No Room At The Inn Because There Is No Inn In Vermont

August 31, 2011 at 8:05 pm (Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

Walking across the flooded roads of Vermont was a tall blonde man carrying pieces of wood.

One would think he was gathering fire wood because of the power outages.

But when people stranded by the washed-out roads were suddenly attacked by creatures who were trying to take their blood, the man sprang into action.

Staking vampires left, right and center.

Renfield R. Renfield who had been standing in the middle of a washed out road in very tall rubber boots and thinking he had picked a most inopportune moment to visit Vermont looked on with amusement.

“Well fancy running into you here, Dracul Van Helsing,” Renfield laughed.

“Fancy running into you, Renfield R. Renfield,” Van Helsing replied. “it’s too bad you weren’t a vampire because then under international law, I could stake and kill you.”

“Yes, a pity for you,” Renfield agreed, “but not for me.”

“What are you doing in Vermont?” Van Helsing asked.

“Amadeus told me there was a great and beautiful inn in Vermont,” Renfield replied, “told me to visit it.”

“Really?” Van Helsing smiled.

He had an idea of how the 7-year-old genetic clone’s mind worked- for while Amadeus was grown in the Set Laboratories test tube to be born an adult- in many ways Amadeus was still a child in his mind set.

“Was this Inn called The Stratford Inn?” Van Helsing asked.

“Why, yes it was,” Renfield nodded, “you know it?”.

“And he knew about it from an old 1980s TV show he watched called Newhart?” Van Helsing inquired.

“Yes,” Renfied replied, “you know how to get there?”.

“Newhart was a fictional TV show- a situation comedy,” Van Helsing explained, “there is no Stratford Inn in reality.”

“You mean I got drenched and pouring wet for nothing?” Renfield sighed.

“Yes,” said Van Helsing as he killed yet another vampire.

“Too bad Amadeus wasn’t a vampire,” Renfield seethed, “I’d buy a stake off you and use it where it would do the most good when I get back to England.”

To be continued.

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The Last Ride of The Train Engineer

August 30, 2011 at 8:05 pm (Poetry) (, , , )

He spent his life driving trains
through summer heat
and pouring rains.

He saw this country grow
riding the rails through
grain fields row on row.

Not as many grain fields as there used to be
instead he sees
row upon row of industry.

The old family farm is gone
along with local grain elevators
in a global corporate agro-business dawn.

An age of multi-lane highways
and planes flying skyways
the train whistles
amidst the thistles
but no longer do kids come running
up from brooks where they’d be sunning.

They’re in suburbs far and away
on video games they do play
where once hills did tower
and seeds did flower
now cell phone towers loom
and concrete and asphalt grow
where flowers did bloom.

He was glad tomorrow he’d be retired
his favourite views long since expired
and out of the old locomotive he did walk
but not down to the bar to sit and talk
but down to a park where birds do flock.

Time to move on
time to move on
for tomorrow
will still bring another dawn.

-A poem written by Christopher Van Helsing
Tuesday evening August 30th 2011.

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Another Field of Dreams

August 29, 2011 at 8:20 pm (Short stories) (, , )

The sports announcer looked into the camera, “Well we know it’s just an exhibition game between the Chicago Cubs and the Los Angeles Dodgers today as it’s still the pre-season but today is a special occasion anyways and it’s all because of LA Dodgers #9 Jorge Fernandez the Dodgers’ legendary pitcher and legendary hitter…”

His co-host looked into the camera and continued the commentary, “Well we all know Jorge Ferdandez has had an absolutely phenomenal career in his 10 years with the Los Angeles Dodgers holding the record for most home runs in the team’s history and the record for most no-hitter wins as a pitching member of that team…”

His announcing partner Jed picked up the commentary, “But Jorge’s family life has been tragic not of course due to the intense love in their marriage between Jorge and his wife Juanita but due to the fact that their 8-year-old son Ricardo was born blind with a rare eye disease. But earlier this year, Jorge and Juanita received news that a visiting eye surgeon from China would be lecturing at the Loma Linda Children’s Hospital on a new treatment for the eye disease that little Ricardo had.”

