Radio Broadcast From The Future

February 28, 2011 at 9:49 pm (Vampire novel) (, , , , , )

“Hello Colin,” Renfield spoke on the phone, “this is Renfield R. Renfield. I don’t know if you remember me or not but I was the one who swiped your tuna fish sandwich on the set of The King’s Speech that same day I also made fun of your stutter because I thought it was real… anyhow congratulations on winning the Best Actor Award for your portrayal of King George VI… but… anyhow the real reason I’m calling is I was wondering if you got an invitation to attend Prince William and Kate Middleton’s wedding. Because if you did I’m willing to exchange an autographed photo of Helena Bonham Carter that says “Dear Rennie…” in exchange for the Royal Wedding invitation… hello? hello?”.

“Someone else hang up on you again?” Amadeus looked up from his copy of a Superman comic book.

“Hm, yes,” Renfield nodded, “anyhow back to the experiment.”

Both Renfield and Amadeus were in the Set Laboratories’ Lab where Renfield was conducting an experiment with Michelangelo the Psychic Lobster- a lobster who had been genetically engineered by Set Laboratories’ chief scientist Dr. Cadbury Rocher to have enhanced psychic abilities. Indeed Michelangelo the Psychic Lobster had, along with Germany’s Paul the Psychic Octopus, correctly predicted Spain’s win in the World Cup Final in South Africa last year.

“What sort of experiment are you doing with Michelangelo?” Amadeus asked as he bit into an apple.

“Well I was reading in this American newspaper,” Renfield held up a copy of The National Enquirer, “that some quantum physicist I had never heard of before at some university I had never heard of before was making the claim that some psychics have the ability to pick up radio broadcasts and TV show signals from the future…”

“So you’re looking to pick up a radio broadcast or a TV show signal from the future?” Amadeus asked as he reached into a box marked Chocolate Covered Nuts whereupon he visualized Renfield covered in chocolate.

“Yes,” Renfield grinned, “many people are afraid that the world may end on December 21st, 2012 just because the Mayans ended their calendar on December 21st, 2012. So I’ve asked Michelangelo here to concentrate his mind on today’s date February 28th two years hence- February 28th 2013- which would be a couple of months after December 21st, 2012. And if his mind is able to receive a radio broadcast or a TV show signal from that date- we will know the world won’t have ended.”

Amadeus reached into his pocket, pulled out a harmonica and started playing the theme music from the old TV show The Twilight Zone.

“Quiet, Amadeus,” said Renfield who had wires hooked up to Michelangelo’s head and the wires were attached to a computer, “there’s something coming through now. Michelangelo has picked up something.”

Renfield turned up the sound.

A voice spoke through the computer… “Here’s the news for February 28th, 2013…”

Renfield asked, “Did you get the date there, Amadeus?”.

Amadeus helped himself to a box of figs and replied, “Not really.”

“and in other news… ” the radio announcer from the future spoke, “Hollywood insiders and the outside world are still trying to recover from this morning’s shocking announcement about the impending wedding in the Bahamas between Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan…”

“Good God,” Renfield’s face turned ashen white, “it is the end of the world…”

To be continued.

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Stake In The Heart on Saint Matthias’ Day

February 24, 2011 at 8:57 pm (Vampire novel) (, , )

Rex Saturn had lived a long time.

He had been born in Los Angeles back in 1900.

He became a part of LA’s beginning film industry back in 1921.

He had worked as an actor in both silent and talkies (never any big parts) throughout the ’20s and ’30s.

Then starting in 1942, he went behind the scenes as an anonymous financial backer for various movies.

No one knew where his money had come from.

The truth was he had become a vampire back on February 24th 1942- 69 years ago tonight- in Los Angeles.

He had been turned into a vampire by the Aztec Vampire Princess Qonzilqointec.

She had made him an offer- immortality for becoming her tool in the Hollywood film industry.

And now 69 years later- he had come to the conclusion that immortality wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be- at least living a vampiric existence of immortality anyways.

And so Rex Saturn stood there this evening looking at the white picket fence of a quaint little house in Los Angeles.

He had never lived in a quaint little house with a white picket fence.

When he was poor, he had always lived in apartments.

When he became rich, he always lived in mansions.

Anyways one of the posts of the white picket fence made for a nice wooden stake.

He jumped out of a tree and impaled himself on the post.

His body then immediately disintegrated as its vampiric blood left it.

* * *

The Aztec vampire princess Qonzilqointec was dining in an exclusive restaurant in downtown Los Angeles.

She wore a pale green evening dress, a diamond tiara and a diamond necklace.

