Ghost and Rider Part Two

September 13, 2016 at 4:12 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, Ghost Story, Humour, International Intrigue, Science-Fiction, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , )

Ghost and Rider Part Two

Ryan Rider was the name of the enigmatic London parking lot and apartment building millionaire who had a phobia when it came to postal codes.

Belvedere the Ghost White Salamander and cub reporter for The Times of London had arranged a meeting with the mysterious enigmatic Ryan Rider.

He was able to arrange the meeting by calling Rider on his cell phone.

“How did you get this number?” The paranoid sounding Rider asked.

“From a mutual friend,” Belvedere whispered.

“Who’s this mutual friend?” Ryan asked as he wondered why he was the equivalent of $6.25 US short in that day’s take forgetting that he had purchased two hot dogs and a coffee for one of his parking lot attendants in an effort to appear charitable.

“I can’t reveal my sources,” Belvedere said in words reminiscent of Bob Woodward (or was it Carl Bernstein?) from the movie All The President’s Men.

“What do you want?” Rider asked.

“Everything you know about Robur The Conquerer,” Belvedere replied.

Silence reigned on the other side of the line.

“Are you there, Mr. Rider?” Belvedere asked.

“I had a momentary heart attack and brain aneurysm simultaneously,” Rider answered, “but I’m better now. I’ll meet you tonight midnight at The Not So Standard Parking Lot. Come alone.”


Rider had hung up.

Belvedere put the phone down and reached for his ghostly white trenchcoat and ghostly white fedora hat.

. . .

Midnight. The Not So Standard Parking Lot. The place was empty of motor vehicles. An owl hooted atop a sign that said Steve’s Chair Is Missing. A black cat knocked over a ladder. A rabbit bit the head off an orange coloured toy medieval knight that a child had dropped in the parking lot.

Belvedere lit a ghostly ectoplasmic cigarette with a ghostly ectoplasmic match.

Suddenly a massive pair of headlights came on, an ignition was started, an engine roared and tires spun.

The headlights came right at him. Then a screech of brakes as the vehicle hit the wall.

“Damn, I can’t believe I crashed again,” Rider swore, “I hope my insurance adjuster doesn’t ask me for the postal code of the area where it happened.”

He looked shocked as he noticed Belvedere standing there inhaling and exhaling his ghostly ectoplasmic cigarette.

“I thought I killed you with my truck,” Rider grimaced, “why are you still standing?”.

“I’m already dead,” the ghost white salamander replied, “I’m a ghost.”

“Damn, I hate it when that happens,” Rider shook his head.

“So tell me about Robur, Mr, Rider,” Belvedere took out his ghostly ectoplasmic notebook and his ghostly ectoplasmic pen.

“Step into my office,” Rider opened the front passenger side door of his rusty gold-coloured GMC 4-door truck.

Belvedere laughed.

“Don’t laugh,” Rider snapped as his face turned red and looked like he was about to have another simultaneous heart attack and brain aneurysm, “this really is my office.”

Belvedere was about to enter the vehicle but then wondered where he could sit.

“Hold on,” Rider said, “let me clean this place up a bit.”

Rider threw a few filing cabinets, a fax machine and a coffee pot out the passenger door and on to the pavement of the parking lot.

“Okay, sit there,” Rider commanded.

Belvedere sat in the passenger seat.

Rider entered the truck/office through the driver’s door.

“Damn, I banged my knee on my desk again,” Rider threw his desk out on to the parking lot pavement.

Then Rider tried sitting again.

“Oh damn, now I’ve got the arm of my Executive CEO’s Chair up my ass again,” Rider cried.

He threw a very fancy office chair out the driver’s door of the 4-door GMC truck.

“Now, what was it you wanted to know again?” Rider asked as he sat next to Belvedere.

“Who is Robur The Conquerer?” Belvedere asked.

“Robur The Conquerer,” Rider dove into the back seat knocking over several water coolers and chocolate bar and potato chip vending machines, “let me check my files. I wonder if I’ve got it under R for Robur or C for Conquerer.”

“By the way,” Belvedere peered at him over the seat, “what’s the postal code of this parking lot?”.

“What?’ Rider looked like he was about to have his third simultaneous heart attack and brain aneurysm of the past 24 hours.

“It’s my editor,” Belvedere held up his Samsung Galaxy Ghost Ectoplasmic 7 smart phone, “he wants to know the postal code of this parking lot.”

“Oh God,” Rider leapt over the seat back into the driver’s seat again, “damn, I think I just crushed the keys to the executive washroom between my balls.”

Belvedere stared at Rider in a nonchalant fashion.

Rider whipped out his own smart phone and started dialing a number.