Announcer Mark continued, “The surgeon Dr. Fong agreed to treat little Ricardo with the revolutionary new procedure and last week after several months of the treatment, Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez announced to the world that their son could now see…”

“So last night at a special dinner for team managers and coaches and players and their wives and members of the press and the general public,” Jed went on, “Jorge gave this short speech at the end of which there was not a dry eye in the house…”

The tape runs of Jorge Fernandez’s short speech, “Tomorrow some say is just an exhibition game. But tomorrow for me is the game I consider the most important of my career. For tomorrow’s game means more to me than winning the National League West pennant. Tomorrow’s game means more to me than winning the National League Championship. Tomorrow’s game even means more to me than winning a World Series. For tomorrow’s game is the first time that my beloved son Ricardo will get to see his daddy playing baseballl. ..”

“And what could be a more appropriate moment than to end the tape there,” Jed smiled, “for here comes Los Angeles Dodgers #9 Jorge Fernandez on to the field…”

Fans all over the stadium- those wearing regular clothes, those wearing Dodgers shirts and even those wearing Cubs shirts rose to give Fernandez a standing ovation.

On the stadium large screen, the tape played of Jorge Fernandez’s closing remarks of his short speech last night, “And I say to you, nothing… absolutely NOTHING is going to stop me from playing in that game for my son tomorrow…”

The crowd cheered as Fernandez threw the first pitch…

“Strike,” shouted the umpire.

The second pitch…

“Strike two…”

The third pitch…

“Strike 3,” the umpire shouted, “Out.”

The same went for the next 2 Cubs players.

Strike…

…. and

… out.

The Dodgers up to bat.

All the bases are loaded.

Jorge Fernandez comes up to bat…

WHACK!…

… a home run.

And so it continued through all 9 innings of the game…

… the Cubs come up to bat…

… the only words the umpire spoke during that entire time were “Strike” and “Out”…

… the Dodgers come up to bat…

… the words the stadium announcer spoke time after time… “The bases are loaded… Jorge Fernandez up to bat… home run…”

Whether it was top of the inning or bottom of the inning, Fernandez always came to center field and took a bow… whispering the words that were projected on to the large screen… I love you my darling Juanita… I love you my dear Ricardo…”

And after taking a bow, he would always run off the field to the locker room and then return to play.

When the game was over…

… the Dodgers had won by an unbelievable score…

Jorge Fernandez had pitched another no-hitter in his career…

… and most phenomenal of all…

… had scored 9 home runs in a single game…

Fernandez ignored being hugged by his fellow players and waved off handshakes or pats on the back…

He ran to center field again… “I love you, Juanita… I love you, Ricardo… I will always be with you… Remember that…”

He then ran off the field…

… he almost seemed to vanish when he ran off…

… and vanish was a good word for it because the press, his fellow players and his coach couldn’t seem to find him in the locker room when they rushed in there after the disappearing Fernandez.

Up in his luxury box in the stadium, the General Manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers decided he’d better head down to the locker room and join in the celebrations with his most amazing player Jorge Fernandez…

The phone in the luxury box rang.

The General Manager picked it up.

It was Jorge Fernandez’s agent Paul Lennox.

“Mr. Wilson….” began Paul.

“Paul,” laughed Wilson, “are you here to renegotiate Jorge’s contract already?”.

“Renegotiate?” Paul stammered, “no, it’s been total chaos the past couple of hours. I thought you were probably wanting to know the reason Jorge didn’t show up to play this afternoon…”

“What do you mean didn’t show up to play?” Mr. Wilson laughed, “He totally showed up to play, you joker. Pitching a no-hitter and hitting 9 home runs in a single game.”