She sat there waiting for Rex Saturn to show up.

She was to meet him this evening and they were to discuss plans on what Hollywood productions she would be financing over the next year.

She noticed her chauffeur approach.

Why was Rex not with him?

“Your Highness,” the chauffeur bowed, “I have some bad news. As I was driving to go pick up Mr. Saturn, I noticed he deliberately jumped out of a tree and impaled himself on a white picket fence. He’s now nothing but dust.”

“That traitor,” the vampiress banged her pale green gloved fist on the table, “after all I did for him too.”

* * *

In a tent just outside the Libyan capital of Tripoli, British MP Magog Rhys Petley was waiting to meet Libyan leader Col. Muammar Gaddafi.

He was ushered into the tent just as Col. Gaddafi was trying to strike with his fists at a giant beating human heart suspended in mid-air just in front of him.

“Art thou not fatal vision sensible to feeling as to sight?” Col. Gaddafi addressed the heart just before it disappeared.

Magog Rhys Petley thought to himself that this was the worst performance of Macbeth that he had ever seen.

* * *

The Aztec vampire princess Qonzilqointec thought to herself that this was the best performance of Macbeth that she had ever seen.

She had dropped into an amateur theatre company’s playhouse near the boundaries of North Hollywood to see if she could find a young actor to replace the now deceased Rex Saturn.

And she had found him.

She smiled.

And delicately licked her vampiric fangs.

She was going to make this young man an offer he couldn’t refuse.

To be continued.

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Of Werewolves and Che Guevara Bra Cups

February 23, 2011 at 8:29 pm (Vampire novel)

“Well,” Amadeus remarked as he read the front page newspaper account of Renfield’s disastrous performance in front of Prince Charles at the Royal Albert Hall the night before, “it doesn’t look like you’ll be receiving an invitation to Prince William’s and Kate Middleton’s wedding now.”

“Oh, shut up,” Renfield glared at Amadeus.

Amadeus helped himself to his tenth chocolate eclair from a box.

“After the lyrics you wrote for me,” Renfield seethed, “I should really take back that box of chocolate eclairs I bought you.”

“You didn’t ask me to write good lyrics to the theme music from Hawaii Five-O,” Amadeus pointed out, “you just asked me to write lyrics.”

“I guess you’ve got a point,” Renfield harrumphed.

* * *

Magog Rhys Petley the British Labour Member of Parliament drank another large glass of buttermilk.

Ever since he had been bitten by the demon Rahu shortly after the start of this year and could turn into a werewolf at any time without it being a full moon or even nightime, he had discovered that drinking buttermilk was the only thing that seemed to counteract the werewolf metabolism from overtaking him.

“Why couldn’t it be whisky rather than buttermilk that was the antidote?” Magog Rhys Petley mused aloud.

“Good evening, Mr. Rhys Petley,” a man entered his office.

“Who are you?” the Welsh MP asked.

“Just call me J.,” the man smiled, “I’m the deputy director of MI-6.”

“Have you come to see me about the posters of Lenin and Marx I keep on my office wall?” Rhys Petley harrumphed with contempt.

“Hardly,” J. shook his head, “seeing as how my crazy teen-aged daughter wears a bra with images of Che Guevara on both cups, I’m hardly going to take you to task over that.”

“You know what the trouble with today’s country is,” Petley Jones finished his buttermilk, “most of today’s youth think that Che Guevara was a 1960s rock n’ roll star rather than the Communist revolutionary that he was. He fought for the working man and now t-shirts with his picture in London’s fashion district even I couldn’t afford to buy on my salary.”

“Really?” J. frowned, “I’m going to have to look at my daughter’s credit card bill when it comes in and see how much she paid for that Che Guevara bra.”

“So what are you here about?” Petley Jones asked.

“Well, we’re looking for someone to go to Libya and ask Col. Muammar Gaddafi to step down peacefully,” J. answered.

“But you must have heard about my recent disastrous meeting with Hosni Mubarak in Cairo,” Petley Jones protested, “after all it wasn’t me that got Mubarak to step down finally. It was some Paris-based businesswoman called Isis who succeeded in that.”

“Exactly your mission failed,” J. smiled, “but Her Majesty’s government wants to make an attempt at a peaceful conclusion to the unfolding Libyan tragedy. And if you’re shot and killed by Gaddafi or one of his bodyguards, it will be no great loss to the country.”

“Thanks for the words of encouragement,” Petley Jones reached for a bottle of whisky.

“Will you do it?” J. asked.

“Seeing as how I seem to be the only hardcore Marxist left in the entire British Labour Party, what have I got to lose?” Petley Jones shrugged, “who will miss me when I’m gone? No one.”

