Dashwood Forrest At Mrs. Mulligan’s Tea Shop In Sneem, Ireland

January 31, 2017 at 12:43 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

“That revolting little donkey turned around and ate the rose in my lapel,” Dashwood Forrest complained after he and Mulligan the Irish zombie were dropped off in front of Mrs. Mulligan’s B and B Tea Shop by Grady Gulliver’s donkey cart.

“That’s strange,” Mulligan the Irish zombie brushed dirt off the suit that he had been buried in and wondered if it wasn’t a good idea to maybe put on a new pair of clothes, “usually Agnes only eats daisies. I’ve never seen her eat a rose before.”

“It was my misfortune that today she decided to change her botanical culinary tastes,” Dashwood Forrest opened up his gold plated snuff case and pulled out a rose and put it in his lapel.

“I wonder what Grandma Rose will say when she answers the door,” Mulligan paused before knocking, “She knows I’m dead but I don’t think she knows I returned from the dead as a zombie.”

“You mean you never phoned your grandma Rose ahead of time to let her know we were coming to inspect her Nostradamus paintings,” Dashwood Forrest pulled out his silver plated snuff case and took out some snuff and put it up his nose and sneezed in Sneem.

“Well Charon the Ferryman across the River Styx in Hades was never a figure in Irish Celtic mythology so consequently I was buried without small change in my mouth or pockets. I had no money to make the call,” Mulligan shrugged his shoulders causing them to almost fall off.

“Well why didn’t you just use the phone at my art gallery shop in London or ask to use my iPhone?” Dashwood queried.

Mulligan sat down on the ground in a complicated gymnastics position and brought his legs up over his head to knock his decomposing shoulders back into place, “You must remember I’m an Irish zombie. I wasn’t bright enough to think of that.”

“Would you mind knocking at the door so that we can get on with the inspection of the Nostradamus paintings so I’ll know a genuine Nostradamus when I see one in Paris,” Dashwood ordered.

“All right,” Mulligan’s spirit was amiable to the idea but his rotting flesh body wasn’t as he found he could not get out of the peculiar calisthenics position in which he now found himself.

Consequently Mulligan rolled over head, shoulders and legs first until he reached the door.

Then with his knees still firmly around his head and shoulders, he used his upstretched feet to pound on the door.

His beautiful and lovely dark haired but blue-eyed cousin Colleen Mulligan answered the door.

She screamed when she saw Mulligan in front of her with his decomposing zombie ass stuck up in the air as his trousers had now fallen down around his ankles when he made the attempt to get up and assume a more mortal like human stance.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Colleen Mulligan’s scream had popped open the top buttons of her white blouse and caused the sides of her long black skirt to slit open showing lovely pantyhose clad legs.

“I think I’m turning heterosexual,” were Dashwood Forrest’s last words before he passed out.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday January 21st
2017.

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Mrs. Mulligan’s Tea Shop In Sneem, Ireland

January 30, 2017 at 1:09 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Mrs. Rose Mulligan owned a tea shop and a little Bed and Breakfast in the village of Sneem, Ireland.

Quiet, restful and tranquil little Sneem. Where the little bridge over the nearby stream bore the inscription Built In 1804 (the same year that Napoleon Bonaparte had himself proclaimed and crowned Emperor of The French).

Sneem in its peace and solitude had attracted the attention of French President Charles de Gaulle. The French leader had bought property there and was seriously considering retiring there when his term as President of France was over. Henri the Comte de Paris would then run for President of France as De Gaulle’s successor. When Henri won, he’d call a referendum on the restoration of the monarchy in France. Winning that, Henri the Comte de Paris would then go from being President of France to being King of France. And De Gaulle would enjoy Irish potatoes, Irish salmon, Guinness stout and the best imported French wines and cheeses in his quiet and restful little farmhouse near the village of Sneem.

But alas! The best laid plans of mice and men (and even De Gaulles) – they often go astray!

The 1968 Paris riots happened. The students were revolting! Students are usually often quite revolting but they were particularly revolting that year.

The ensuing turmoil in France led De Gaulle to step down as President a year later and his former Prime Minister Georges Pompidou took over as President.

So no Henri Comte de Paris as De Gaulle’s successor. And no retirement for De Gaulle in Sneem. It was enough to make the forced to resign French leader keel over and die on the spot (which is what eventually happened to De Gaulle in 1970).