“But…” Paul’s voice sounded very strange, “Mr. Wilson, when Jorge and I left the hotel for the stadium, our car was totally sideswiped by a truck on the passenger side. Jorge was killed instantly…”

After a conversation that then proceeded for several minutes and it dawned on both Mr. Wilson and Mr. Lennox that neither man was joking, Mr. Wilson said,

“Paul, I’m going to use my best connections that I know of. A lid must be put on what could potentially be a controversy… of a supernatural magnitude… I’m going to call in a whole bunch of favours… see if we can change the time of death on the death certificate… the time of the accident on the accident report…”

And on it went.

Mr. Wilson the General Manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers finally put the phone down.

He sighed.

He wasn’t quite sure what had happened here this afternoon.

All he knew was that through some miracle, Jorge Fernandez had returned from the dead so his son could finally see him play baseball.

The head coach of the Los Angeles Dodgers knocked on the luxury box door and then opened it to tell the General Manager of the mysterious disappearance of Jorge Fernandez- baseball’s man of the hour.

As he opened the door and noticed the peculiar expression on the General Manager’s face, he quipped, “It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The General Manager looked up at the Head Coach and replied,

“We’ve all seen a ghost.”

-A short story written by Christopher Van Helsling
Monday evening, August 29th 2011

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A Peace That Strikes Terror

August 27, 2011 at 11:01 pm (Poetry) ()

A pin dropped on the empty streets
and the echo seemed to shake the Statue of Liberty
no traffic
no transit
no buses
no planes
ironically Irene is a Greek word meaning peace
and the city is devoid of noise
seemingly at peace
but the peace over the Big Apple
seems to be the peace of the grave
and the approaching sound of wind and water
could be the approaching hoofbeats of death.

-A poem written by Dracul Van Helsing
Saturday evening, August 27th 2011

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Alfred Hitchcock Sings Good Night Irene Or Was It Good Evening?

August 25, 2011 at 9:06 pm (Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , )

In the Malaysian province of Sarawak, the owner of a large farm sat down to watch that old TV show Alfred Hitchcock Presents on his large screen TV.

Hitchcock said, “Slamat lemai…”

In the Malaysian capital of Kuala Lumpur, a Malaysian bank executive sat down to watch that old TV show Alfred Hitchcock Presents on her large screen TV.

Hitchcock said, “Selamat petang…”

In London, England, Amadeus Emanon sat down to watch that old TV show Alfred Hitchcock Presents on the billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set’s large screen TV.

Hitchcock said, “Good evening…”

In his motel room in Virginia, Renfield was rehearsing for a conversation with a Malaysian woman over Skype he’d be having later that evening.

“You’re very bajik,” Renfield rehearsed his Iban.

He paused.

“You’re very cantik,” he rehearsed his Malay.

From the motel room to the right of him, he heard a wife sob to her husband, “You never tell me I’m pretty anymore…”

Renfield then imagined what the woman would say back to him…

“You’re very sigat,” she’d say in Iban.

“You’re very tampan,” she’d then say in Malay.

“I find Johnny Depp so handsome,” said the 78-old-grandmother in the motel room to the left of him, “I’d like to fuck his brains out…”

“Grandma,” admonished her granddaughter, “not in front of the great-grandkids…”

“Of course I wouldn’t do it in front of the great-grandkids,” the elderly woman retorted, “I’d take Johnny into the shower with me…”

On Renfield’s motel room TV screen, an emergency bulletin flashed on the screen.

The announcer said, “We interrupt this episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents to inform you that a state of emergency has been declared in Virginia, North Carolina, Maryland, New Jersey and New York due to fears of a direct hit by the looming monster storm Hurricane Irene…”

“Holy shit,” Renfield said as he looked at the screen.

He had no idea what the Iban and Malay words were for the phrase he just used.

To be continued.

