A Date With Destiny
It was approaching Christmas 1940
Less than a month away
And Carson Cody Albion
Private Eye
And resident of
Los Angeles, California
decided to spend
Christmas
Like the Christmas of his childhood
Surrounded by crisp white snow on the ground
And glistening frost on the trees
As such he decided to spend Christmas
In the blue Canadian Rockies
On the banks of Lake Louise
Well it wasn’t exactly Lake Louise
But it was a beautiful townhouse chalet
In the beautiful mountain town of Banff
Not far from Lake Louise
He looked up at the clock
And watched the ticking of it
His mind seemed to be transported
forward in time
How far forward he did not know
But he was traveling with a father and a son
In a car
But a car far different from any he had seen
They were traveling across the high plains
of Washington State
Past Electric City
where the father remarked
Not quite the metropolis people hoped it would become
When it was built not far
From the Grand Coulee Dam
And the hydroelectric generating facility there
Past Lake Roosevelt
The lake created by the dam
What was this Electric City?
What was this Grand Coulee Dam?
Carson Cody Albion wondered.
A Lake Roosevelt?
In Washington state?
The father and son drove along the road
They had left what seemed to be desert country
And were now traveling through farmland
On a distant hill they could see what appeared
to be an abandoned one room schoolhouse
On top of the hill
On the side of the schoolhouse
Was faded ancient lettering
That read “Class of ’41”
I suppose, the son remarked,
That school was closed
shortly after the last class there
The Class of ’41 had graduated.
Little did that class of ’41
know the struggles they were about to face
And how the world they knew
Would change forever.
Albion thought to himself
Surely there were no one room schoolhouses
In Washington state (then a territory)
In 1841.
The class of ’41 they were talking about
Must surely be the class that graduated
In June 1941
Next year Albion reflected.
Albion’s mind returned to the present
His present
The last days of November 1940
He turned on the radio
The radio was delivering news bulletins
From the date May 10th 1940
Germany had just invaded
Belgium, France, Luxembourg
and the Netherlands
Neville “Peace in our time” Chamberlain
has just resigned as British Prime Minister
And Winston Churchill has just been summoned
to Buckingham Palace
There in the presence of King George VI
to be sworn in as Prime Minister
and to preside over a wartime UK
coalition government
After being sworn in,
Churchill later talks
to a BBC radio reporter,
“I feel all my life
I have been walking with destiny
And that all my life has
been but a trial and preparation
for this hour…”
The radio seemed to move forward
In time to a month later
June 18th 1940
When Churchill was giving a speech
In Parliament
Giving a summation of the impending Battle of Britain
“This was their finest hour…”
Albion then looked over towards the chair
By the window
And noticed a beautiful woman sitting there
Dressed in the most beautiful dress
And the finest shoulder length
Black leather gloves
Albion had no idea
How the woman got there
He had never even seen her enter the room
And believe me, Albion thought to himself,
She’s definitely one woman you would notice
enter a room.
“Who are you?” He asked her.
The woman smiled and answered, “I am Destiny”
Albion walked over to her
And embraced Destiny.
-A Carson Cody Albion
narrative poem
written by Christopher
Saturday November 28th
2020.
The Beautiful Annabel Lee
The beautiful Annabel Lee walked up the stairs of the old mansion
Carson Cody Albion the Los Angeles Private Eye was working on an unusual case.
He had recently been hired by a Dr. Lionel Jarrett who was a Professor of Classics at the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada to check out an old allegedly haunted mansion in San Francisco.
Dr. Jarrett, from Albion’s understanding of the man, often engaged in unusual research.
Jarrett had recently tracked down an oil painting of the Greek mythological tragic figure Medusa that had been painted by writer Oscar Wilde.
Albion had received an email from Dr. Jarrett last night.
The collector of rare and unusual antiquities had just purchased the Wilde painting of Medusa from an art gallery in London, England called The Dashwood Forrest Art Gallery.
In addition to tracking down Wilde’s paintings of mythological themes, Dr. Jarrett was also interested in the writings and life of writer Edgar Allan Poe.
Poe apparently knew a woman named Annabel Lee in Baltimore in 1849, Dr. Jarrett discovered from examining a collection of letters from a family called Lee.
Annabel found the writer somewhat creepy and therefore left Baltimore for California.
Annabel told a friend to tell Poe that she (Annabel) had died so he wouldn’t follow her to California.
Poe apparently didn’t take the news of Annabel Lee’s death very well.
Although he did write a good poem from it.
Even creepily imagining that they had known one another since youth.
Annabel Lee went to San Francisco where she apparently bought herself a beautiful mansion.
A few years later she died in an unusual thunder storm when she was struck by lightning.
People to this day, apparently, still report seeing her ghost walking up the stairs of her San Francisco mansion.
Dr. Jarrett had asked Albion to visit the mansion to see if he could get a photo of her ghost.
Albion had gone to the mansion with an old black and white camera.
At the stroke of midnight, she appeared walking up the elegant stairwell of the old mansion.
. . .
