The Portrait of Dorian Gray’s Teddy Bear

December 9, 2019 at 11:07 pm (Art, Arts, Culture, Literature, Mystery, painting, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , )

The Portrait of Dorian Gray’s Teddy Bear 

Dashwood Forrest the owner of The Dashwood Forrest Art Gallery had spent the day visiting a London Christmas Market.

On his way home, he had visited a small antique store where he noticed a rather old painting of a child’s teddy bear.

Intrigued by the painting, Forrest had bought the painting for £20 and brought it back to his gallery with him.

He gave the painting a cleaning and noticed the name of the artist- Basil Hallward.

The same artist who had painted the original portrait of Dorian Gray that Forrest had purchased at an estate sale back in October of 2012.

Prior to purchasing that painting, Forrest had just believed that the artist Basil Hallward was a fictional character and the famous portrait of Dorian Gray had been a figment of Oscar Wilde’s imagination.

Back on September 3rd of this year, the figure of Dorian Gray had disappeared from the painting when Hurricane Dorian had struck the Caribbean.

Only to return when the storm finally faded into oblivion.

And now here was a portrait of a teddy bear done by the same man who had painted a portrait of Dorian Gray.

Forrest noticed the year below Basil Hallward’s name -1860- the same year he had painted the picture of Dorian Gray.

Forrest decided to take the frame off and check the back of the canvas of the painting.

There on the back of the canvas of the painting were the words Portrait of Dorian Gray’s Toy Bear- painted 1860.

So Dorian Gray had owned a teddy bear before teddy bears became popular (teddy bears had emerged as a phenomenon back in the early 1900s and the toy bears had in fact been named after Teddy Roosevelt who was the U.S. President of the day).

Forrest went to the secluded room in the gallery where he kept the picture of Dorian Gray.

He hung the portrait of Dorian Gray’s teddy bear next to Gray’s portrait.

He then put the velvet curtains up again in front of both paintings, turned off the lights and closed the door.

Had he stayed in the room a few minutes longer, he’d have noticed the figure of Dorian Gray’s teddy bear in the portrait had gone missing.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Monday December 9th
2019.

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Dashwood Forrest, The Empty Portrait and Hurricane Dorian

September 3, 2019 at 11:01 pm (Aesthetics, Art, Arts, Fantasy, Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, Ghost Story, Gothic, Gothic romance, History, Horror, International Intrigue, magic, Mystery, Mystery/horror, Mythology, News, Philosophy, The Occult, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , )

Dashwood Forrest, The Empty Portrait and Hurricane Dorian

Dashwood Forrest sat in his office in his art gallery in London and quietly sipped a drink of absinthe.

The Green Fairy as it was called was one of the favourite drinks of his idol the writer, novelist, poet and playwright Oscar Wilde.

Forrest’s living dead Irish manservant Mulligan the Irish zombie (who had been brought back from the dead many years ago by South African witch doctor Dr. Sterling Makabo) was out for the evening.

Mulligan had been hired for the evening by British MP Renfield R. Renfield to haunt the residence of British Labour Party leader Jeremy Corbyn and stand outside the back entrance of Corbyn’s lodgings and say in a spookily haunting zombie voice (with an Irish lilt to it), “The Irish backstop ends at your back door, Mr. Corbyn. The Irish backstop ends at your backdoor.”

As Jeremy Corbyn began to suffer the worst nightmares of his life, Forrest finished his glass of absinthe, left his office and locked it.

He walked down to the end of the gallery where he entered a room marked PRIVATE.

No one (not even Mulligan the Irish zombie) ever entered that room.

Only he Dashwood Forrest art historian, art gallery curator and extraordinary gentleman of many talents ever entered that room.

For that room contained a portrait behind purple velvet curtains.

A portrait of a man.

A portrait of a man painted in the year 1860.

A portrait that was first mentioned in a book published in July 1890.

A book that most people (and even Dashwood Forrest himself for most of his life) had considered a work of fiction.

Until Forrest came across the painting in an estate sale back in October of 2012.

The picture was of a man named… Dorian Gray.

And the artist who signed the picture was named Basil Hallward.

The painting was of an extremely handsome young man in his early 20s.

Exactly as described in Oscar Wilde’s famous Gothic Philosophical novel of the 19th Century- The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Forrest drew back the purple velvet curtains that covered the painting and hid it from view.