* * *

Petley Jones left the Hall of Westminster and walked through the streets of London feeling sorry for himself.

He happened to pass by a young woman wearing a short skirt and a low-cut top so low that he could see the images of Che Guevara’s face on her bra cups.

Petley Jones could feel the werewolf urge now coming on.

He looked across the street and saw the beckoning Big M neon lights of a McDonald’s.

Thank God, he thought to himself, that McDonald’s now sells buttermilk biscuits.

He hurriedly ran across the street to the McDonald’s continuing to thank God as he did so.

Forgetting in his heartfelt gratitude that he was a self-professed atheist.

To be continued.

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Song For Theme Music From Hawaii Five-O

February 22, 2011 at 11:27 pm (Humour, Mystery, Vampire novel) (, , )

“That was Dr. Cadbury Rocher phoning from the lab,” Amadeus Emanon put down the phone, “he says the Heart of Atum-Ra keeps on disappearing and then reappearing in the lab.”

Renfield R. Renfield who was busy playing with his new iPhone 4 and also writing on a piece of paper said, “I’m not surprised. Reports of a mysterious beating heart suspended in mid-air and emitting a bright purple light have been seen all over the world. The Heart of Atum-Ra must have the ability to teleport itself somehow. I’ll have to look into that in another day or two.”

“You mean you’re not currently interested in a subject like teleportation now?” Amadeus was surprised.

“No,” Renfield shook his head, “as you no doubt know I still have not received an invitation to attend Prince William’s and Kate Middleton’s wedding.”

“I’m shocked, shocked I tell you,” Amadeus grinned, “in the same way as the Vichy French police inspector played by Claude Rains was shocked when he discovered gambling was going on in Rick’s Cafe in Casablanca.”

Amadeus had watched the movie Casablanca the night before.

Renfield gave Amadeus a nasty glance.

He too had seen the movie.

“So what are you doing about it?” Amadeus asked.

“Well,” Renfield smiled, “I read in the paper today that Charles Prince of Wales will be attending the performance of a song writing competition tonight at the Royal Albert Hall. The purpose of the competition is to award a prize for someone writing lyrics for a TV show musical theme that currently does not have a song attached to it. I figured I’ll write a song and perform it and Prince Charles will be so impressed by my performance he’ll ask Prince William to invite me to the Royal Wedding.”

“To what TV show music theme that doesn’t currently have a song attached to it- are you going to write a song for it?” Amadeus asked.

“I figured I”ll write a song to the tune of the theme music from the TV show Hawaii Five-O,” Renfield grinned, “it has a pretty catchy tune don’t you think? Da-da-da-da-da da-da-da-da.”

“So what did you come up with?” Amadeus asked.

“Nothing yet,” Renfield shook his head, “I don’t have much musical talent.”

Renfield suddenly looked at Amadeus.

“Say you have musical talent, Amadeus,” Renfield buttered up his fellow employee, “being a concert pianist and everything. Will you write some lyrics for me set to the tune of the theme music from Hawaii Five-O?”,

“It says here in the paper,” Amadeus noted the article, “that it is to be an original composition written by the performer. And the performer will be you. So you’ll have to write it.”

“Who’ll know?” Renfield asked, “I certainly won’t tell anybody.”

“So, what’s in it for me if I help you?” Amadeus asked.

“I’ll buy you a box of a dozen chocolate eclairs from Ma Malone’s Bakery,” Renfield said, “and you can eat them all for yourself.”

Amadeus thought about this for a few seconds.

“All right,” Amadeus agreed.

Renfield handed him the pen and paper.

* * *

Later at the Royal Albert Hall that evening…

“Your Royal Highness and Ladies and Gentlemen,” the Master of Ceremonies smiled, “our next performer is Mr. Renfield R. Renfield who will be singing the song he wrote for the theme music for the American TV show Hawaii Five-O.”

Renfield walked up to the microphone holding a piece of paper and grinning.

Renfield so confident in his own abilities had never bothered to read beforehand the lyrics Amadeus had written for him.

Renfield knew the theme music to Hawaii Five-O by heart. It would just be a matter of singing the lyrics to the tune he knew so well.

Renfield began singing to the tune of the theme music from Hawaii Five-O,

“My name is Steve McGarrett,
I’m going to eat a carrot,
My name is Steve McGarrett,
what should I call my parrot?”.

Those were the only 4 lyrics that Amadeus had written.

Those 4 lyrics were to be repeated 25 times by the singer/performer until the music ended.

