Cerberus and Pan Goatee In Vancouver

July 31, 2013 at 8:10 pm (Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , )

Cerberus and Pan Goatee In Vancouver

Pan Goatee had been reading all the Sydney Seagull poems that Dracul Van Helsing had written.

So he decided to go to Vancouver and see this strange eccentric bird for himself.

But after astral projecting himself to English Bay, he frightened off all the seagulls since he was carrying his astral machete with him.

Most of the humans on the beach were too stoned to be frightened by his astral machete.

Either that or they were pointing at it and saying in a brain dead zombie like voice,  “Wow.  That’s really cool, man.”

Pan Goatee who shared the Ancient Greek passion for true intellectual contemplation of the Realm of Platonic Forms thought these idiots were incapable of it and so beheaded them all thus reducing the amount of support for the Yes side in a possible B.C. Provincial Referendum on Marijuana Decriminalization to say nothing of reducing the base of support for Justin Trudeau’s Canadian Federal Liberal Party.

Since Pan Goatee did not know his way around Vancouver, he decided to call a halt to his astral projection and ride the Vancouver Transit System that all the travel books raved about.

But seeing as how today was the second round of the Honda Celebration of Light Vancouver Fireworks Festival Competition (and the host country of Canada was tonight’s competitor) the buses in Vancouver were full of $&@!ing people much to Pan Goatee’s disgust.

He went around beheading people left, right and centre (and even totally apathetic when it came to the political spectrum) in a one half-man half-goat attempt to make a dent in the world’s 7 billion population mark.

He tried boarding the next bus because the one he was on although now empty stank to high-heaven.

That one too was crowded- this one filled with people going to the Justin Timberlake concert being held tonight in Vancouver.

Pan Goatee raged, “Justin Timberlake?  I hate that guy for making Britney Spears cry.”

Although he had only been genetically created this year, a recent well-done documentary on MTV that he had watched had brought him up to speed on the music scene of the past 20 years.

Sadly his astral machete now required sharpening and there wasn’t an astral sharpening saw in sight.

He happened to see the 3-headed dog Cerberus astral project on to the scene.

Cerberus actually wanted to astral project to the Palace of Westminster in London, England but he made the mistake of asking a recently reformed alcoholic (who had only sworn off booze a few days before) for directions.

And this was where he wound up- in downtown Vancouver British Columbia.

“Cerberus,” Pan Goatee cried out to him,  “this bus is full of damned souls aka Justin Timberlake fans.  Come and eat them.”

Cerberus wagged his tail in a friendly fashion as he hadn’t had anything to eat in several days.

He boarded the bus and with his 3 heads that all required a carnivourous non-vegetarian diet bit and chewed and swallowed anyone and everyone in sight.

In the aftermath, all that was left on the bus was a lot of blood and a bunch of bodiless Justin Timberlake shirts.

To be continued.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Wednesday July 31st 2013.

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The Old Violinist and The Old Dog

July 31, 2013 at 12:58 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

I first saw them a few nights ago


They were on the corner of Burrard and Alberni


as I rode by on the bus..


The dog lay with his head on the sidewalk


in peaceful contemplation


his eyes closed.


The old violinist was vigourously 


playing his violin.


What melody he played I do not know


for the bus windows were closed.


An old hippy walked by


shaking his head


as if to say,


You can’t teach an old dog new tricks


or an old musician new music.


The music he played was obviously




I figured.


Then last night as I walked up Robson Street


half-way up between Thurlow and Burrard


I saw them-


the old violinist


and the old dog.


The dog once again 


his head on the sidewalk


in peaceful contemplation.


I approached


and the melody touched my ears


like the softest velvet.


Never have I heard


Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played


so beautifully.


As a child,


my parents often took me to numerous symphony concerts.


I have listened to Vivaldi on radio and TV


and Galaxy satellite


and never have the beautiful Four Seasons


sounded so beautiful.


Vancouverites may not know it


but the streets of Vancouver are truly blessed 


as a master violinist sends his melodies


into the air 


before the Festival of Lights Fireworks


light up the night sky.