“You know what’s crazy, man?” Joe Biden in his basement was addressing his pet pot smoking desert cactus plant Sweet Dementia, “I had a dream last night where the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe appeared to me and put a ghostly spectral millstone around my neck. Why would he put a millstone around my neck?”.
Sweet Dementia said nothing but continued to exhale marijuana smoke.
. . .
As Carson Cody Albion was taking a photo of the beautiful Annabel Lee’s ghost, British MP Renfield R. Renfield was in London reading a dossier that the Set Enterprises Intelligence Unit had put together on Joe Biden’s Vice-Presidential running mate Kamala Harris.
Apparently when Ms. Harris was San Francisco District Attorney from 2004 to 2011, she refused to prosecute cases of priests’ sexual abuse within the Archdiocese of San Francisco.
Not one single case did she prosecute.
She was the only District Attorney among all the District Attorneys in the top 50 metropolitan areas across the U.S. not to lay any charges against Catholic clergy for valid accusations of sexual abuse.
If you looked at the top 50 metropolitan areas in the U.S during that time period of 2004 to 2011, 49 of those prosecuted at least one case, the sole exception being Kamala Harris in San Francisco.
Who prosecuted not a single case.
After first being elected District Attorney, Ms. Harris terminated her predecessor’s plans to publicly release “clergy abuse files” naming names of priests accused of sexual abuse.
Her predecessor Terence Hallinan talked about the fact that he was going to pursue prosecutions. He was going to release records to the public as had been done in various other jurisdictions across the country.
Unfortunately for Mr. Hallinan and the numerous victims of priestly sexual abuse in the San Francisco Archdiocese, Hallinan lost the 2003 election to Kamala Harris.
When Kamala Harris came in, she deep-sixed those documents and put them under seal so they could never be released publicly.
Why would Kamala Harris do this?, Renfield wondered as he turned the page.
The next page had the answer.
The law firms and lawyers who represented the Archdiocese of San Francisco gave large contributions to Harris’ political campaign.
Some of them had never given contributions to a District Attorney electoral race before but they loaded up her campaign coffers.
Money talks like the old saying goes.
Renfield read further.
. . .
Kamala Harris screamed when she woke up in her hotel room.
For standing there was the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe holding a ghostly spectral millstone.
Poe’s ghost put the spectral ghostly millstone around her neck.
-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Friday August 14th
2020.
The Vicar of Morwenstow
Carson Cody Albion Private Eye
was walking through the Morwenstow parish district
of Cornwall in England
He had been hired by a wealthy American to track down traces of Arthurian lore
And that mission had brought him to this wild and desolate
but beautiful part of this “sceptered isle”
Here the Church of Saint Morwenna stood
A church built in the Norman period
to honour Saint Morwenna
a Welsh princess and Saint
who lived in the district
The most famous Vicar of Morwenstow
was Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker
The man who introduced the Harvest Festival to the Church of England
A commemoration that soon spread to all parts of the worldwide Anglican communion
Rev. Hawker was also the author of The Song of The Western Men
which is the unofficial anthem of the Duchy of Cornwall
with its stirring lines
“And shall Trelawny die?/ Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men/ Will know the reason why!/”
Rev. Hawker was a noted eccentric among his 19th Century rural Cornwall congregants
Known for wearing colourful bright colours
And the only traditional clerical black things he wore
were his socks
Rev. Hawker also built himself a small hut known as Hawker’s Hut
on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean
Here it was said that he was visited by Saint Morwenna who spoke to him
Albion thought to himself that these visits would certainly be condemned by most Protestants as necromancy and spiritism
That she who claimed to be Saint Morwenna was actually a demon in disguise would be their argument
But such was not the view behind the term Communion of Saints an expression recited in both the Apostle’s and Nicene Creeds
For the Catholic Church, the Eastern Orthodox and Anglo-Catholic Anglicans and Episcopalians believe that with Christ’s Death and Resurrection,
the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead
had been radically thinned
Whereas prior to Christ’s Death and Resurrection, there had indeed
been the spiritual equivalent of a brick wall between the living and the dead
Therefore condemnations of necromancy as in Deuteronomy Chapter 18
and Samuel’s spirit’s rebuke to King Saul
when Samuel himself was actually brought forth
from the realm of Sheol
much to the surprise of the Witch of Endor
were perfectly justified
To deliberately seek out the spirits of the dead
and try to consult them
was still necromancy and spiritism
but if God allowed the spirits of the departed
in paradise and Heaven
to visit mortals on Earth
nothing unholy is taking place
provided it’s done on God’s terms
and not through some occultic invocation
on the part of some mortal would-be recipient
The ironic thing is because most Protestants
particularly those of a Calvinistic disposition
did not have the consolation of the Communion of Saints
as noted in the Apostle’s and Nicene Creeds
some Protestants would actually go to spiritist
mediums and seances to find out if their loved ones are all right
Thereby breaking the Deuteronomy 18 prohibition against necromancy
It was at a seance at his Irish family castle in 1830
that John Nelson Darby the future founder of the Plymouth Brethren
was visited by a “ghost” who told him that Christian believers
would be raptured before the Great Tribulation
and they would escape many of the plagues, natural calamities and persecutions prophesied in the Book of Revelation
John Nelson Darby’s “seance ghostly” revelation of a pre-Tribulation rapture
would be made popular in a book published by Hal Lindsay 50 years ago in 1970
although it is doubtful that Lindsay was aware of the occultic necromantic origins of Darby’s pre-Trib rapture theory
Although whether Scofield the translator and author of the Scofield Reference Bible was unaware is another matter
Christ asked His Apostles the question that when He returned, would He find Faith on the Earth?