However 20 seconds into the song, Renfield was pelted off the stage by all the tomatoes thrown at him.

The Prince of Wales had a basket of his homegrown Cornwall greenhouse tomatoes with him and started passing them out to members of the audience as soon as Renfield started singing the unique lyrics.

* * *

Renfield immediately dove into the billionaire Egyptian vampire Set’s Rolls-Royce limousine which was waiting for him at the back door.

When the chauffeur noticed all the tomatoes on Renfield’s suit and jacket, he handed him a jar.

“Perhaps, you’d like some mayonnaise to go with that, sir,” the chauffeur quipped.

To be continued.

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The Glowing Heart

February 21, 2011 at 3:40 pm (Vampire novel)

A policeman in Tokyo walked along a neon lit street of the downtown sector of the city.

When suddenly all the neon lights went out.

Startled, Aso looked around.

A light was shining in the middle of the street.

And the light was emanating from a live beating giant sized human heart suspended in mid-air about 10 feet off the ground.

People screamed.

And then the heart vanished.

And the neon lights went back on.

* * *

Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin was looking out the window of his office in The Kremlin.

There seemed to be trouble with Moscow’s electrical grid tonight for the lights kept going on and off.

And now the light had once again gone off in his office.

Even the building’s own generator which was supposed to kick in during such circumstances didn’t seem to be working.

Putin looked out towards the night towards the sky to view the star light.

It was then that he saw the eerie luminous purple light.

He looked in the direction of where the light was coming from.

It was coming from a live beating giant sized human heart suspended in mid-air about 30 feet off the ground.

The heart vanished.

And the lights of Moscow came back on.

* * *

Rome, Italy.

The Cardinal noticed that something seemed to be wrong with the Eternal City’s electrical grid tonight.

The lights kept going off.

So the Cardinal lit himself a candle and kept writing.

Suddenly the candle went out for no reason.

And then a light emanated from outside his third floor office window in the Vatican.

He noticed an eerie luminous purple glow.

He walked towards the window.

He gasped.

For there outside the window suspended in mid-air was a live beating giant sized human heart.

Then both the purple light and the heart vanished.

And the lights of Rome came back on.

And the candle on his desk mysteriously lit up again on its own.

* * *

A soldier in the Algerian Army drove his tanks through the streets of Algiers looking for signs of trouble.

The government was afraid that the public anti-government protests that were starting to emerge all over North Africa and the Middle East might soon hit Algeria.

The neighbourhood sector that his tank was patrolling- the lights of the neighbourhood suddenly went out.

The soldier thought to himself, Is this a sign of trouble? And if it was, should he fire upon his fellow countrymen?

About 30 feet away, he noticed a purple glow.

He looked up.

And gasped.

The eerie light was coming from a beating giant human heart suspended in mid-air about 10 feet off the ground.

Then the heart and the purple light vanished.

And the lights of the neighbourhood came back on.

* * *

The freshman first term Congressman was walking outside the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C.

He was feeling discouraged. The atmosphere in Congress was so vitriolic and acerbic and so partisan.

A Democrat said this. A Republican said that.

Democrat and Republican. Republican and Democrat.

Was no one willing to say, I’m an American first and foremost?

And when did it happen in America that a member of an opposing party was no longer viewed as a fellow American but rather as an enemy combatant on U.S. soil?

A house divided against itself shall not stand.

The lights went out in the Lincoln Memorial.

The Congressman looked up.

About 30 feet above him was an eerie luminous purple light.

But where the light was coming from filled him with terror.

It was a giant live beating human heart suspended by itself in mid-air

Suddenly the heart and the purple light vanished.

But the lights did not go back on in the Lincoln Memorial.

And the freshman Congressman’s own heart started palpitating severely.

To be continued.

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The Heart of Atum-Ra

February 16, 2011 at 9:12 pm (Vampire novel)

Renfield R. Renfield put down the phone.

“That was the Boss’s chief scientist Dr. Cadbury Rocher phoning from the lab,” Renfield spoke to Amadeus, “he’s called about that meteorite with the DNA of the Boss’ great-grandfather Atum-Ra”.

“Has someone tried to steal it again like those two Italian secret agents tried to do last night?” Amadeus asked as he munched on a Salt and Vinegar potato chip.

“No,” Renfield shook his head.

“That’s the second time they managed to break into the Boss’ lab,” Amadeus noted as he dipped the chip into Sour Cream and Onion chip dip, “remember that this duo of Antonio and Giuseppe tried to break into the lab once before to steal the DNA extracted from the members of a Middle East Emir’s under-age harem for Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. Only they were stopped by the Boss’ guardian hybrid T-Rex Giraffe. Speaking of which, how did they manage to slip by Julius last night?”.