Forrest got the shock of his life when he saw the portrait was empty.

There was no subject in the painting.

Dorian Gray was gone.

. . .

Forrest stared blankly at the blank canvas and blinked.

His smart phone went off.

It was a text message from his friend Amadeus Emanon.

A Set Enterprises satellite over the Bahamas had photographed the eye of the storm of Hurricane Dorian.

And a giant mysterious almost human figure seemed to be standing and moving with the eye of the storm in the hurricane.

Forrest again blinked.

For the figure was the spitting image of Dorian Gray.

The figure now missing from the painting.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher 
Tuesday September 3rd
2019.


Sibyl: She loved Dorian in vain.

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The Cosmic Origins of P.H. Lovecat

February 4, 2019 at 11:56 pm (Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, Ghost Story, History, International Intrigue, Music, Mystery, Mythology, News, Politics, Spy Tales, The Occult, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

His name was Peter Hieronymous Felinedamour.

P. H. Felinedamour for short.

He was an artist.

An artist inspired by the writings of H.P. Lovecraft.

Many Lovecraftian entities showed up in his paintings.

And in the art show that Dashwood Forrest (the Oscar Wilde admiring owner of the Dashwood Forrest Art Gallery in London) would be opening tonight in his gallery, the last painting that Peter Hieronymous Felinedamour ever painted – from December 21st 2012 (the same night that he disappeared) – would be on pre-eminent display in the middle of the gallery for this art show.

Dashwood Forrest was currently showing the painting to British MP Renfield R. Renfield and his date for this evening Lepardia Marango the cultural attache at the South African Embassy in London.

Renfield was bringing Lepardia to the gallery as a way of saying thanks to the cultural attache for saving the Transhumanist MP’s life this past weekend.

Lepardia had stopped an assasination attempt on Renfield by wrestling to the ground the Russian vampiress and FSB operative Svetlana Kireeva.

The incident occurred in the final match of a darts tournament being held at the Clytemnestra’s Revenge and Agamemnon’s Bathtub Pub and Beef House.

The wrestling match between mortal woman and immortal (unless staked through the heart) vampiress caused Renfield to lose the tournament by wrecking his final throw.

Svetlana had intended to assasinate Renfield by firing a poison dart at him with an Amazon tribesman’s blow gun.

Instead the dart hit the left foot of the American Jesuit priest Father Neville Barack Chamberlain (who was theological advisor to New York Cardinal Timothy Dolan advising His Eminence on how to take a firm stand on the most pressing doctrinal and moral issues of the day) causing a paralysis in the priest’s right testicle in an example of acupuncture and chi energy gone horribly wrong.

Lepardia and Renfield gazed at the P.H. Felinedamour painting entitled

Artemis, Cthulhu, Diana’s Sacred Deer and Hecate’s Familiar Black Cat With Clytemnestra Holding A Net and Agamemnon Screaming In The Nude In The Background.

“So that was the last painting he ever painted?” Renfield asked the London art gallery owner as he downed a reddish pink with shades of China blue shooter called Vincent Van Gogh’s Missing Ear.

Ariana Grande walked by in a slit skirted evening dress that prominently displayed her new “Barbecue Grill Finger” (in Japanese lettering) tattoo.

The singer was eating Honey Dipped Chicken Fingers from McDonalds.

No doubt Bill Clinton and the Rev. Jesse Jackson would have loved to have been flies on the wall (or even better, flies on the floor) as the lovely Miss Grande walked by.

“That is correct,” Forrest bowed to Renfield as Renfield crushed and killed a pair of flies on the floor with his right shoe.

Forrest’s personal secretary arrived on the scene to inform the Oscar Wilde lookalike London art gallery owner that his living dead Irish manservant and valet Mulligan the Irish zombie had just accidentally spilled barbecued chicken wings hors d’oeuvres down the evening dress of British Prime Minister Theresa May.

“Excuse me,” Forrest whispered to Renfield and Lepardia as his face turned as pale as the portrait of Dorian Gray and he rushed in the direction of the catastrophe.

To be continued.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Monday February 4th
2019.


Ariana Grande: Showing off her “Barbecue Grill Finger” (in Japanese lettering) tattoo at the P.H. Lovecat (Felinedamour) Art Show.

