Dracul Van Helsing

As the PETA protestors set themselves upon the
fur-coat wearing Britney Spears in this blistering
heat, Miss Spears screamed, “I’m not crazy. I tell
you I’m not crazy.”

I walked down a back alley way.

Well, Mr. Mush’s horse was gone.

And I was partly to blame.

The last clue we had to the whereabouts of Mr.
Mush according to the tight skirt wearing dame
(who was now getting her marshmallowed covered
skirt cleaned at Mr. Lee’s Drycleaning), Mr. Mush
was last seen on a horse before he was kidnapped
or killed or whatever had happened to him.

And now the horse was no more.

It was my good fortune that I happened to
walk by a Sri Lankan restaurant.

The proprietor directed me down to the
wine cellar.

I guess he thought I needed a drink.

When I was down in the wine cellar, there tied
up and sitting next to a bottle of chardonay
was the missing Mr. Mush.

I turned and there stood… the ancient demon
Ravana a notorious demon king of Sri Lanka
who had kidnapped Princess Sita the fiancee 
of Lord Rama the ruler of the ancient Indian
kingdom of Ayodhya millenia earlier.

The Hindu monkey god Hanuman had helped 
Lord Rama rescue his beloved Sita from the
clutches of the demonic Ravana.

It was a good thing I had taken that course
A Comparative Study in World Religions in
my first year of University or otherwise I
wouldn’t have recognized the strange entity.

“You’re Ravana aren’t you?” I asked as I helped
myself to a bottle of German Reisling.

The demonic entity belched, “Excuse me.”
And then bowed, “Yes, I am Ravana.”

“And you’ve kidnapped Mr. Mush?” I popped
the cork off the Reisling, “has living in the
state of California changed your sexual orientation?
You’re going after guys now instead of princesses?”.

Ravana shook his head, “Mr. Mush here is a well
known writer of romantic love poetry. I thought if I couldn’t
win Princess Sita’s heart through abduction, I thought I
might win her heart by sending her some of Mr. Mush’s love
poems saying that I had written them.”

“May I see some of Mr. Mush’s poems?” I asked.

Ravana handed me a whole bunch with his clawed
hands.

After reading the first half-dozen, I was rolling
on the floor in great gales of laughter.

Mr. Mush’s face turned bright red.

It couldn’t have been the wine.

As having a gag in his mouth probably prevented him
from imbibing.

“You were planning to win her over with this mush?” I roared,
“tell me, Ravana, how does it feel to be an idiot?”.

Now it was Ravana’s turn for his face to turn red.

“Just one thing,” something had occurred to me,
“I thought Lord Rama had slain you. How is it you’re
alive?”.

“I was brought back to life by a Hollywood film producer,”
Ravana explained.

That was plausible. Hollywood film producers
were bringing ancient demons back to life all the time.

“Let Mr. Mush go,”  I told Ravana.

“No,” Ravana shook his head.

Ravana had had his chance. I always carried a bottle
of Holy Water with me ever since I was attacked by
the ancient Aztec serpent god Quetzalcoatl while making out
with Jessica Alba in the back of a red Corvette in Hollywood
years ago.

I sprayed Ravana with the Holy Water. He quickly
disintegrated into mush- almost as mushy as Mr.
Mush’s love poems.

I untied Mr. Mush.

He quickly ran upstairs and out the door.

I gathered up the scraps of paper on which were written The
Collected Works of Mr. Mush.

I thought I could use them for a bon fire to roast
marshmallows later as the evening heat seemed to have
died down.

As I walked out the door of the Sri Lankan restaurant,
I noticed Mr. Mush was run over by a car driven by
Lindsay Lohan. After running over Mr. Mush, Lindsay
Lohan then wrapped her car around a light pole.

Well two mysteries were solved tonight.

Who kidnapped Mr. Mush?

The ancient Hindu demon Ravana.

Who killed Mr. Mush?

Alcoholic airhead drunk driver Lindsay Lohan.

So I entered the restaurant.

Gov. Schwarzeneggar was attempting to pay his bill,
“Anyone know where I can get some extra credit?
The banks are locked up like a tight end on a gay
football team!”.

The lounge singer was singing the latest Hardy
Drew and Nancy Boys song, “There’s no one as
Irish as Barack O’bama.”

The French maitre’d directed me to a table.

What was a French maitre’d doing working in 
a Chinese restaurant?

“Tonight’s special, Monsieur, is Roasted
Cheval in an Orange Duck  and Marshmallow 
sauce,” he handed me a menu.

“I’ll try the special then,” I answered him.
I had never had Roasted Cheval before.
Although it had been a few years since
I had taken High School French. I couldn’t remember
what cheval was.

I looked around the restaurant.

There were a bunch of men (they all looked like
hairdressers) who wore t-shirts that said, “Vote
No to Proposition 8.” I noticed they all seemed 
to go to the men’s room together. On the table,
they were sharing a large fruit salad between them.

But no sign of a horse.

“Your Roasted Cheval in Orange Duck
and Marshmallow sauce, Monsieur,” the waiter brought
me the plate.

“Thanks,” I ate it. It was delicious.

I paid my bill in dimes and nickels which quite discombobulated
the cashier.

I walked out the restaurant door wondering where that
horse could have possibly got to.

It was then that I remembered what cheval meant in English.

“Murderer,” a group of protestors from PETA shouted.

Were they talking to me?

Or to Britney Spears who was walking down the street wearing
a fur coat in this hot muggy sultry weather?

To be continued.

It was a hot sultry night, the kind which sends people 
skinny dipping into fountains and ordering buckets of 
Tequila Sunrise at sunset!
I was sitting in my private eye office, my fedora off, my trenchcoat 
on the floor and my suspenders down.
I was wiping my brow, the fan was going up and down 
like Paris Hilton’s dress on a ferris wheel 
(even when the wheel’s not in operation!).
It was then that this dame walks in- tight blouse, tight skirt and spiked stilettos!
She sat down on the chair right in front of my desk right 
on top of a bag of marshmallows! 
I had planned to roast the marshmallows later by sticking them 
on a stick and holding them out the window in the stifling night air!
“I want to know who killed Mr. Mush?” she spoke in a voice as sultry as the night.
“Speaking of mush, you might want to check the back of your skirt,” 
I handed her a business card with the address
 of a neighbourhood dry cleaning establishment.

To be continued.