“Well, apparently Julius has a weakness for Nabisco Barnum’s Animal Crackers,” said Renfield, “which I don’t know where he got it from…”

Amadeus who had been reaching for his box of Nabisco Barnum’s Animal Crackers from under the sofa decided not to pull it out.

“And somehow these secret agents Antonio and Giuseppe found out about Julius’ weakness for Nabisco Barnum’s Animal Crackers I don’t know how…” Renfield went on.

Amadeus picked up his lap top, went to his Facebook page and deleted the section where he talked about his Pets’ likes and dislikes.

“So anyhow Antonio and Giuseppe managed to get ahold of a giant box of Nabisco Barnum’s Animal Crackers and threw it to Julius after they jumped over the Set Enterprises’ fence…” Renfield continued.

Amadeus googled the term Where can one buy a giant box of Nabisco Barnum’s Animal Crackers?.

“And they would have made it all the way to the lab too if I hadn’t been working late and caught them before they stole the meteorite,” Renfield beamed with pride.

“How do you know they were going to steal the meteorite?” Amadeus asked as he started signing up for a membership in eBay.

“They confessed to the whole thing after I swiped the bottles of red and white wine from their respective coat jackets and refused to give them back unless they talked,” Renfield grinned.

“Their bottles of wine didn’t break after jumping over the fence?” Amadeus looked up from the lap top.

“No, they held on to their respective bottles tightly as they jumped over the fence,” Renfield explained, “although Giuseppe was whining and snivelling about splitting his pants after he jumped over the fence.”

“I see,” Amadeus bit into another potato chip.

“And I discovered they weren’t working for Berlusconi in trying to steal the meteorite either,” Renfield smiled a broad smile, “you’ll never guess who they were working for?”.

“The Vampiress Isis perhaps?” Amadeus took a sip of his Cream Soda.

Renfield’s face looked downfallen.

“Was I right in my guess?” Amadeus asked.

“Yes,” Renfield grimaced, “how did you know?”.

“I didn’t,” Amadeus shrugged, “I just took a guess like you told me to.”

“You totally ruined my element of surprise,” Renfield harrumphed as he reached into his lunch bag for a tuna fish sandwich.

* * *

“Why is there a huge band aid on your finger?” Dr. Cadbury Rocher asked Renfield as the evil shapeshifter and Amadeus showed up in the Set Enterprises’ lab.

“I caught it in a mouse trap when I reached into my lunch bag to pull out a tuna fish sandwich,” Renfield fumed.

“At least you discovered what became of the mouse trap,” Amadeus smiled, “I couldn’t remember where I put it last night. Although I did remember to bring the cheese.”

Amadeus produced a huge package of cheddar cheese.

“Why did you call us down to the lab?” Renfield asked.

“Well I tried cloning Atum-Ra from that sample on the meteorite you gave me,” Dr. Rocher explained, “and it was a curious thing. After I extracted a miniscule quantity of DNA, the rest of the DNA just mysteriously disappeared without a trace off the meteorite.”

“What a bummer,” Renfield had to admit, “so were you able to do anything with the little DNA you had?”.

“Behold…” Dr. Rocher flicked a light switch on in the lab…

10 feet above a table with test tubes… suspended in the air by itself… was a live beating heart.

“The Heart of Atum-Ra,” Dr. Rocher smiled.

To be continued.

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Cosmopolis 2029 A.D.

February 12, 2011 at 10:15 pm (Short Story) (, , , )

Cosmopolis 2029 A.D.

Earth’s greatest metropolis.

Where the holographic image ads reached the sky.

And the sides of the tallest skyscrapers served as the planet’s most expensive billboards.

Where people flew in their aeromobiles anytime of day or night.

The number of people killed in aeromobile crashes so far this year: 4.

Still a lot better than the days 20 years ago when people were killed driving their own ground-based automobiles.

For all the jokes about computer malfunctions, the computers drove aeromobiles better than erratic human drivers with their various neuroses and emotional outbursts in the days of petroleum driven ground transportation.

The Singularity was a triumph as far as traffic safety went.

You just told the computer where you wanted to go and taking note of where you are, it flew you there in the most direct and safest possible manner.

Taking note of all the other aeromobiles out there and flying you there safely.

Travis Albion Private Eye was parked at ground level in his aeromobile.

He looked up at the sky and noticed with amusement as a group of young male teen passengers in their aeromobile flew directly into the low-cut top of the low-cut dress of the woman in the skyhigh holographic beer commercial ad.