So Sneem, Ireland managed to escape the attention of history.

Unknown to the residents of sleepy Sneem however, Mrs. Rose Mulligan in her tea shop had paintings decorating her walls. Paintings that had been painted almost 500 years earlier by the 16th Century Renaissance French Prophet Nostradamus. (For background on how the Nostradamus paintings arrived in Mrs. Mulligan’s tea shop in Sneem, Ireland, please read Dashwood Forrest Meets Ivanka Trump:

https://draculvanhelsing.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/dashwood-forrest-meets-ivanka-trump/ )

And so it was on this January morning in 2017 that Mrs. Rose Mulligan went calling on her next door neighbour who was- a witch!

“Good morning, Mrs. Mulligan,” Molly Kildare greeted her neighbour, “what can I do for you this morning?”.

“Well, I’m embarrassed to ask this,” Rose Mulligan blushed, “but I’ll be needing a love potion from ya.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph and Saints Patrick, Bridget, Brendan and Kevin to say nothing of the gods and goddesses of the old Irish Celtic pantheon,” Mrs. Kildare’s hair turned as white as the snows of Mount Kilimanjaro, “but what would Mrs. Rose Mulligan the loveliest woman in Sneem if not all of Ireland be needing with a love potion?’.

“Now, Mrs. Kildare,” Rose Mulligan’s face turned as red as the dress of the Scarlet Woman Mystery Babylon in the Book of The Apocalypse, “you know I’m not as lovely as I used to be. I’m now approaching 60.”

“You may be approaching 60, Mrs. Rose Mulligan,” Mrs. Molly Kildare wagged her finger at her, “but you’re better looking than most women half of our age.”.

“Well now, I won’t be arguing with you there, Mrs. Kildare,” Mrs. Mulligan acknowledged, “being the lover of truth that I am. But still I will be needing a love potion.”

“Surely, you’re not thinking of getting yourself a second husband after all these years, Mrs. Mulligan?” queried Mrs. Kildare whose divorce from her first husband only came through this past week.

“Oh no, ever since dear Sean died taking that World Cup soccer ball in the face as Team Ireland’s goalie so that Ireland would advance beyond the qualifying rounds for the 1986 World Cup, I’ve never thought of marrying again,” Mrs. Mulligan gently stroked her hair, “it’s not a second husband I’m thinking of having but an affair.”

“An affair?” Mrs. Kildare’s face turned as white as a ghost.

“That’s right, an affair, Mrs. Kildare,” Rose Mulligan waxed poetical for a moment, “what the Good Book calls adultery. And what the more vulgar Americans refer to by that far more vulgar term- fornication.”

“Do you mean to say you’ll risk your immortal soul, Mrs. Mulligan,” Mrs. Kildare felt that she could use a shot of whiskey at the moment, “just so you can have an affair at your age?”.

“I have no intention of risking my immortal soul, Mrs. Kildare,” Rose Mulligan stated firmly, “after I have the one-night stand full of pumping passion and sweating bodies and sweltering delights and orchestral orgasms, I fully intend to get up the next morning and go to Church and confess my sin to Father Murphy and receive absolution for it. So there. I will not put my soul in immortal danger.”

“But what if you get run over by Mr. Gulliver’s donkey cart on the way to Church and end up dying before you receive absolution?” Mrs. Kildare acted the role of spoilsport.

Mrs. Mulligan looked glum for a minute.

Then she put her lips together in firm determination, “It’s a risk I’ll have to take. There’s a man who’ll be staying at my Bed and Breakfast for a few days. I have to take the man to bed with me. I’ve dreamed of it most of my adult life.”

“Good golly, Miss Molly, as my mother and some American singer used to say,” Mrs. Kildare put her foot down, “what man is this that you’re willing to risk your immortal soul for?”.

Mrs. Mulligan glanced around conspiratorially and then whispered in Mrs. Kildare’s ear, “Liam Neeson.”

“The actor?” Mrs. Kildare’s jaw dropped.

“The very same,” Mrs. Mulligan nodded.

“I wonder if Father Murphy will be willing to give a 2-for-the-price-of-1 absolution,” Mrs. Kildare hurried to the kitchen in order to prepare two love potions.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Tuesday January 17th
2017.