“Hello,” Rider barked into the phone, “what’s the postal code of the Not So Standard Parking Lot?”.

Rider paused to listen to a response.

“Well, you’re my accountant,” Rider turned apoplectic as he started working on his 4th simultaneous heart attack and brain aneurysm of the past 24 hours, “I pay you to know these things.”

Belvedere continued to look nonchalant.

“Hold on,” Rider said quite exasperated, “let me find a pen and paper.”

He threw several old typewriters, a Mac 87 and a Windows 95 computer out of the glove compartment while he searched for a pen and paper.

“Got it,” Rider gritted his teeth, “now, what’s the fucking postal code again?”.

Rider wrote down the postal code.

He thanked the accountant and ended the call.

“What’s the postal code of the other parking lot you own?” Belvedere asked just as Rider was about to have a sigh of relief on his face.

“What?” Rider started working on his 5th simultaneous heart attack and brain aneurysm of the past 24 hours.

“My editor wants the postal code of the other parking lot you own,” Belvedere explained.

“For fuck’s sakes,” Rider began dialing his accountant’s number on his smart phone again, “Yes, what’s the postal code of my other parking lot? The one across the street from the car wash?”.

Rider started writing again.

“Oh shit, my pen just ran out of ink,” the parking lot and apartment building millionaire dived into the back seat again, “oh for fuck’s sake, I think I just ruined my chances for having any more children. Now, where did I put my other pen? Oh, here’s the hammer I was looking for last week…”

Belvedere took notes of Rider’s performance having never encountered such an individual before.

After finally finding his other pen and writing down the second postal code, Rider asked Belvedere what else he wanted to know.

“All you’ve got on Robur The Conquerer,” Belvedere smiled.

“Oh, that,” Rider leapt over the back seat again, “now did I leave it in the R filing cabinet or the C filing cabinet? I really should computerize all my files. A Toshiba laptop is a lot easier to carry around for an office than this beat-up old GMC 4-door truck. A lot easier on the testicles too I suspect.”

Suddenly Rider started hitting his head and saying, “Oh, what a dummy. Oh, what a dummy.”

“What is it?” Belvedere asked.

“I suddenly remembered I left both my R and C files at home,” Rider got on his mobile phone again, “Hello honey? Can you swing the red Pontiac Sunbird… or is it a red Pontiac Firebird?… I can never remember… around to the Not So Standard Parking Lot. I left a few files there.”

To be continued.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday September 11th


  1. Hyperion said,

    Hilarious and intriguing, Chris. I sense yet another best seller. Mr. Rider surely is suffering some ill health by banging his dangling participles periodically against his office furniture, LOL!

    • Dracul Van Helsing said,

      LOL ! I think so, Daniel.

      Constantly banging one’s dangling participles (unless it’s banging them in the way that Renfield bangs his dangling participles via porn stars in the hot tub) is very hazardous to one’s health. 😀

      • Hyperion said,

        Bangling the dangles is a luxurious endeavor unless it’s not, in which case one should take care not to dangle the bangles unnecessarily, especially in an equine saddlery sort of way.

      • Dracul Van Helsing said,

        John Wayne would probably wholeheartedly agree with you.

      • Hyperion said,

        What a guy he was. He knew to sit straight in the saddle.

      • Dracul Van Helsing said,

        The Duke was definitely no gay caballero. 😀

      • Hyperion said,

        Bwaaa haa haaaaa! For sure, he was not.

      • Dracul Van Helsing said,


  2. shєrríє dє vαlєríα said,

    wah ahahaha … The BEST laugh I got for today by reading this! My Kids thought Mommie went mad already in the very early morning. Geezzz! Spilled my coffee on my mantel! LOL

    Damn … where is that Supernatural Mushroom cleaner … Let me get it first! Got to throw out the cabinets, files and all Mr Rider’s trash out. LOL

    Phobia on Postal Code! Excellent! I cannot stop laughing.
    He is one man that I know who cannot even work between his testicles!
    He nees a Whip, a tank and a Lobster as friend. That would help much!


    • Dracul Van Helsing said,

      Yes, a whip, a tank and a lobster would help very much indeed, Sherrie.

      LOL !

      This character is modelled on a real person I met in Calgary.

      There’s an agency in town which got Social Services to get me an apartment provided I can find a landlord to agree to have me as a social services tenant.

      All I had to do is find me a landlord who’d agree and sign the appropriate form.

      The first landlord I met was this character who showed me an apartment that overlooked a back alley and then had a very small window overlooking the alley.

      I wasn’t thinking so clearly so I asked him to sign the form.

      “All right, let’s go down to my office,” he said.

      We used the back stairs of the building to walk down to another alley.