“Just another Saturday night,” Travis Albion mused to himself as he smoked his smokeless cigarette- big on flavour and without the smoke and the carcinogens of tobacco products past.

Abion put the bottle of bourbon to his lips and took a deep sip.

How different from his father’s day he thought when one had to worry about being pulled over for being impaired.

Albion directed his attention towards the skies again.

There it was- the Silver Streak Honda Aeromobile.

Moving like a silver streak across the sky just like the ads said.

But was this THE Silver Streak- the one he had been hired to follow?

Albion snapped his fingers and the holographic keyboard appeared in front of him
instantaneously.

Albion smiled.

He was glad he got a Mac holographic keyboard.

For even the new Windows 666 holographic keyboard still took 10 seconds to kick in.

Albion typed on the holographic keyboard.

And the image came up on the holographic screen- the image of the Silver Streak’s invisible registration tattoo.

TDZ-5200.

“Gotcha,” Albion smiled.

Albion directed his Volkswagen Super Bug aeromobile’s computer to follow the Silver Streak.

The VW aeromobile soared into the sky at supersonic speed.

“Gotta love that German engineering,” Albion took another sip of his bourbon.

Albion’s VW aeromobile flew past the aeromobile of the star struck nerdy teen-agers he had noticed earlier- the ones who had flown into the low-cut top of the low-cut dress of the woman in the skyhigh holographic beer ad.

Their car was covered in a holographic red coloured substance which they flew into a holographic CLEAN zone to erase.

“Better watch where you’re flying fellas,” Albion laughed as he watched the red holographic substance being erased by the CLEAN zone, “you never know when you’re flying directly into a tampon ad.”

Albion caught up with the Silver Streak which was parked atop the steeple of the Lunar Trade Center.

The male and female passenger were getting it on intensely under the intense moonlight.

“Mr. Philadopolous,” Albion called out to the man.

The man lifted the hood of the aeromobile and stood up to see who was speaking to him.

Albion spoke, “I’ve got an early Valentine’s Day present for you from your wife.”

The private eye pulled out his gun and shot him.

The woman who was with him dove for cover under the thick luxurious Silver Streak seats.

“It’s all right, doll face,” Albion spoke to the woman, “Mrs. Philadopolous didn’t really have a message for you other than you might want to direct the Silver Streak computer to fly you in and check out the holographic ads for Transmittable Social Disease clinics along 42nd Ave.”

Albion’s VW aeromobile flew off.

He typed in the number of tonight’s kill on his holographic keyboard.

57.

He had 57 kills so far this year.

As a private eye, he was allowed 100 before he could be charged with murder.

Of course the average citizen was only allowed 5 kills a year before they were charged with murder.

Acting on behalf of Mrs. Philadopolous, she now had 1 of 5 potential kills on her record for this year.

She had told Travis Albion that she didn’t really care for her husband.

But Albion kind of figured that wasn’t true as he inhaled his non-existent smoke from his smokeless cigarette and took another sip of bourbon.

You don’t waste 1 out of 5 kills on someone you don’t really feel passionate about.

I guess it’s as they say… Love hurts.

Even here in Cosmopolis.

Even here in the Year 2029.

The VW aeromobile flew off in the direction of the rising moon.

Another night.

And another night’s work done.

THE END.

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Isis Speaks

February 11, 2011 at 9:41 pm (Vampire novel)

Magog Rhys Petley the Welsh Labour MP was in a private room of a high class London lounge drinking himself into a drunken stupour.

“I’ve failed in my mission,” he blubbered over and over again, “I’ve failed in my mission. No more buttermilk for me. Only whisky… Nancy Whisky… Nancy O… God, I sound like a drunken Irishman…”

“You sound more like a drunken Welshman to me,” the voice of actor Sir Anthony Hopkins piped up from the other private room next door.

“He speaks the truth,” Magog Rhys Petley addressed the wallet-sized photo of Karl Marx that was on the table in front of him, “he speaks the truth.”

Magog Rhys Petley then passed out.

* * *

The Egyptian vampiress Isis stood in her favourite red dress atop the Eiffel Tower.

She clicked her red spiked stilettos as she walked back and forth along the Tower platform.

She loved this view of Paris from up here.

Paris… her city.

She watched intelligence reports coming in from all over the world to her iPhone.

“So it appears that a British werewolf has failed,” Isis laughed, “well where Magog Rhys Petley has failed, Isis will succeed.”

Isis dialed a private phone number on her iPhone.

“Hello?” the voice at the other end spoke with some trepidation when he answered.

“President Mubarak,” Isis smiled a sweet sensual vampiric smile and licked her glistening fangs, “this is Isis.”