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Haiku About The Statue of Liberty In Late January 2017

January 29, 2017 at 4:44 pm (Commentary, Geopolitics and International Relations, News, Poetry) (, , , , , , )

Her words bid welcome
but her land’s leaders do not
Now the statue weeps

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Cyborg Sophia On The Hunt For Nostradamus

January 28, 2017 at 12:23 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

The red-headed cyborg Sophia had been created by the FSB’s top scientist Dr. Nicht Werhoffen (who used to work for the East German Stasi) several years ago.

She had served as a personal bodyguard to Russian leader Vladimir Putin.

Then Putin had given her as a gift to the rogue private entrepreneur intelligence officer Renfield R. Renfield of London’s Set Enterprises for services rendered to the Russian state.

A couple of years later Renfield had turned around and sold Sophia back to Putin for a substantially large sum of money.

Sophia was once again acting as a bodyguard to Putin.

Last night after she had done a major philharmonic recital on President Putin’s instrument, the Russian leader informed her that he was sending her on a secret mission to Paris.

She was to buy a painting (allegedly painted by Nostradamus) at a private art gallery in Paris. She was to get there before a couple of operatives hired by Donald Trump’s daughter Ivanka got there to buy the painting.

“What’s so important about getting that painting?” The Cyborg Sophia asked as she wiped a creamy white substance off her lips.

Said Putin as he put on a new pair of white jockey briefs, “The painting allegedly gives the exact date of an Islamist attack on the Vatican in Rome that will happen this year. If we can get the painting and find out the date, an elite Russian special forces division will be there on that date to defeat the Muslim invaders.”

“Do you mean to say that when Donald Trump takes office, he’ll do nothing to stop the attacks?” Sophia looked surprised.

“No,” Putin shook his head, “he’s still pissed at the fact that Pope Francis seemed to favour Bernie Sanders in last year’s Presidential election.”

“Who are the two operatives hired by Ivanka Trump to get the Nostradamus painting?” Sophia asked.

Putin smiled, “One is Dashwood Forrest the famous London dandy and the other is Mulligan the not so famous Irish zombie.”

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday January 15th
2017.

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Vladimir Putin and The Nostradamus Painting

January 27, 2017 at 10:57 am (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , )

Russian President Vladimir Putin was getting an intelligence briefing from the Russian FSB on what the U.S. President-Elect Donald Trump was up to.

The FSB Intelligence Officer began his briefing by saying, “We owe a lot to our agency’s former East German Stasi scientist Dr. Nicht Werhoffen who invented an electronic receiver capable of picking up audio transmissions from the hair follicles of a red spider monkey fur toupee…”

“There are no limits to Russian ingenuity,” was President Putin’s observation.

“And those audio transmissions tell us that President-elect Trump is very interested in an oil painting that Nostradamus painted almost 5 centuries ago,” the FSB officer went on.

“I’ve seen the secret collection of Nostradamus paintings that the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg has,” Putin smiled, “It turns out we win World War III according to those paintings.”

“Yes, well in this particular Nostradamus painting, it shows the Vatican in Rome being attacked and destroyed by Muslim invaders,” the intelligence officer went on, “this particular painting was found underneath an old Coca-Cola Santa Claus drinking Coke poster in a privately owned Paris art gallery. Mr. Trump wants to buy it if it’s a genuine Nostradamus painting and give it as a gift to Pope Francis.”

“Another example of the new U.S. President-elect’s sense of humour,” Putin put a slice of lemon in his tea.

“We’ve been told by one of the more successful members of our FSB Psychic Research program (the less successful members are either dead compliments of a Red Army firing squad or else they’re freezing their asses off in Siberia) that embedded in this particular Nostradamus painting is the actual date of the Islamist attack on the Vatican,” the FSB Intelligence officer helped himself to some raisins from a dish of raisins.

“Did the psychic see what the date of the attack was?” Putin checked his Calendar and Day Planner on his smart phone.

“She was unable to make out the day or the month but she saw clearly that it was this year- 2017,” the intelligence officer answered.

“This psychic is a she?” Putin put down his cup of tea and looked with anticipation while waiting for the answer.

“Yes,” the intelligence officer nodded.

“Is she pretty?” Putin looked with even more anticipation for the answer.