The answer being that He would probably not.
I guess if one is expecting to be raptured before all Hell breaks loose on the Earth (like Darby’s ghostly seance visitor promised Darby)
and it doesn’t happen like the (unholy) ghost of Darby’s seance promised
then one would lose faith in Christ (who never actually promised a pre-Tribulation rapure).
As for Saint Morwenna herself,
she was the daughter of a Welsh king Brychan Brycheiniog
She had crossed over to Cornwall
and made her home in a little hermitage at Hennacliff (the Raven’s Crag)
It stands near the top of a high cliff overlooking the Atlantic
where the sea is constantly stormy
and when it is not stormy, the coast of her native Wales can be seen.
Her father King Brychan knew the real historical King Arthur
Whether Saint Morwenna told Rev. Hawker about the real historical Arthur or not
Albion could only speculate
For Hawker did begin a poem about Arthur in 1864
called The Quest of The Sangraal
a poem he never finished
Albion went to a teashop near Morwenstow to meet his girlfriend
There to begin their own quest for the Sangraal
-A poem and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Wednesday July 8th
The Feast Day of Saint Morwenna
2020.
Thessalonike of Macedon
Quentin Talbot stared at the picture on his hotel room wall in The Royal Alexandria Hotel in Alexandria, Egypt.
The woman looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place her.
The radio in his hotel room was tuned to BBC World News and on it, he could hear the voice of British MP Renfield R. Renfield,
“Washington state’s Neo-Communist governor Jay Inslee is making it mandatory for everyone to wear a mask in public. You can’t enter a restaurant or enter a store without one. No doubt wearing a face mask is just the prelude to taking the Mark of the Beast by which “no man might buy or sell without it” as recorded in the Book of Revelation Chapter 13. It’s time for the American people to wake up and smell the Marx, Engels and Lenin in their coffee.”
Quentin Talbot decided he wouldn’t be returning to America any time soon.
He recalled an email he had received from a traditional Catholic aunt of his last year in which she had recounted an interview with the nun Sister Lucia (who as a child had seen the Blessed Virgin Mary along with two of her cousins at Fatima Portugal) that she gave back in the 1990s.
In it, she had said that the last great world power to fall to Marxist-Leninism would be the United States of America.
Since Marxist-Leninism had collapsed in Russia and the nations of Central and Eastern Europe back in the early 1990s, it would have been absurd to think back in the 1990s that the U.S. would ever fall to Marxist-Leninism.
Even as late as last year with uber-capitalist Donald Trump in the White House, it would still have been absurd to think the U.S. would ever fall to Marxist-Leninism.
However with the advent of the Covid-19 coronavirus, various Democratic Party Mayors and governors throughout the U.S. were starting to show their true Red (as in Bolshevik Red) colours.
Then with the protests against racism and police brutality, radical Jacobin style French Revolutionary mobs were tearing down statues and trying to erase all vestiges of America’s past.
At the start of any Communist revolution, any vestige of a nation’s past must be erased.
The BBC was now reporting live from Raleigh North Carolina that a group calling itself the Disciples of Lucifer would be holding a Luciferian March For One World Government in Raleigh and 8 other U.S. cities tomorrow June 21st on the day of the “ring of fire” solar eclipse.
Insanity must have just been let out of Pandora’s box, Quentin Talbot thought to himself.
He exited his hotel room.
The hall corridor looked different.
It was the same but looked different somehow.
He used the elegant staircase to go down to the lobby.
The lobby too looked the same but different.
A bell boy approached him.
“You are expected in the ball room, sir,” the bell boy said.
“What year is this?” Quentin Talbot felt compelled to ask.
“Why, 1939, sir,” the bell boy answered with a sincere smile and laugh.
As Quentin Talbot approached the ball room, he remembered where he had seen the woman in the black and white photo in his hotel room before.
It was at the Dashwood Forrest Art Gallery in London last autumn.
It was an oil painting where the subject was Thessalonike of Macedon who was Alexander the Great’s half-sister.
Talbot entered the ballroom and there on what appeared to be a throne was seated Thessalonike of Macedon.
-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday June 20th
2020.