* * *

2 minutes later, President Hosni Mubarak sent a text message to his Vice-President Omar Suleiman announcing that he President Mubarak would be stepping down and would Vice-President Suleiman please inform the Egyptian nation?

* * *

Jubilation and cheering in Cairo’s Tahrir Square.

* * *

“I don’t want to go to school today,” Magog Rhys Petley muttered in his sleep as someone banged on the door of the private room he was in at the upscale London lounge.

To be continued.

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Hosni Mubarak: Not Afraid Of Werewolves

February 10, 2011 at 8:30 pm (Vampire novel) ()

Renfield R. Renfield and Amadeus Emanon were back in the United Kingdom after an eventful trip to America.

The meteorite containing the DNA of the Egyptian vampire Ra was safely in a Set Enterprises lab.

Amadeus Emanon was watching BBC News on TV in the living room of the billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set’s mansion while Renfield was busy on the computer.

“Protestors,” intoned the BBC News Announcer, “in Cairo’s Tahrir Square are angry that Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak did not announce that he was stepping down in his TV address to the nation today but rather that he was staying on until Presidential elections in September. Mr. Mubarak said that his departure would not be dictated to by foreign powers…”

“I wonder what foreign powers those would be?” Amadeus asked as he munched on his hot-buttered popcorn.

“Well hacking into this email sent by the British Embassy in Cairo to 10 Downing Street, Mr. Mubarak apparently told his officials, “How dare the Western powers think I’d be frightened off by sending a werewolf to talk to me? To paraphrase that old song Ghostbusters from that old American movie Ghostbusters, I ain’t afraid of no werewolf…” Renfield stated as he bit into a tuna fish sandwich.

“The West sent a werewolf to talk to Mubarak?” Amadeus poured some fresh ground pepper on his popcorn.

“Probably didn’t know that he was a werewolf,” Renfield answered, “but I using my amazing powers of deduction have determined who the werewolf is.”

“I never knew you had amazing powers of deduction,” Amadeus coughed as a result of too much pepper on the popcorn, “you’ll have to display those for me some time.”

Renfield cast an angry glance in Amadeus’ direction and then continued, “I’ve been able to trace the whereabouts of a certain British Labour MP… let’s call him Magog Rhys Petley… he was apparently in Cairo these past few days… and last night he was in a nightclub in Cairo watching a performance by belly dancers when he suddenly started turning hairy and causing a disturbance. He then left in a taxi and went all over Cairo trying to find someone who sold buttermilk. Apparently he wasn’t able to find any buttermilk. Then apparently he went to the Egyptian Presidential Palace to meet Mubarak and the meeting ended with Rhys Petley barking and snarling on all fours.”

“So how does that make Rhys Petley a werewolf?” Amadeus sipped on his large movie theatre style cup of Coca-Cola and reached for some black licorice.

“Well apparently Rhys Petley was in Wales when those werewolf attacks occurred in Wales several weeks ago and was in London that weekend when that young policewoman was attacked by that werewolf in London a few weekends ago,” Renfield explained, “but of course those werewolf attacks were very unusual. They didn’t happen at night and there was no full moon. Then we have the unusual incident of Rhys Petley wanting to find some buttermilk. Well checking some very ancient folklore on werewolves, anyone who’s bitten by the demon Rahu can turn into a werewolf at any given time if the circumstances are right- those circumstances being extreme desire for something- such as for example carnal desire. You may remember that we had the frozen specimen of the demon Rahu in the Boss’ laboratory several weeks ago until I de-thawed him and let him go. He must have run into Rhys Petley and bit him. The fact that Rhys Petley started turning hairy when he watched some belly dancers perform indicate that he was probably sexually aroused and turning into a werewolf. Since he was probably meeting Mubarak on behalf of the British government, he was looking for buttermilk to counteract the effects. And since he was unable to find any, he showed up at the Presidential Palace in Cairo as a werewolf and Mubarak probably didn’t take too kindly to that.”

“So as a result of you foolishly letting the demon Rahu loose, this has through a series of circumstances potentially led to an international crisis becoming worse?” Amadeus looked at Renfield.

“Yes,” Renfield cackled an evil cackle as he bit into his tuna fish sandwich, “these hands of mine wield such power. Such power as the world can never imagine.”

He cackled and guffawed so loudly and with such ecstasy, he started to choke on his tuna fish sandwich.

He fell to the floor and started turning blue.

Amadeus went over to Renfield’s computer and proceeded to google the terms Heimlich Maneuver.

To be continued.