“Well,” the intelligence officer replied, “Pan Goatee the famous U.S. government contract assassin and serial killer bought her a drink in an upscale Manhattan nightclub last year and then paid for a 5-day trip to Hawaii for her.”

“Wow, that beautiful, eh?” Putin smiled, “Invite her to the Kremlin to do a private psychic session for me.”

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday January 15th
2017.

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Haiku About Mary Tyler Moore R.I.P.

January 26, 2017 at 12:38 pm (News, Obituaries, TV Shows) (, , )

Her smile lit up world
TV dates with her the best
We’ll miss you, Mary

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Dashwood Forrest Meets Ivanka Trump

January 25, 2017 at 1:53 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , )

Dashwood Forrest stood in the middle of his hotel room dressed like Gainsborough’s Blue Boy and stared at himself in the full length mirror on the wall.

“I’m beginning to have some idea of how Narcissus must have felt when he saw his own reflection,” Dashwood swooned.

There was a knock at the door.

“Mulligan, would you please answer that,” Dashwood called out to his Irish zombie manservant, “and please put a towel over your head. I don’t want you frightening anybody like you did the cleaning staff this morning. It took a $50 tip to bring them back again.”

Mulligan put a towel over his head and went to open the door.

He crashed into several lamps on his way to find the door.

“Watch where you’re going, Mulligan!” Dashwood exclaimed.

“It’s rather difficult to see where I’m going wearing a towel over my head,” Mulligan complained as he liberated a large potting plant from its large pot.

Finally Mulligan found the door knob and opened the door.

He stood on the other side of the door so the person entering wouldn’t see him.

Ivanka Trump entered the room wearing a lovely Grecian white dress designed to thaw a New York City winter and a pair of exquisite diamond studded spiked stiletto high-heeled shoes.

“Dashwood Forrest,” she greeted the Blue Boy costumed art gallery owner with a kiss on the cheek, “it’s been far too long.”

“Indeed it has, my dear,” Dashwood Forrest likewise kissed her on the cheek, “meeting one of the few women in the world who sets me straight.”

“My dear Dashwood,” Ivanka laughed, “I was hoping I was the only woman in the world who set you straight.”

“There was that Sherrielock Holmes you met at the Charmaine Olivia Mermaid Art Exhibit at your London gallery,” Mulligan spoke from behind the door, “she set you straight.”

“Mulligan, return to your butlery duties elsewhere,” Dashwood ordered.

Mulligan (with towel over head) tripped over several chairs until he found his way to the bathroom.

“What did you wish to see me about, Ivanka?” Dashwood asked.

“Your art history skills,” Ivanka smiled, “Dad is very much interested in this painting which recently showed up in Paris. Do you know if the Renaissance prophet Nostradamus was also an artist, Dash?”.

“I had not heard that he was,” Dashwood started taking off his Blue Boy costume and started putting on a costume of Thomas Lawrence’s Pinkie, “he was a medical surgeon, a doctor, a poet, a philosopher and a psychic but I hadn’t heard that he was an artist.”

“Grandma Mulligan had several Nostradamus paintings in her tea shop in the little village of Sneem, Ireland,” Mulligan called out from the bathroom where he was trying to rescue his tie from the bathtub drain.

“How did she get those?” Dashwood tied a pink bow around his neck and reached for a pinkish coloured shepherd’s staff.

“When some of the Spanish Armada sailors fled to Ireland on their sinking ships after their defeat by Drake, one of my ancestors a Spanish nobleman managed to save his collection of Nostradamus paintings in a waterproof crate and swim ashore to Ireland.”

“What was he doing carrying a collection of oil paintings into battle in the first place?” Dashwood took a selfie of himself as Pinkie on his iPhone and uploaded it to Instagram.

“He was hoping to take the paintings and hang them up on the walls of the large English country estate that the Armada Admiral had promised him once he had conquered England,” Mulligan got one of his zombie toenails stuck in the bathtub drain in what turned out to be a poorly planned commando rescue mission of the tie on his part, “but alas the Spanish Armada Admiral had overestimated his own abilities and had underestimated the abilities of Sir Francis Drake.”

“One should never underestimate the abilities of an English lawn bowling champion,” Dashwood took his Pinkie costume off and wrapped himself in the English flag of Saint George.