Marianne de Lilith
Marianne de Lililth
Carson Cody Albion sat in his private eye office
From his window, he could get a good view of parts of the city burning
The private eye felt hungry so he ordered a pizza to be delivered to his office
Unbeknownst to Albion, the courier got his orders mixed-up
A pizza that was to be delivered to the leader of a rival gang
A gang in opposition to the gang that owned the pizza shop
Was delivered to Albion instead
The pizza contained several doses of toad venom
Luckily for Albion the pizza cook got his recipe books mixed up
He did not sprinkle enough toad venom on the mozzarella to deliver death
Only enough to give the eater a high
Although Albion might not have died anyways
He was immortal
Having drunk breast milk from the lovely knockers of
the Syro-Phoenician goddess Atargatis back on VE-Day
May 8th 1945
Albion ate the pizza
and drank his bourbon
And soon he was off on a hallucinogenic trip
That would have made Samuel Taylor Coleridge green with envy
For there was no storytelling sailor with an albatross around his neck
Nor a Kubla Khan in Xanadu stately decreeing a pleasure dome
Rather this sight greeted his senses
Marianne de Lilith
I am Marianne de Lilith
said the sexy redheaded witch
Well, Marianne, said Albion,
I love the way you’re holding that broomstick.
Bats flew in the light of the full moon
Behind the dead desolate tree.
“This is but a vision of the mind,” Albion reflected
“As I don’t think the Farmer’s Almanac called for a full moon this evening.”
“The tree behind me died as a result of being watered with toad venom,”
Marianne explained.
“That is a shame,” Albion reflected as he threw his cigarette lighter at Marianne’s feet.
Albion crawled over to pick it up.
“I’m reminded of fishing season for some reason,” Albion remarked as he gazed up her stockings and her skirt.
A spiked stiletto high-heeled shoe crushed his hand.
“This never happened to John Candy when he made a splash with his loose change aboard that boat,” Albion grimaced with pain.
Albion soon found himself in Marianne’s shack.
He started whistling that song “What A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts”
as he gazed at the pair of knockers that weren’t hanging on Marianne’s door.
“I take it you still like being breast fed?” Marianne asked the private eye.
“I do,” Albion nodded, “I’m like Jerry Seinfeld in that respect.”
So Marianne breast fed him.
Breasts that were loaded with toad’s venom and not milk.
Albion went into cardiac arrest and was rushed to an LA hospital.
“Beware the breasts of Marianne de Lilth!” Calpurnia’s ghost warned as she strolled the corridors of the hospital emergency ward.
Her warning came a little too late for Carson Cody Albion private eye.
-A poem and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday June 13th
2020.
The Inspector and The Baker’s Daughter
The Inspector and The Baker’s Daughter
“Are you looking for something, Inspector?” The girl asked him.
A day began like any other for the Inspector
Yet no ordinary day
These are no ordinary times
Covid-19 pandemic in world.
2 days ago police in Beijing
arrested a professor
Chen Zhaozhi
Former professor at the Beijing University of Science and Technology
for calling Covid-19
The Chinese Communist Party Virus
But Beijing’s arrest did not concern the French police detective
What concerned the Paris police detective was a matter that concerned
The Paris Grand Orient Lodge
For British MP Renfield R. Renfield
had sent a confidential report today
to a French and European politician
The Kraken who called himself Napoleon VI
The leader of the French Aquarian Age Bonapartist Party
French President Macron had ordered surveillance of the Kraken’s
emails and text messages
And today Renfield had sent the Kraken
a confidential report
which was said to be from Five Eyes
The joint intelligence service of the U.S., Canada, Australia, New Zealand and the United Kingdom
The report claimed that the Covid-19 virus
Was indeed a virus that had accidentally escaped from the Wuhan Institute of Virology
At an emergency meeting of the Grand Orient Lodge
Isis, Osiris and Horus
demanded to know
whether the Renfield report
was an actual copy of a Five Eyes
Intelligence Report
or whether the whole report was a
piece of Renfieldian disinformation
designed to prevent Emmanuel Macron
from ordering take out deliveries of Chinese food in Paris
A person that the Paris Police Inspector
thought might know
was Marmalade Montague
a baker and a man
from whom the Kraken bought
his croissant rolls and Chinese hot steamed buns
The Paris inspector himself used to buy his cinnamon buns from Marmalade Montague
Montague had recently been thrown out of his bakery
for lack of payment of rent
due to decline in business
during the Paris Covid-19 lockdown
However the inspector decided to visit Montague’s apartment
Perhaps the baker still lived there
As the building’s landlord had died
from the Covid-19 virus and his estate was still up in the air
The Inspector entered the apartment
As he passed by the kitchen, he noticed hot cinnamon buns lying on the counter
So the inspector stopped and ate one
He ended up eating all 6 dozen.
The Inspector received a text message on his smart phone
saying that Marmalade Montague kept poison in his bathroom medicine cabinet.
He went to check out the medicine cabinet
The bathroom door was still open
And that’s when the Inspector noticed Marmalade Montague’s lovely daughter Irene
sitting in a chair
in a corner of the living room
“Are you looking for something, Inspector?” The girl asked him.
“I was told your father kept poison in his medicine cabinet,” the inspector replied.
“He did but it’s no longer there,” Irene told him.
“Where is it?” The inspector asked.
“I added it to my dad’s recipe for his famous cinnamon buns that I left on the kitchen counter,” Irene answered.
The Inspector never did show up to that evening’s non-social distancing meeting of the Grand Orient Lodge.
A copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story Murders In The Rue Morgue was sent to the meeting
with a notation on the page
before the title page
that this was where the Inspector was to be found.
-A narrative poem
and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Wednesday May 6th
2020.
Carson Cody Albion and The Zombies of 1950s Havana
Carson Cody Albion and The Zombies of 1950s Havana
The year was 1956.
Fidel Castro and Ernesto Che Guevara were busy working on their plans to topple the Cuban government of President Fulgencio Batista.
Britain, France and Israel would attack Egypt over the Suez Canal.
And John George Diefenbaker would win the leadership of the Canadian Federal Progressive Conservative Party.
The last good leader the Federal Progressive Conservatives would ever have.
And the last good Prime Minister Canada would ever have.
So naturally he was a threat to the Canadian establishment and elites as well as the U.S. State Department.
The State Department got global bankers and investors to sabotage the value of the Canadian dollar during the 1963 Canadian election campaign so Diefenbaker would be blamed for it and lose the election.
Which is what happened.
Canadian Federal Liberal Party leader Lester Bowles (should really have been spelled Bowels) Pearson became Prime Minister of Canada in 1963 and eventually paved the way for Marxist-Leninist Cultural Marxist Pierre Elliot Trudeau (should really be spelled Turdeau) to become Prime Minister in 1968 and to set forth plans for the destruction of Canada as a great nation.
The destruction became complete when Progressive Conservative Party leader Brian Mulroney (should really be spelled Bulroney) was elected Prime Minister of Canada in 1984.
Bulroney was so obnoxious, he drove the Federal Progressive Conservative Party of Canada to extinction to be replaced by the Reform Party later Canadian Alliance Party and later just plain Conservative Party of Canada.
So Diefenbaker was Canada’s last great hope before the onset of political zombies (mindless living dead corpses who went around eating brains) on to the Canadian political landscape which governed the country ever since.
And speaking of zombies, Cuban casinos were having a problem with zombies in that year of 1956.
Zombies were entering the casinos and frightening customers.
As well as stealing cash from the casino safes and safety deposit boxes.
A meeting of Cuban casino owners was held in the Glowing Sun and Burning Sands Whorehouse in Havana to discuss the problem.
A follow up meeting was held in the city’s Sexually Transmitted Diseases Clinic waiting room.
It was agreed to call in Los Angeles Private Eye Carson Cody Albion to investigate the problem.
Albion was recommended to the Havana Casino Owners group by a Monte Carlo casino owner (who had employed Albion as a house detective in a Monte Carlo casino and hotel the year before).
Albion arrived in Havana the following week.
After spending an evening drinking Cuba Libres in a Havana bar with a couple of interesting fellows named Fidel and Che, Carson Cody Albion set to work on the case.
Meanwhile in an Anglican Church in Havana that served British and Commonwealth diplomatic staff at the city’s embassies, an intensely stupid looking man with fish eyes and weird looking silver hair (that would have easily given Donald Trump’s urine golden coloured toupee a run for its money) sat playing the organ.
The man’s name was Keith Bennett.
Although that wasn’t the man’s real name.
His real name was Armilius Wolfstein a Nazi scientist (but not a very bright Nazi scientist unlike many of the evil geniuses of the Third Reich) who served as a somewhat dim witted assistant to the evil and notorious Dr. Josef Mengele.
Armilius Wolfstein fled to Argentina when the Second World War ended.
Wolfstein had had an interesting history.
He lived in Munich in the 1920s where he had tried unsuccessfully to apply to various universities and post-secondary institutions in the city.
He landed a job as a commercial and advertising salesman for a newspaper and magazine publishing firm in the city.
He had a friend Kitz Mjolnir (like the hammer of Thor) who lived in Munich.
When Kitz’s father died and the Mjolnir family estate was sold, Kitz had taken a small preliminary payout from the Estate to move to Berlin where he hoped to get into that city’s burgeoning film industry.
Armilius Wolfstein had told Kitz that if he ever needed help or decided to move back to Munich to get in touch with him and he’d move an arm and a leg to help him out.
While Kitz was in Berlin, his father’s Estate lawyer in Munich, either due to being a crook or due to gross incompetence, had absconded with most of the Estate funds.
Kitz was now left with nothing.
Unable to pursue his chance of a film career in Berlin and unable to land a job, Kitz returned to Bavaria.
But to the city of Regensburg.
Having trouble settling down in Regensburg, Kitz decided to move back to Munich but would need help finding a place.
He recalled Armilius Wolfstein’s offer to help so wrote him a letter.
Being the pompous asshole that Armilius Wolfstein was, Wolfstein had replied to Kitz with an arrogant and condescending letter.
Kitz thought of writing a letter in which he’d tell Wolfstein that he (Wolfstein) was so full of shit that if they gave him an enema before he died, they could bury him in a cigar box.
But he decided not to waste time in replying to such a venereal disease infested piece of rubbish.
So having stabbed a friend in the back, Wolfstein went on to join the German National Socialist Workers’ Party (the Nazis).
. . .
When the Nazis succeeded in taking power in Germany in 1933, Wolfstein like numerous misfits across the country was able to land a job by acting as a total brown shirted brown noser to the Nazi Party and moved into a position of importance, power and prestige.