-A poem written by Christopher

 Sunday night

 July 28th 2013

 the night after the

 1st round of fireworks

 in the Vancouver Fireworks Festival

 Honda Celebration of Light

 Vancouver, British Columbia.

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An Answer In Mysterious Ways

July 29, 2013 at 1:34 am (Vampire novel) (, , , , )

The woman looked at her watch.


1:30 AM and her husband was still not home.


The woman got down on her knees and prayed, “Please Lord, find some way that my husband will give up drinking.”





                                         *             *            *



The husband sat in the pub and looked out the window.


Then he looked at the old grandfather clock ticking beside the bar.


1:30 AM.


He’d been here since 3:00 PM this past afternoon.


Sometimes he really wondered whether he should give up drinking.


“Oh, well,” he thought to himself, “I promise I’ll give up drinking if I see a 3-headed dog walk by.”


He looked out the window and saw the 3-headed dog Cerberus walk by.


He looked down sadly at his empty glass and sighed, “Now, I’ll have to give up drinking.”



To be continued.




-A vampire novel chapter 

 written by Christopher

 Monday July 29th 2013.

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Ghosts Galore

July 26, 2013 at 7:32 pm (The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

The entertainer in the pub sang, “I’m Henry VIII I am, I am, I just got married to the widow next door, she’s been married 7 times before and everyone was a Henry – Henr-ee  so that makes me Henry the Eighth I am…”

Outside the pub waiting for him was the ghost of Henry VIII and the ghost of his executioner.

“I didn’t find your song very humourous,” Henry harrumphed, “off with his head.”

The executioner swung his ghostly axe and the axe passed harmlessly through the entertainer’s head.

“I see you don’t know how to manifest spiritual objects into a material reality,”  Pan Goatee laughed as he astral projected by on his way to a replication of the Bohemian Grove ceremony on the banks of the Thames.

“Me?  I thought it was you who was going to bring the statue of the giant owl,”  former British Prime Minister Tony Blair said  in exasperation to the current Archbishop of Canterbury.

                     .         .        .

The ghost of Josef Stalin stood in shock on Brazil’s Copacabana Beach at the massive crowd of young people cheering Pope Francis.

A booming voice seemed to echo out of the heavens,  “Well Joe you stupid ass,  I didn’t think I’d ever see you again after you kicked the bucket.  Well now you know how many soldiers the Pope has.”

Stalin’s ghost looked up and saw a huge cloud in the shape of Sir Winston Churchill’s head smoking a giant cigar.

                        .          .          .

Adolf Hitler’s ghost sat in Rush Limbaugh’s huge dressing room and waited for the enormously stout talk show host to return.

The Fuhrer’s spirit tried to help himself to a piece of chicken from one of the 6 dozen buckets of KFC that sat on the dressing room table awaiting Mr. Limbaugh’s return.

But since he didn’t know how to project material objects into a spiritual reality, he couldn’t.

When Rush returned, the Fuhrer greeted him enthusiastically.

Speaking in a thick German accent and spraying his own moustache with his enthusiasm, the Fuhrer said, “I really love your show and agree with everything you say.  The non-whites in this country are getting far too uppity in my opinion.”

                 .         .         .

The Greek vampire Hades used the remote to turn off his satellite TV and then spoke to one of his aides, “You know the reception is so bad underground.  We really should think about switching over to Cable.”

“I’ll look into it, sir,”  his aide replied.

“But still despite the blurry picture, it still gives me some idea of the chaos that exists above,” Hades helped himself to some pomegranate seeds, “we must see what we can do about getting Cerberus back to his guard dog position again so we can stop all these damned spirits from crossing back over the River Styx to the world above.”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” his aide remarked.

“It’s all so frustrating,”   Hades hit his forehead, “where’s Persephone when you really need her?  All this masturbation starts to get on one’s nerves after a while.”

“You’re forgetting that it’s summer on Mount Olympus, sir,” his aide reminded him.

“Why doesn’t anyone remember to turn over the page on this damned calendar?” Hades snapped as he turned over the calendar several pages.