Ivanka Trump stood there and wondered whether she should re-consider her invitation to invite Dashwood to her father’s Presidential Inauguration.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday January 14th
2017.

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Dashwood Forrest In New York City

January 24, 2017 at 1:56 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, Vampire novel) (, , , , , )

“Do you have anything to declare?” the U.S. Customs agent asked Dashwood Forrest.

“Just my genius,” Dashwood Forrest quoted his hero and 19th Century lookalike Oscar Wilde.

“Hey, Charlie,” the U.S. Customs agent called out to his partner, “how much is genius worth in the U.S. these days?”.

“Not very much, Fred,” his partner answered.

“All right, you can go through and welcome to the United States,” Fred waved him on.

Dashwood Forrest went to retrieve his luggage.

The first trunk that came down on the carousel was an old antique trunk that said THIS SIDE UP with the arrow pointing in different directions.

The trunk burst open as soon as it hit the carousel and a zombie fell out.

“Did you have a good flight, Mulligan?” Dashwood asked.

“I had a wind draft up my backside the entire flight,” Mulligan answered in a thick Irish accent, “I wasn’t sure whether this was due to someone leaving the door open or me eating too much pork and beans the night before.”

“A zombie eating too much pork and beans is a dangerous thing,” Dashwood paraphrased Pope’s famous line about learning and the Pierian spring.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting me to carry all your luggage for you, Mr. Forrest,” Mulligan grumbled.

“That I would, Mulligan,” Forrest answered, “that’s the reason I brought you to the U.S.”.

“With me in freight and you up in First Class,” Mulligan whined.

“Well, it would have been pretty ghastly the other way around,” Dashwood answered as he smelled the rose in his lapel.

“I suppose it would have been at that,” Mulligan answered since he wasn’t exceptionally bright.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday January 14th
2017.

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An Evening At The Mermaid Art Exhibit

January 21, 2017 at 1:35 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, Mythology, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Nigel Blake-Lenin the curator of the Dashwood Forrest Art Gallery announced to those gathered at the Mermaid Art Exhibit’s opening night, “regrettably the artist Miss Charmaine Olivia will not be able to be with us this evening…”

The crowd moaned and groaned their disappointment.

“Yes,” Sir Nigel Blake-Lenin sighed in sympathy, “Miss Olivia ate some rather bad tuna fish sandwiches earlier this evening that she had thought had come from the Exhibit caterers but they turned out to have been brought in by a mysterious third party…”

“So she’s the one who ate all my tuna fish sandwiches that I had brought with me tonight,” Renfield seethed to Amadeus.

“Then you might have been the one who came down with food poisoning,” Amadeus pointed out.

“I guess every cloud has a silver lining,” Renfield grinned.

A dark cloud appeared over the gallery and an American silver dollar fell from the heavens.

The Greek god Apollo played the song Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head on his lute.

A mermaid emerged from the canvas of one of the Charmaine Olivia paintings.

The mermaid carried an umbrella and went out into the night.

“Well, at least she won’t get wet,” Amadeus said to Renfield.

The curator motioned to Apollo to stop playing his lute in case more mermaids emerged from their canvases and left the gallery before any paintings could be sold.

“So, Sir Nigel,” Sherrielock addressed the gallery curator, “is the gallery’s mysterious owner Mr. Dashwood Forrest going to put in an appearance this evening?'”.

“I talked to him on the phone an hour ago and he said he would,” Sir Nigel answered.

The mysterious enigmatic individual who called himself Dashwood Forrest had opened the gallery a few months ago but had never visited the gallery nor attended any of the exhibit openings.

Sherrielock noticed a painting at the front of the gallery that wasn’t a Charmaine Olivia.

“That painting there,” Sherrielock pointed to it, “is that a painting of Oscar Wilde?”.

“It looks like him, doesn’t it?” Sir Nigel smiled, “but it’s actually a portrait of the gallery owner Mr. Dashwood Forrest.”

“Mr. Dashwood Forrest looks like Oscar Wilde?” Sherrielock was astonished.

“Yes, he always looks quite the dandy,” Sir Nigel admitted.

“What’s a dandy?’ Amadeus asked Renfield.

“That’s a person who looks like a fag,” Renfield explained with his usual political incorrectness.