He became a lab assistant to Dr. Josef Mengele although he bragged to friends and acquaintances that he was a scientist.
He assisted Mengele in performing the various inhumane experiments that the Nazis’ Dr. Death performed on individuals belonging to groups that the Third Reich had deemed and labelled as subhuman.
During those experiments, Wolfstein had occasionally run into an individual known as Franz Kohler of the Nazi SS Ahnenerbe Occult Bureau.
When the war ended in 1945, Armilius Wolfstein had fled to Argentina.
There he changed his name to Keith Bennett and claimed to be an English expatriate living in Argentina.
Bennett had taken up the study of music and became an organist (although in fact he played the instrument very badly).
Whilst living in Buenos Aires, he came across a Spanish language edition of The Necronomicon (mentioned in Lovecraftian lore) and getting help with the translation from a professional Argentinian wrestler, Bennett started using dark arts sorcery to raise the dead.
It was while he was doing this, that Keith Bennett (the former Armilius Wolfstein) once again encountered Franz Kohler of the Nazi SS Ahnenerbe Occult Bureau.
Kohler then took Bennett (as he now called himself) to Haiti to study under Haitian voodoo practitioners in raising the dead.
Bennett posed as an Anglican lay missionary while in Haiti.
No one thought of asking what an Anglican lay missionary was doing in learning voodoo, raiding cemeteries and cultivating plantations of zombies.
Although Bennett in the 1950s was doing what the later Anglican Communion of the 1960s would be doing when such notables as U.S. Episcopalian Bishop James Pike would be busy consulting spiritist mediums such as Arthur Ford on television.
Pike would go on to die a horrible and mysterious death in a desert in Israel for his efforts.
But that would not be the fate of Keith Bennett, Anglican lay missionary.
Having mastered the art of zombie raising, Bennett was then taken by Franz Kohler to Havana, Cuba.
There Bennett would start raising Cubans from the dead.
Kohler was hoping to raise an army of Cuban zombies to attack Florida and establish a Nazi Fourth Reich beachhead on the United States of America.
But like the best laid plans of mice and men, the best laid plans of Nazi SS Ahnenerbe Occult Bureau officers often go astray as well.
Two men named Fidel and Ernesto were planning a Communist revolution in Cuba.
So what would Cuba end up being?
A Communist state?
Or the Caribbean launching grounds for a Neo-Nazi Fourth Reich?
In fact it would be neither Franz Kohler and the asinine Keith Bennett nor Fidel Castro and Ernesto Che Guevara who would throw the deciding and winning pair of dice in which way the winds of change on the Caribbean island of Cuba would blow.
That would be decided by Carson Cody Albion Private Eye.
. . .
Albion was lying in bed after spending the last several hours making out with Dolly Castro (a cousin of Fidel and Raoul).
There was a pounding at the door.
It was the hotel and casino manager.
“Zombies,” shouted the hotel manager, “zombies have crashed the hotel’s dirty dancing competition and one of them has carried away the U.S. Ambassador’s niece.”
“Wow, someone certainly hasn’t been having the time of their life,” Albion opened the door.
“You’ve got to come quickly,” the manager said.
“That’s the opposite of what Dolly has been telling me all evening,” Albion remarked.
“The U.S. Ambassador’s niece is in danger,” the manager cried.
“I guess you don’t want the U.S. Ambassador’s niece dirty dancing with a zombie,” Albion followed the manager down the hallway.
. . .
The zombie was dragging the Ambassador’s niece into the house owned by Keith Bennett Anglican lay missionary and badly playing organist.
“I’ve never felt this way before,” the Ambassador’s niece cried.
The zombie (whose name had been Patrick in his mortal life) was busy swaying or swayzing in the Caribbean breeze on this moonlit Havana night.
Within seconds, salt pellets being fired by a machine gun sprayed the zombie killing him instantly.
For of course blessed salt kills zombies.
Albion picked up the U.S. Ambassador’s niece and carried her to his red convertible.
Screams could be heard from inside the house.
Just as Keith Bennett was playing The Old Master Painter on his organ.
Albion returned to the house with his machine gun containing 400 rounds of salt pellets, kicked in the door and began firing.
Franz Kohler’s army of zombies began dropping like flies.
Bennett reached for his own revolver to shoot at Albion.
The former Nazi pseudo-scientist turned Anglican lay minister and incompetent organist had his head blown off by Che Guevara’s machine gun as the young revolutionary came charging through the backdoor.
“Brains, brains,” a dying zombie tried to lick up what was oozing out of Bennett’s gaping head wound.
“No brains,” were the zombie’s last words before he died.
“Nice shooting,” said Albion.
“Thanks,” Che smiled, “I always have this recurring nightmare about being killed in a shoot out in the mountains of Bolivia.”
“You don’t want that to happen,” Albion noted.
“So, where are you going now?” Guevara asked.
“Out to my convertible to entertain Uncle Sam’s niece,” Albion answered.
“Really?” Guevara had a twinkle in his eye, “Do you know what Chairman Mao Tse-tung’s favourite quotation is?”.