      There was a rusty gold 4-door GMC truck parked below.

      “That’s my office,” he said.

      I started to laugh and he said he was being serious.

      I thought he was still joking until he started throwing out a whole bunch of stuff out of his truck so he could find a pen to sign the form.

      Then on the hood of the truck he started filling out the form and then the form asked him the postal code of the building. LOL !

      And then he started freaking out because the form asked him for the postal code. LOL !

      Then he got on his smart phone and dialed a number and asked the voice on the other end what was the postal code of the building.

      When the voice on the other end objected, he said, “Well, you’re my accountant. I pay you to know these things.”

      Then he wrote down the postal code.

      Then a little later, the form asked the landlord for the postal code of his own place- where he the landlord lived if it was different from the place where the tenant lived.

      And so he started freaking out again because he was asked for another postal code.

      So he got on his mobile phone and phoned his accountant again and asked him for the postal code of his own place.

      Then when he finished filling out the form and signing it, he offered me a ride back to the social agency.

      So I opened the front passenger door, but it was piled high to the ceiling with various papers and documents and office equipment.

      So then he started cursing and throwing it into the back seat.

      Then he eventually got it cleared enough for me to sit down and he drove me to the agency.

      But of course there was still some stuff on the floor as I was getting out.

      “Don’t trip over the fax machine,” he told me as I was getting out.

      I didn’t.

      I almost.

      But didn’t.

      So anyways I was telling my friend Steve this at the shelter.

      And Steve asked me the name of the landlord.

      So when I told him, Steve, shocked, said, “That’s my boss.”

      Steve worked for him as a parking lot attendant.

      But his boss (this landlord with a phobia for postal codes) didn’t pay him that much so that’s why Steve was forced to live in the homeless shelter.

      Steve couldn’t believe that his boss used his truck as an office.

      Until a couple of weeks later, this guy asked Steve to work as an attendant at another parking lot he owned.

      The landlord/parking lot owner drove Steve over there and of course had to throw stuff in the back seat again so Steve could sit in the front passenger seat.

      Then when they got to the parking lot, Steve suggested putting up a sign since the parking lot didn’t have one so people would know there was a parking lot there.

      The boss said he had cardboard for a sign and a hammer somewhere in the back seat.

      So he then started emptying out his truck to find the cardboard and the hammer.

      He found the cardboard but not the hammer.

      So finally Steve found that by using a coathanger, he could get the sign up.

      Then his boss said, “So you don’t need the hammer?”.

      Steve said, “No.”

      And his boss said, “It’s going to take me forever to load my office up again.”

      Steve said, “Have fun.”

      Steve quit his job a week and a half ago since his boss wasn’t paying him that much.

      But now he’s decided that having a little money is better than having no money at all.

      So he may go back to work for him.

      I told Steve that might be a good idea because then he can get more insight into this character and I can develop him further in my novel and turn it into an international bestseller because the whole world will be fascinated by this millionaire guy who uses a truck for an office and has a phobia for postal codes.

      Apparently this millionaire’s wife (whom Steve has also met) drives a red Pontiac Sunbird so Steve joking refers to that car as his Boss’ house. LOL!

      I think Sherrielock Holmes really does need to tomato the buns of Steve’s once and future boss. LOL !

      • shєrríє dє vαlєríα said,

        Those men Need PROPER EDUCATION of the Bun-U-Lations, just as Daniel said so. Sherrielock Holmes has a very scary Office if compared it with Irene Adler. Hers are luxurious, filled with flowers and red satin bed , etc …

        But Sherrielock Holmes resident are filled with numerous dangerous toys of Whip, nails, leather stuffs and even Medieval torture chamber for the Extra Service of ancient punishment. She has three-headed dog, a gift from Hades after she TOMATOED him for good. He told me that Zeus Need that Service as well as Hera won’t do such humane Service! She rather eat godly Grapes and torture Hercules & co, of whom she detested the most!

        And in her kitchen are more deadly stuffs of witchcraft with tomatoes, carrots, cabbages, etc … and MUSHROOMIES! Her choices of cutlery Equipments are odered directly from Hannibal Lecter and she has pet Lobster to watch her doing cooking and BDSM lessons on her naughty Clients who cried so much after she rubs onions right under their eyes that she collected Tears of Men in those buckets she kept in her dark cellar, which she turned to Wine! LOL

        Yes, men like Steve and Rider, Renfield, even Putin must be TOMATOED! And Trumpy Boy is the first Client in her list!


      • Dracul Van Helsing said,

        ROTFLMAO !

        Thanks for the riveting description of Sherrielock’s place, Sherrie and what goes on there. 😀

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