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Ghost of Josef Stalin On Social Networking Sites

August 24, 2011 at 8:09 pm (Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , )

Michelangelo the genetically engineered Psychic Lobster was again feeling bored in his solo lobster tank in the Set Laboratories Lab outside London.

He decided he’d once again kill time through his genetically engineered ability to enter people’s dreams.

First he’d see if Renfield was asleep and dreaming.

He entered the mind of Renfield who was currently asleep and dreaming in a motel room in the U.S. state of Virginia.

Renfield was dreaming that he was in the drive-through lane at a McDonald’s restaurant.

Speaking into the drive-through intercom, Renfield said, “Lapar amai pour sex.”

He was showing off his skills at being able to speak 3 languages- Iban, French and English simultaneously.

Michelangelo shook his lobster head (and thus his antennae as well).

Renfield would always be Renfield.

Michelangelo decided he would then enter the dreams of Piers Morgan the host of CNN”s news talk show Piers Morgan Tonight.

Piers Morgan was dreaming that he was talking to the ghost of late Soviet dictator Josef Stalin on his show.

Complained Stalin’s ghost, “You know as I look around at the world today, I’ve always regretted the fact that both myself and my state the U.S.S.R. kicked the bucket before the advent of Internet social networking sites.
I mean one of the drawbacks of being in control of a police state in my day was that you had to spend so much money on having a vast secret police service to spy and find out what your people were saying, doing and thinking.
These days thanks to sites like Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr, people automatically post for the entire world to see what they’re saying, doing and thinking.
It would have made running a totalitarian state so much easier had these sites been around when I was busy dictating.”

To be continued.

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Renfield and The Virginia Earthquake

August 23, 2011 at 9:12 pm (Vampire novel) (, , , )

Renfield R. Renfield was lying in bed in the motel room with a big huge smile on his face- probably the biggest smile he had on his face in his entire life.

The phone rang.

Renfield happily reached for it.

“Hello,” Renfield grinned up at the ceiling.

“Renfield,” it was his colleague Amadeus Emanon’s voice, “are you all right? Are you okay? Is everything fine?”.

“Was never better,” Renfield said as he smoked a cigarette for the first time in his life.

“But I just heard on BBC News that a major earthquake has hit Virginia,” Amadeus gasped, “it was felt as far away as Toronto, Ontario, Canada. The shaking could be felt in North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Washington DC and New York City.”

“Earthquake?” said Renfield who was in the American state of Virginia on special assignment for his boss the billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set, “I don’t recall any earthquake. I remember picking up a very attractive hooker last night.”

“But they said a major earthquake struck which had its epicenter in Virginia very very very close to where you’re staying occurred at around 1:51 PM local time,” Amadeus explained.

“Really?” Renfield looked at his watch, “gee that was around the exact same time I finally came…”

“You da man,” the attractive looking hooker in bed next to him moaned in post-orgasmic super ecstasy, “you most definitely DA Man.”

To be continued.

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A Marxist Werewolf In Madrid

August 21, 2011 at 8:19 pm (Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

Walking in Madrid in the middle of the pouring rain…

… I was walking in Madrid in the middle of the pouring rain…

… wearing the coat of a werewolf in the middle of the pouring rain…

… The Senorita in red asked me, “Are you a Christian, child?”…

and I answered, “Marxist-Leninist.”

Magog Rhys Petley was beginning to feel that he was the central character in a badly written parody of a Marc Cohn hit song.

The far leftist Labour Member of Parliament from Wales had been battling an acute outbreak of lycanthropy ever since he got bitten by the ancient Hindu demon Rahu several months ago.

Part of the curse was that he did not turn into a werewolf only during the full moon but also whenever he was deeply aroused by something.

And lately the agitation of rioters in Britain the past couple of weeks had been turning him into a werewolf.

Now Scotland Yard was under the impression that he was responsible for organizing the riots.

So Magog decided to leave the country for a while until the heat died down.

Coming to Spain may not have been the brightest idea in the world.

