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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