“Can’t say that I do,” Albion admitted, “I’ve never read his Little Red Book.
“His favourite quotation,” Che winked, “is screw the U.S. Imperialists.”
“An excellent idea,” Albion smiled and walked out towards his car on this warm Havana night.
-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Wednesday January 22nd
2020.
Brazil’s Jair Bolsonaro Solves The Mystery of The Amazon Rainforest Fires
Brazil’s Jair Bolsonaro Solves The Mystery of the Amazon Rainforest Fires
Brazil’s President Jair Bolsonaro managed to get a copy of the incomplete report that London private eyes Agathor Christie and Magog Rhys Petley had given to Lev Tomi the Secretary-General of the UN Secretariat On The Environment and Climate Change on who was responsible for setting the Amazon Rainforest fires back in the summer.
Christie and Petley were frightened by the creatures, gods and goddesses and other supernatural beings they encountered in the Amazon Rainforest so they eventually gave up on their investigation.
But that still didn’t stop them from charging a huge exorbitant fee to Tomi for their incomplete services.
Bolsonaro had called a press conference to reveal who was responsible for setting the fires without bothering to read the incomplete report.
Now that he had read it, Bolsonaro realized that he was up Shit Creek without a paddle.
He helped himself to another jar of those delicious Uncle Ernie’s Australian Fruit Gummy Bears that his good friend Donald Trump had sent him and downed several handfuls.
As he reflected, he suddenly recalled a name that his wife Michelle had called out in her sleep last night, “Leonardo.”
Furious, Bolsonaro walked out into the hall, faced the press and accused Hollywood actor Leonardo DiCaprio of “giving money to set the Amazon on fire”.
Foamed Bolsonaro, “This Leonardo DiCaprio is a cool guy, right? Giving money to torch the Amazon.”
. . .
The Norse trickster god Loki watched the Jair Bolsonaro press conference on television.
The idiotic pronouncement gave Loki an idea.
It would certainly make for a wonderful joke if the phantasm that was the spectral ghost ship of the R.M.S. Titanic suddenly made an appearance on the Amazon River.
To do that, he went to see Hades the Greek god of the Underworld to see if the plutocrat would grant a temporary dispensation to the phantasmal shade that was the spectral ghost form of the R.M.S. Titanic to sail down the Amazon River.
Hades granted Loki the request and soon reports of the spectre of the ghostly form of the R.M.S. Titanic going down the Amazon River were being reported and shared on social media.
As Loki walked back chuckling from Hades’ throne room, he walked past a room in Hades’ palace where the ghost of Leonardo da Vinci the famous Renaissance artist, scientist and inventor was boasting to the ghost of one of the Medicis that he had recently paid a nocturnal spectral visit to Michelle Bolsonaro the wife of the current Brazilian President.
-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday November 30th
2019.
Albion’s Reflections On A Rainy Night
Albion’s Reflections On A Rainy Night
There was always something comforting about the sound of rain on the roof
Carson Cody Albion Private Eye couldn’t quite explain it
Maybe because it rarely rained in Southern California
The heat of the day
Would compete with the heat of the night
to see who would produce
the sweating heavyweight champion of the world
Rain allowed a cool down
The sky’s method of baptism
On the sinning and criminality that occurred below
Albion was getting tired of all the greed and the lust and the shenanigans
That he saw daily but more often nightly at his job
The rain kept everyone indoors
No exchange of larceny or bodies or souls was going on in the streets outside
Just the pitter patter of gentle droplets on the roof
Albion looked over at his dresser
And noticed his bottle of bourbon remained untouched and unopened
Something that was never the case on a hot and humid Los Angeles night
His head felt clear and free of headache
So this was what his room sounded like when the fan wasn’t running full blast
One could actually hear oneself thinking
And the rain drops on the roof were like a soothing melody
Albion reached for a stick of licorice
rather than his usual cigarette
Strange about the rain, Albion reflected,
It was like a return to innocence
Maybe that’s what God was hoping with the flood in Noah’s time
But once the sizzling heat returned
It was like eating the forbidden fruit in Eden
One had knowledge of both good and evil
And more often than not, evil.
The private eye decided to go out
And taste the gentle rain on his tongue
And feel the gentle rain on his skin
Albion for some reason
(He supposed it was the influence of Philip Marlowe movies on the silver screen)
always wore a raincoat when he went out
Like advertising a trademark for Private Eye
But on a night when he should be wearing that coat for the purpose for which it was created
He did not put it on
He went outside in a sleeveless shirt
And let the rain wash off any dirt
that was usually accumulated
and came with living in Los Angeles
-A poem written by Christopher
Wednesday June 19th
2019.
Fish and Chips With Holmes and Watson
It was a May evening in London at 221B Baker Street the residence of the world-famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.
The year was 1899.
“Well, Holmes,” Dr. Watson put down his newspaper, “what do you deduce that Mrs. Hudson has made us for dinner tonight?”.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you this morning, Watson,” Holmes lit his pipe, “Mrs. Hudson is going to a Church Auxiliary Tea and Bake Sale this evening so sadly for us, no fine dinner from Mrs. Hudson tonight.”