                 .           .            .

On one side of the River Styx,  Chris de Burgh sang, “Don’t pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side…”

On Mount Olympus, Vincent Price spoke as he watched Michael Jackson dance on the moon,  

“Darkness falls across the land,
The midnight hour is close at hand…”

To be continued.

-A vampire novel chapter 
written by Christopher
Friday July 26th 2013

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Renfield’s Lottery Ticket Or Wagging The Dog Cerberus

July 24, 2013 at 12:50 am (Poetry, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Renfield found nothing wrong with his selection of lottery picks

but the combination caused Cerberus to cross the River Styx

and the result of Cerberus’ 3 heads abandoning their posts

would cause this planet Earth to be overrun with ghosts.


-A vampire novel poem

 written by Christopher

 during the Midnight Hour

 early Wednesday morning

 July 24th 2013

 when ghosts are out

 prowling about.

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Renfield and The Pompous Arrogant Millionaire

July 23, 2013 at 1:31 am (Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

Renfield R. Renfield and Amadeus Emanon entered the seafood restaurant in London.


As they were entering, a man walked directly in front of Renfield and knocked into him without saying “Excuse me.”


“I’m going to kill that bastard,” Renfield turned to go after the man.


Amadeus grabbed Renfield and held him, “Calm down.”


As they were seated at a table, their usual waitress came over to their table and seemed to be somewhat upset.


“What’s wrong?” Amadeus asked.


“That man who just walked out,” she pointed outside to the man walking on the sidewalk- the same man who had carelessly bumped into Renfield, “he had a meal worth 50 pounds and tipped me nothing. Usually he leaves me a 5 pound tip but because I didn’t deliver his crab to him within 30 seconds of the chef ringing the bell to say the order was ready, he left me nothing.  But I had a whole bunch of drinks on my tray for another table at the time and I couldn’t rush to deliver them. So for that, he left me a tip of nothing.”


“Really?” Amadeus was shocked.


“The guy’s a millionaire too,” the waitress sighed, “and always boasting about how philanthropic and charitable he is.  But because I didn’t deliver his crab to him within 30 seconds, that philanthropic millionaire left me a tip of nothing.”


“That does it,” Renfield said, “I’m going to kill the bastard.”


This time Amadeus did nothing to stop him.


Renfield ran outside the restaurant and spotted the man about to enter the back seat of a Rolls Royce limousine whose back door was being held open by a chauffeur.


Renfield went behind the man, pulled out his gun and fired six rounds into the man’s back.


Then he turned around and walked back into the restaurant.


As the man lay on the sidewalk bleeding to death, his chauffeur (who had often been the victim of many of the pompous arrogant millionaire’s tirades) text messaged a friend on his phone (one he knew would be slow to answer him) and asked him what was the emergency number for police, fire and ambulance in the United Kingdom.


The friend responded 15 minutes later, “999 but you should know this.”


“You’re right I should,” the chauffeur text messaged back in Dracul Van Helsing style longhand, “I guess I must have forgotten momentarily.”


By this time the man was already dead and and had started his eternity of roasting on a nice warm red hot spit in Hellish flames.


When Renfield entered the restaurant a minute after shooting the man 6 times with his gun, he remarked to himself, “It’s a good thing there’s a special on illegal ammunition this week down at the gang warehouse in the London dockyards or otherwise I’d be kicking myself silly right now for excessive wastage of bullets.”


“What did you do?” Amadeus asked.


“I shot and killed him,” Renfield calmly remarked as he tied his napkin around his neck to form a protective bib as he quite often splashed while eating his oysters.


“You know I’m worried about myself,” Amadeus remarked, “I should be feeling a sense of moral outrage right now since you killed someone albeit someone who was a total asshole.   Yet I’m finding it hard to work up a sense of moral outrage over his death.”


“That’s because you’ve just learned a little known truth,” Renfield grinned, “which is totally oblivious to most idiots who work in the Crown Prosecutor’s Office and also sit on the bench which is that most societies do require psychopaths in order to be able to function properly in a manner that ensures true fairness and justice for all.”