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Called To Egypt

February 4, 2011 at 8:32 pm (Humour, Mystery/horror, Vampire novel)

British Prime Minister David Cameron was holding a meeting with Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg in his office.

“I just got a call from U.S. President Barack Obama,” Cameron explained, “he wants to know if we have a member of our government available to go to Cairo and tell Hosni Mubarak in person that the time has come to step down.”

“Maybe we can send over an MP,” Clegg suggested, “and ask him to do so unofficially on behalf of the British government. An MP whose reputation we don’t really care about going down the drain should the mission fail.”

“An opposition Labour MP perhaps?” Cameron had a twinkle in his eye.

“Well of course we don’t want to be accused of playing dirty politics,” Clegg laughed, “possibly there’s a Labour MP that Opposition Leader Ed Miliband wouldn’t really care if the person lost his reputation or not should the mission fail.”

“Magog Rhys Petley,” both men said simultaneously.

“Yes,” Cameron nodded, “we certainly saved the British Labour Party a lot of embarrassment by covering up the fact that Rhys Petley participated in one of Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s orgies with nubile 17-year-old girls.”

“Yes, the orgy at which the British tabloid press claimed that a werewolf was present,” Clegg smiled.

“Even though it was a noon time orgy and there was no full moon,” Cameron laughed.

“I’ll phone Mr. Miliband and ask him if it’s okay that we send Rhys Petley over to Egypt as the government’s unofficial spokesman telling Mubarak he better step down,” Clegg stated.

* * *

The well known Marxist and far-Left Welsh Labour Party MP Magog Rhys Petley was having caviar and champagne in an upper end West London restaurant.

“You know I do have to say, Karl,” Rhys Petley spoke to a wallet-sized photo of Karl Marx that he kept in his wallet and had put on the table for company, “that the bourgeoisie and the upper classes do know how to live.”

The image of Karl Marx in the photo remained solemn and silent.

“Magog Rhys Petley,” a voice greeted him.

The voice spoke in a soft feminine and exquisitely seductive Louisiana accent.

“Angelique Dumont,” Rhys Petley stood and bowed to the well known New Orleans classically trained singer who now starred in many West End London musical productions.

“I noticed that you were at my show earlier this evening,” Angelique smiled.

“I always enjoy your portrayal of Christine Daae in Llyod Webber’s Phantom,”
Rhys Petley smiled.

“The intermission bartender said you were drinking several glasses of buttermilk which I believe is not your usual libation,” Angelique laughed.

“I noticed the past week that drinking buttermilk seems to serve as an antidote to a certain affliction that I have,” Rhys Petley explained.

“Really?” Angelique smoothed her dress and then sat down beside him, “and what affliction would that be?”.

“A triple glass of buttermilk for me and champagne for the lady,” Rhys Petley motioned to the waiter but ignored Angelique’s question.

“More buttermilk?” Angelique crossed her legs.

“Yes,” said Rhys Petley and he added to himself, “I hope it gets here soon.”

“So how are things in the House of Commons?” Anqelique asked.

“Same old, same old,” Rhys Petley answered, “I notice your usual dinner escort is not with you tonight.”

“Amadeus Emanon?” Anqelique replied, “no he’s over in America.”

“What’s he doing over there?” Rhys Petley inquired.

“On some sort of mission for his boss,” Angelique shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, that strange and elusive billionaire Set,” Rhys Petley nodded, “all sorts of strange rumours about him. Some people claim that he’s a vampire.”

Angelique Dumont had to laugh, “So tell me Magog, do you believe in vampires and vampiresses?”.

“No, they go against my Marxist beliefs,” Rhys Petley stated.

Angelique smiled at him with what seemed to him to be long protruding fangs from her upper teeth, “And these… ” she pointed to the caviar and champagne, “these don’t go against your Marxist beliefs?”.

“No as long as it’s champagne and caviar for all,” Rhys Petley wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

“And what about werewolves?” Angelique asked, “do you believe in werewolves? Since the British tabloid press seems to be full of rumours about werewolves these days?”.

Rhys Petley shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

He felt relieved when the buttermilk arrived.

After downing the buttermilk, he went and sat in Angelique’s lap.

“My word, my dear Rhys Petley,” Angelique purred, “you’re feeling amorous tonight.”

* * *

Magog Rhys Petley spent an enjoyable evening with Angelique Dumont.

No signs of the lycanthropy overtaking him either.

When he arrived home at his apartment, he finally got around to answering his cell phone which he had switched off while in Angelique’s company.

There were dozens of voice mail and text messages waiting for him requesting that he go to Egypt on behalf of the British government.

To be continued.

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