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Reblog of An Evening At The Mermaid Art Exhibit

April 30, 2018 at 10:39 pm (Aesthetics, Art, Arts, Culture, Fantasy, Folklore, Humour, Mythology, painting, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

A vampire novel chapter I wrote over a year ago about an evening at the mermaid art exhibit which turned out to be as riotous as the Marx Brothers’ night at the opera:

Dracul Van Helsing

“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…

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Dashwood Forrest and Pan Goatee In Calgary

March 29, 2017 at 5:30 pm (Commentary, Culture, Folklore, Horror, Mythology, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , )

“What a place totally devoid of culture,” Dashwood Forrest the Oscar Wilde of the 21st Century said to his Undead butler and valet Mulligan the Irish zombie.

“I’d have to agree,” Mulligan the Irish zombie remarked. He had only spent less than 24 hours in the city and he was already forgetting how to recite Irish ballads and poetry.

“I imagine if one were looking for culture and learning in Calgary, one would probably only find it among certain people living in homeless shelters in a city such as this,” Dashwood Forrest sipped on his chocolate milkshake.

“I’d have to agree,” Mulligan the Irish zombie nodded, “and what extremely ugly women seem to live in this city. I’ve never seen such fat ugly looking specimens.”

Mulligan the Undead promptly died again as he looked out the window and saw the walking specimens of ghastly horror.

Mulligan’s last words before dying a second time were, “Genesis 6 would have never happened had the angels landed in Calgary instead of the Middle East. There would have been no rise of the Nephilim because the sons of God would not have found the daughters of men attractive.”

“Truer last words were never spoken, Mulligan,” Forrest acknowledged, “with the possible exception of Oscar Wilde’s last words spoken in his room, “Either that wallpaper goes or I do.” It’s amazing how unattractive interior decorating can lead to deaths of great geniuses. To say nothing of how unattractive exterior decorating can lead to the death of one’s valet.”

Dashwood Forrest thought of calling South African witch doctor Sterling Makabo on his mobile phone and get him to chant a spell to bring Mulligan back from the dead.

He thought he’d wait a while however until they had left Calgary.

Forrest was in a quandary however. Even though he was gay, the site of such repulsive ugly looking members of the opposite sex waddling around and fender bumping their broomsticks in public was enough to kill one’s libido faster than taking a cold shower in a U.S. Army barracks.

Forrest removed a classical ancient Greek olive oil lamp from his jacket pocket.

The lamp had been a gift from his good friend Ivanka Trump for favours rendered.

If he remembered his Arabian Nights folklore correctly, Aladdin used a magic lamp to summon a genie.

Maybe he could rub this lamp and summon a genie to bump off all these ugly women.

Dashwood Forrest rubbed the lamp.

Pan Goatee appeared.

“How the Hell did I get from an Orson Welles repertory film festival in Washington D.C. (where strangely enough I was the only one in the theatre) to a milk shake bar in what looks to be the city of Calgary- the city of gay cowboys- not surprising given the overall unattractiveness of the women here,” the genetically created satyr serial killer scratched his head.

“I do most humbly apologize, my good man,” Dashwood Forrest bowed, “or rather my good satyr, I was hoping to summon a genie but you’ll do. I was wondering if you could slay these ugly women for me.”

“Happy to oblige,” Pan Goatee took out his astrally projected laser machete and walked out the door where he proceeded to behead ugly women left, right and center.

Pan Goatee’s aesthetically oriented mercy killing actions led to Mulligan the Irish Zombie coming back from the dead.

“Why did we come to Calgary anyways?” Mulligan asked Dashwood Forrest.

“To see Lake Louise in the Blue Canadian Rockies to celebrate Dame Vera Lynn’s 100th Birthday earlier this month,” Dashwood Forrest explained.

“Then let’s go see Lake Louise and go,” Mulligan pleaded.

“An excellent idea,” Forrest said, “go outside and hail a taxi for us, will you?”.

As the Michael Jackson song Thriller played in the background on the old milkshake bar diner’s jukebox, Mulligan the Irish zombie ran outside and did just that.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Wednesday March 29th
2017.

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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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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 1808 Prussian invasion of Ireland, “he was actually trying to raise my cemetery neighbour Darcy O’ Flaherty Finnegan Riley from the dead but O’ Flaherty Finnegan Riley 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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