone, the skeleton’s ‘ass,’ was still in tact.

Jubilant, Laszlo carried the pelvis outside among the gravestones. 

MIDNIGHT

Q-Ball’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 gathered up the broken pelvis parts back inside the mausoleum, dumped them back into the coffin and took a few cellphone photos —  including one of the inscription on the wall above:

“Lehet, hogy rúgta a csontos seggem, kemény fickó. De még mindig kopasz vagy.”  

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

“Lehet, hogy rúgta a csontos seggem, kemény fickó. De még mindig kopasz vagy.”

(Translation: “You may have kicked my bony ass, tough guy, But, guess what? You’re still bald.”)

The Night of the Shining Domes

The Night of the Shining Domes

— is an an excerpt from the short story ‘Rock Invasion’ from the book The Kingdom of the Cats

a sorrento

Where does inspiration come from?

Here, it takes the long route.

Our main character in the story Rock Invasion, is Johnny Passion: A washed-up 1960s pop singer

Second, we have Therpsicore: The newly elected Goddess of modern music and Johnny’s biggest fan. Working on giving him a second chance. We’ll call her Cori, for short.

Then there are The Brills: Cori’s alien song writing partners who inhabit the planet Brill. 


 

It was the biggest, brightest full moon that the Earth had seen in over thirty years. The kind of moon that inspired love songs.

Eight tuxedo-clad ghosts solidified themselves and gathered, at midnight, in the empty baseball field of Dodger Stadium under remarkably clear skies. The Stadium was built in 1962. The Elysian Fields where it stood had been named by the Pantheon of Greek Gods in 5000 B.C. The local LA politicians, who would have named it for one of their rich cronies, had, thank the gods, nothing to do with the naming of the sacred space.

The ghostly group was a collection of the most talented of the deceased, bald show-biz legends. There was Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, Bobby Darin, Roy Orbison, Hank Williams, Mel Torme, and Al Jolson. They walked the diamond in a slow orbit around their chosen leader, the chairman, the venerated spirit of Francis Albert Sinatra, who stood on the pitcher’s mound holding a ghost cigarette in one hand and his cocktail of choice — four ice cubes, two fingers of Jack Daniels, and a splash of water in the other. Frank was wearing his magic toupee. Other curious follically-challenged spirits began to drift in from the night to witness the rare and momentous occasion. Two dozen, daisy pushing, songwriters, and band leaders joined the festivities, as well as two accursed showbiz agents, from the Earth’s molten core; Max and Lenny Lipschitz — the twin Lex Luthors of Hollywood.

When they had been alive, each of these tuxedoed giants of music had sported one of Cori’s magic toupees. Cori’s charmed hairpieces, were woven from the fur of the her long haired cat, Mr. Snuffles. When they were alive the magic toupees had helped the stars boost their fragile egos so that they would keep performing.

The Domes held their charmed toupees against their chests as they tightened the circle around Frank. The tops of their shiny heads pointed toward the heavens.

The solemn ceremony had begun.

The pale rays of the silent moon multiplied themselves upon the ghost’s polished heads until the moonlight snowballed ten-thousand-fold. A vigorous single beam, more robust than any laser, ricocheted itself back to the dark heavens. The signal was sent.

They set their wigs back upon their heads.

The toupees were lifted and slapped down repeatedly , over and over again, upon the bare heads of ghosts in quick, efficient military precision. The flashing of domes was repeated thirty times. A coded message was being transmitted into the great beyond.

The Chrome Domes had sent their urgent message to star system LSMFT-456. Hundreds of light years away, on the distant planet Brill, the beam entered the studio window of Cori’s two writing partners, Ada and Buddy Brill. The signal from the Chrome Domes was a plea for action, reaching into deep space.

The Chosen One is ready.” The coded message said. “Please ask Cori to weave a special toupee for our new inductee, Johnny Passion.”

Johnny Passion, the washed up pop star, was about to be given a second chance at showbiz, thanks to his number one fan, the goddess Cori.

“Toupee or not toupee!” The ghosts chanted as they dematerialized back into the endless night.

The message from the Chrome Domes had been given top priority by the Brills, Buddy and Ada, who lived and worked on their tiny 24 Karat planet beyond the Milky Way. The Brills picked up their Buck Roger’s Walkie Talkie to relay the exciting message to Cori, who waited for the Chrome Dome’s approval back on Earth. Frank and the boys, giving Johnny the green light, would certainly lift the goddess’ spirits. Johnny Passion was Cori’s last hope for the renaissance of quality music.

Cori’s walkie talkie buzzed again and again, but there was no answer. The Goddess, protected by her gallant feline, Mr. Snuffles, was passed out, drunk, on the floor of her favorite watering hole, the Kailua Palace.

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