At that moment a person who looked like a zombie from one of those old time zombie horror films entered the gallery.

He held the door open for a man who looked the spitting image of a young Oscar Wilde.

“Thank you, Mulligan,” the Wilde looking gallery owner entered the gallery, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen as well as those of you who are gender neutral or are still undecided. I am Dashwood Forrest but you may just call me Dash.”

A group of men and women excitedly gathered around the new gallery owner.

“Anybody tell you that you look like a zombie?” Renfield asked Mulligan.

“Yes,” the zombie nodded with a thick Irish accent, “that’s because I am a zombie.”

“Really?’ Renfield grabbed a caviar laced cracker off a tray passing by, “What did you do in your mortal life?”.

“Well, I was best known for making my famous stews and also for cheating at golf,” Mulligan answered.

“How did you die?” Renfield swiped a plate of mushroom flambe off a passing tray.

“I drowned in a giant vat of Guinness after falling in several times,” Mulligan replied.

“Who raised you from the dead?” Renfield drank a pint of Murphy’s.

“Well that would be South African Witch Doctor Sterling Makabo,” Mulligan helped himself to a glass of Jameson’s Whiskey and toasted the failed !808 Prussian invasion of Ireland, “he was actually trying to raise my cemetery neighbour Darcy O’ Flaherty from the dead but O’ Flaherty was a little late getting back from his wake so I decided to rise instead.”

“How did you manage to get a job with Dashwood Forrest?” Renfield queried.

“I’m not quite sure,” Mulligan scratched his decomposing chin, “Excessive drinking seems to have killed my memory.”

“I don’t imagine being dead helps your mental powers that much either,” Renfield observed.

“That too,” Mulligan had to admit.

Meanwhile Dashwood Forrest hurriedly left the party and went upstairs to his gallery office where he hurriedly locked the door.

Sherrielock Holmes was getting names for a whole new clientele for her dominatrix business.

Dr. Cadbury Rocher was boring numerous people to tears by showing them his Facebook and Instagram photos of his genetically created winged horse Pegasus and the sparrow named Ambidextrous Haberdasher who was teaching him how to fly.

The Greek god Apollo meanwhile was standing in the middle of the pouring rain outside the gallery playing a song about walking in Memphis and meeting the ghost of Elvis on his lute while he was trying to hail a taxi cab to pursue the lovely mermaid that had left the gallery earlier that night carrying an umbrella.

Amadeus Emanon was busy eating a dozen plates of potato salad and three dozen plates of cheese and crackers.

Mulligan the Irish zombie fell head first into a bowl of cocktail punch and remained in that position until Renfield revived him by chanting mantras from the Reader’s Digest Condensed Version of Dr. Sterling Makabo’s Guide To Raising Zombies From The Dead.

Such was an evening at the Mermaid Art Exhibit.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Tuesday January 10th
2017.

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Sherrielock Holmes’ Grand Entrance At The Mermaid Art Exhibit

January 20, 2017 at 1:00 pm (Espionage, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Espionage, International Intrigue, Movies, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

When Sherrielock Holmes walked through the doors of The Dashwood Forrest Art Gallery, she took a pair of long turquoise gloves out of her silver and diamond embroidered purse and put them on her hands and arms.

She then removed a whip out of her purse and said to the otter, “Out, out, Jefferey de Montmartre you naughty otter. You oughta naught be here.”

The otter went running out into the street and jumped into the back of a fleeing beer truck.

The former DARPA employee (whom Jefferey the Otter had followed into the gallery) had meanwhile locked himself in a cubicle in the men’s washroom and was calling home long distance on his mobile phone, “Tiger Mom, you’ve got to help me.”

“Hm, Tiger Mom?” Filmmaker Woody Allen said to himself as he walked by eating an egg salad sandwich, “I wonder if she’s any relation to Tiger Lily?”.

“What’s up?” Amadeus Emanon asked Renfield R. Renfield outside the men’s washroom.

Then when Amadeus noted what was up with Renfield, he thought that was actually a pretty stupid question to ask given the number of beautiful women at the Art Exhibit party.

“It’s nice to be able to take a night off once in a while,” Pan Goatee thought to himself as he sipped champagne while standing in the middle of the exhibit room.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Monday January 9th
2017.

“What’s up, Tiger Lily?”.

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