To be continued.








-A vampire novel chapter 

 written by Christopher

 Monday night July 22nd 2013.

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Accordion Player On The Beach

July 21, 2013 at 4:51 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , )

Accordion player on the beach
The beach has a crowd
but no one listens
The music he plays is good
And has melody
but he plays to no one there.

No one stands in front or around him
like they do other buskers on the beach.
He plays the accordion like a master
But it seems this world no longer has a place for master accordionists.

He finishes his tune
and is greeted with the sounds of silence.
He puts away his accordion 
and heads home.
No one notices.
No one cares.

In the trenches of World War I
the soldiers listened to the accordion player
offering a sweet melody and hope 
amidst the rumble of big guns
and the sounds of Hell.

“Oh let every good fellow now join in a song,
viva le pompier
Viva la viva viva l’amour…”

Long live love
they sing in French
to the accompaniment of accordion.
Long live love
they sing against the background of war.

Here on the beach
is sand not mud.
Here they lie in the sun
instead of huddled down
in the rain.
Here they cling to their iPods
and not to their guns.
Here are the sound of waves pounding the shore
and not the sound of guns pounding human flesh.

To every thing there is a season
and a time for every purpose under Heaven.
The accordion was an instrument that brought melody and hope
to those trapped in the midst 
of a great and terrible war.

No one listened to the accordionist 
on the beach last night.
But at least they weren’t listening to the sound of guns.

Everything has its give and take.

The guns are silent.
The accordion is now silent.

And on the beach other buskers prosper.
The rapper who sings crap.
The crapper who can’t rap.

So still the white dove sails
wondering where to rest in the sand
and the voice of the turtle is yet to be heard in the land.

-A poem written by Christopher
Sunday July 21st 2013.

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Detroit Faces Bankruptcy

July 18, 2013 at 5:30 pm (Commentary, Poetry) (, , )

Detroit is the largest U.S. city to declare bankruptcy

showing that the debt monster suffers not from narcolepsy

but in a creditors’ zombie apocalypse

where fortunes crumble like broken sticks

it goes forth seeking whom it may devour

and cares not the day or hour

things don’t look so good in the hood

They’re melting tires to make Yorkshire pud’

From Motown to ghost town

things are going down

like a broken record in an age of iPod

time to pay the Piper in the land of Nod.

-A poem written by Christopher
Thursday July 18th 2013.

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Alien Frequencies and Pan Goatee

July 18, 2013 at 12:59 am (Mystery, Mystery/horror, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , )

The reptilian Captain of the alien spacecraft sat in his chair aboard the central deck and looked at the screen.


There was planet Earth.


The captain who looked like Captan James T. Kirk on a bad hair day and an even worse skin day said, “Increase the frequency.”


The frequency was increased.



                                      *             *         *



Pan Goatee was feeling the vibe as he slashed to death the diners in the Chinese restaurant in London.


“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” he screamed in ecstasy as he slashed a Chinese gentleman and his British friend to death thus putting an end to the argument over who was going to pay the bill.




To be continued.





-A vampire novel chapter

 written by Christopher

 Wednesday July 17th 2013.

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Reflections of Chandler and Marlowe In The Hot Humid Heat of The City

July 17, 2013 at 12:11 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )




Hot humid day in Vancouver

the most humid since I’ve moved here 8 months ago

I walk the streets of the City 

like I’m Philip Marlowe

since Raymond Chandler’s prose

always describes hot muggy days in LA

when his private eye is out

walking about.

Coincidentally I see a whole bunch of women out today

wearing evening dresses

and they don’t appear to be part of a wedding party

Just out and about wearing evening dresses

on a day hot and humid at that.

I really feel like I’m in a Chandler novel today

hot and humid and feeling sticky 

out on the sidewalks and streets

and hotter women in hot tight dresses 

making a sizzling summer day

sizzle even more.



-A poem written by Christopher

 Tuesday July 16th 2013

 a hot and humid day

 in Vancouver, British Columbia.

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