Saint Nicholas’ Night In Spitsbergen

December 6, 2019 at 11:56 pm (Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, International Intrigue, Spy Tales, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , )

Saint Nicholas’ Night In Spitsbergen

The Set Enterprises jet landed down at the Spitsbergen International Airport.

On board were British MP Renfield R. Renfield, his friend Amadeus Emanon, members of Renfield’s personal British Army Brigade of Gurkhas and the pot smoking desert cactus plant Strawberry Fields Forever.

Strawberry Fields Forever had been flown to Spitsbergen for safe keeping since Xi Jinping had placed a death edict on him.

Renfield was dressed in the robes of and wearing the mitre of an Eastern Orthodox bishop.

He was also sporting a huge white beard and carrying a bishop’s staff shepherd’s crook.

“Tell me again why you’re dressed like that?” Asked Amadeus.

“Just on the off chance anybody asks, I’m Saint Nicholas the Bishop of Myra here to deliver a gift to the Frozen North Orleans Jazz Cafe in Spitsbergen,” Renfield answered as he practiced his knockout the heretic Arius at the Council of Nicaea punch.

“And the gift is Strawberry Fields Forever?” Amadeus asked.

“Exactly,” Renfield nodded.

When the plane finally halted, Renfield got off the plane in his bishop’s robe and gave his Apostolic episcopal blessing on the frozen wasteland.

Renfield imparted the Sign of The Cross blessing and said, “Ho-te-deum. Ho-te-deum. Ho-te-deum.”

“What does that mean?” Amadeus inquired.

“That’s Ho-Ho-Ho in Latin,” Renfield grinned underneath his beard.

“But I thought Saint Nicholas was a Greek bishop,” Amadeus noted.

“Oh shut up, Amadeus,” Renfield tripped over his bishop’s staff shepherd’s crook and went tumbling down the plane stairs.

“And I just text messaged J.K. Rowling,” Amadeus looked at his smart phone, “and she answered back right away. That isn’t how you say Ho-Ho-Ho in Latin.”

“I’ve got more important things to worry about,” Renfield stood up on his feet, “like I just froze my ass off hitting the ice on the airport tarmac.”

Suddenly a huge beam of light came down on the plane.

“This is Norwegian Immigration Authorities,” a voice said, “we want to see your identification papers.”

“We don’t have any,” Renfield answered back.

Suddenly a group of armed Norwegian Immigration officials surrounded them.

“We didn’t think you did Immigration checks here in the frozen wasteland of Spitsbergen,” Renfield called out, “We didn’t think you Immigration and Customs types enjoyed freezing your asses off.”

“We don’t,” said the snarky Immigration official, “we don’t enjoy freezing our balls off either if we had any. Mostly we’re at Customs and Immigration points where we harass tourists from Spain. But a psychic talking lutefisk on the King of Norway’s silver plate in his palace had a vision of a man dressed up as Saint Nicholas the Bishop of Myra up to no good on the island of Spitsbergen on the Night of the Feast of Saint Nicholas. That’s why we’re here.”

“No doubt, the psychic talking lutefisk also told you about the cartloads of illegal lutefisk we’re trying to smuggle into Spitsbergen in the cargo section of the plane,” said Renfield.

“What?” The Norwegian Immigration official immediately shit his pants which immediately turned to ice on this godforsaken frozen night, “Everybody unlock and search the cargo boxes.”

All the Norwegian Immigration officials immediately took the lids off the cargo crate boxes and dove in.

“But, Renfield,” Amadeus pointed out to his friend, “There’s no lutefisk in those crates. The Boss (the billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set) stocked them with crocodiles to give Strawberry Fields Forever extra protection during his stay at the Frozen North Orleans Jazz Cafe.”

“Silly me, I forgot,” Renfield grinned sheepishly as the Norwegian Immigration officials uttered loud shrill piercing screams while they were eaten alive by crocodiles who were busy enjoying their first night in frozen Spitsbergen.

-A vampire novel chapterĀ 
written by Christopher
Friday December 6th
2019.

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