“Blast it, Holmes,” Watson grimaced, “I wish you had told me. I’d have gone for dinner at the club tonight.”
“What and leave me home alone, Watson?” Holmes smiled, “Leaving me to fend for myself?”.
“Damn right, I would, Holmes,” Watson nodded, “If I can’t enjoy Mrs. Hudson’s fine cooking, I can get a very fine beef steak at the club.”
“What say we go out for some good old English fish and chips, Watson?” Holmes started putting his rain coat on.
“All right,” Watson put his jacket and coat on, “seeing as how they’ve probably stopped serving dinner at the club an hour ago.”
Holmes and Watson exited their room, walked down the stairs and through Mrs. Hudson’s parlour out the front door.
“Where shall we go for Fish and Chips, Holmes?” Watson asked.
“I noticed just the other day that a new Fish and Chips place opened up a few blocks away, Watson,” Holmes pointed in the direction, “What say we try there?”.
“All right,” Watson agreed, “Lead on, MacDuff.”
The duo walked enjoying the evening air.
“Here’s the place,” Holmes pointed at the entrance with his walking stick.
“The Captain’s,” Watson looked at the sign above the door, “Quite an original name for a Fish and Chips place.”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Watson,” Holmes remarked.
“Neither does being hungry,” Watson opened the door, “let’s go in.”
Inside both Holmes and Watson ordered the 3 pieces of Fish with Chips plate.
The detective ordered a brandy and his physician friend ordered a gin for liquid refreshment.
“Interesting portrait painting on the main wall, there,” Holmes said to the waiter when he brought the drinks, “who is that supposed to be?”.
“That is a picture of the Captain,” the waiter replied.
“He looks like a bloody pirate if you ask me,” Watson gazed at the painting.
“He was, sir,” the waiter nodded, “he was a pirate captain.”
“Oh, really,” Watson harrumphed, “What was his name?”.
“That we do not know, sir,” the waiter answered, “The restaurant’s owner bought that painting in an antique shop in Plymouth. The painting dates back to the 18th Century the antique dealer said. But who the man in the portrait is, he had no idea. But the painting inspired the owner to open up a Fish and Chip shop and call it The Captain’s named after the figure in the painting.”
“Bloody mysterious if you ask me,” Watson took a sip of his gin.
“And yet my trade is solving mysteries, Watson,” Holmes lit his pipe again.
“So, who is the figure in the painting?” Watson asked Holmes.
“I’m afraid I’ve never really studied the history of 18th Century piracy in depth to hazard a guess,” Holmes blew smoke rings.
“What you mean there’s actually something that the great Sherlock Holmes does not know?” Watson laughed.
The waiter arrived with their Fish and Chips orders and both men raised knife and fork to tackle the huge succulent looking pieces of cod on their respective plates forgetting the question of the pirate in the painting.
“So, what made you decide on a Fish and Chips dinner tonight, Holmes?” Watson asked.
“A dream I had last night, actually,” Holmes took a sip of his brandy.
“But I didn’t think you put much stock in dreams, Holmes?” Watson had to smile.
“Normally I don’t,” Holmes admitted as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, “Still the Bard did write We are such stuff as dreams are made on. And it was a memorable dream I had to admit.”
“What was it?” Watson was curious.
“I dreamed I was aboard a boat and a large octopus… a Kraken actually of mythological folklore fame was drinking 120 barrels of rum,” Holmes sucked thoughtfully on his pipe.
“How did you know there were exactly 120 barrels?” Watson laughed, “You counted?”.
“Brilliant deduction, Watson,” Holmes shook his head in dismay, “Obviously I counted.”
“Holmes,” Watson put down his fork in exasperation, “You’re the only person I know who would spend time in his dream counting exactly how many barrels of rum a Kraken was drinking.”
The duo started getting quizzical looks from customers sitting at other tables.
“So, what significance is there to the number of rum barrels the Kraken was drinking?” Watson cut into another piece of cod, “What does the number 120 signify?”.
“God only knows, Watson,” Holmes poured vinegar on his chips, “The number of years perhaps.”
The detective shrugged.
“Let’s see,” Watson did arithmetic in his head, “120 years from now, that would be May 17th 2019.”
. . .
It was a Friday evening in London in May 2019 and Dashwood Forrest the owner of The Dashwood Forrest Art Gallery was removing an old oil painting he had just purchased from the crate it was in.
“Good heavens,” Forrest’s Irish manservant Mulligan the Irish zombie spilled gin and brandy all over himself when he saw it, “That figure in the painting looks exactly like Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of The Caribbean.”
. . .
In the May evening in 1899, Holmes lit his pipe again and looked contemplatively at the ceiling.
“You know it’s strange, Watson,” Holmes’ pipe smoke headed in the direction of the portrait of the Captain.
“What’s that, Holmes?” Watson sipped his after dinner coffee.
“That we never seem to call one another by our first names like normal acquaintances seem to do,” Holmes chewed on his pipe.
Now there was a mystery.
-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Friday May 17th
2019.