All of these beautiful young Spanish senoritas were getting him sexually aroused.

Not to mention the streets of Madrid were crowded because of Papal World Youth Day celebrations.

And now here in Madrid as he stood in the middle of the pouring rain, thunder and lightning flashed all around him.

Water and several hundreds of thousands of volts of electricity was probably not a good combination Magog figured.

But it still might put an end to his werewolf’s curse.

Magog drank his buttermilk.

He had discovered that drinking buttermilk seemed to serve as an antidote to his outbreaks of Rahu-bite induced lycanthropy.

The beautiful young Senorita in red had asked him if he was a Christian.

No doubt because of all the visitors here to the Papal World Youth Day.

She walked down the streets in her red dress which fit even more tightly around her lovely figure because of the wetness caused by the rain.

As the glass of buttermilk had been emptied and she continued to swish elegantly down the streets in her spiked stiletto high-heeled shoes, Magog felt himself getting aroused.

As he turned hairy and started crawling around on all fours, the woman in red turned around and faced him without fear, “To remove the curse, seek the help of the Key.”

She then turned and vanished down a Madrid alleyway.

“A key?” Magog thought to himself as he started to howl.

Where was he going to find a key in this tumultuous weather?

What did she mean by the Key?

Thunder and lightning flashed all around him.

To be continued.

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Dreams of The Ocean

August 20, 2011 at 9:13 pm (Poetry) ()

Swish! Swish!
The sound of the waves
as they prodded the shore
Splash! Splash!
went the dolphins galore.

A summer night in August
as stars drop their stardust
and the moon shines her glow
on the waters below.

Oh palm trees that sway
on the beach of the bay
this glorious night
this harbour bright.

That was the night you came to me
the mermaid that came out of the sea
you kissed my lips
and pressed my fingertips.

I know you are but a dream
nothing be what it seem
but I feel your touch
for I can dream.

-A poem written on an August night far from the ocean
by Christopher Van Helsing,
Saturday evening August 20th 2011

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Vampire On The Beach

August 18, 2011 at 5:53 pm (Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Dracul Van Helsing was taking a break from vampire hunting and vampire slaying and was taking a refreshing night time swim in a lake.

The only thing he had on the beach was his towel.

The vampire flew on to the beach in the basking glow of the full moon.

He smiled and licked his lips.

There was renowned vampire hunter Dracul Van Helsing without a wooden stake or Holy Water or a Cross.

The only thing he had on the beach was a towel- a very beautiful towel judging from the intricate woven patterns on it- but a towel just the same.

He, the vampire smiled, would be known as the vampire who slayed Dracul Van Helsing.

“Greetings, Dracul Van Helsing,” the vampire said as the vampire slayer emerged from the water, “so here you are without a Cross or Holy Water or a wooden stake. Prepare to meet your Maker, oh foolish one.”

Van Helsing hit the vampire with the towel and the vampire started to disintegrate.

“This,” Van Helsing calmly explained as the vampire disintegrated, “is a towel woven by a Malaysian Iban woman. It was hand woven on a back-strap loom which is called Pua. In Iban culture, weaving is considered sacred and is able to mediate between man and the spirit world. Spiritual power is woven into the designs. The designs on this patterned towel convey in its intricate designs the story of Christ’s Death on The Cross and His Resurrection.”

“Now you tell me,” were the vampire’s last words before his head disintegrated.

Further on down the beach, a TV commercial was being shot and filmed for Canada’s Dairy Queen Restaurants (Dairy Queen is famous in Canada for its ice cream cones and ice cream sundaes and banana splits and a special ice cream dessert called an Ice Cream Blizzard).

“Well,” said the TV Commercial spokesman for Dairy Queen Restaurants, “here at Dairy Queen, we don’t just give you a great tasting Ice Cream Blizzard Sundae for only $2.99, here at Dairy Queen, we show you a vampire hunter slaying a vampire with only a wet towel…”

To be continued.

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