Ghosts Galore

July 26, 2013 at 7:32 pm (The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

The entertainer in the pub sang, “I’m Henry VIII I am, I am, I just got married to the widow next door, she’s been married 7 times before and everyone was a Henry – Henr-ee  so that makes me Henry the Eighth I am…”

Outside the pub waiting for him was the ghost of Henry VIII and the ghost of his executioner.

“I didn’t find your song very humourous,” Henry harrumphed, “off with his head.”

The executioner swung his ghostly axe and the axe passed harmlessly through the entertainer’s head.

“I see you don’t know how to manifest spiritual objects into a material reality,”  Pan Goatee laughed as he astral projected by on his way to a replication of the Bohemian Grove ceremony on the banks of the Thames.

“Me?  I thought it was you who was going to bring the statue of the giant owl,”  former British Prime Minister Tony Blair said  in exasperation to the current Archbishop of Canterbury.

                     .         .        .

The ghost of Josef Stalin stood in shock on Brazil’s Copacabana Beach at the massive crowd of young people cheering Pope Francis.

A booming voice seemed to echo out of the heavens,  “Well Joe you stupid ass,  I didn’t think I’d ever see you again after you kicked the bucket.  Well now you know how many soldiers the Pope has.”

Stalin’s ghost looked up and saw a huge cloud in the shape of Sir Winston Churchill’s head smoking a giant cigar.

                        .          .          .

Adolf Hitler’s ghost sat in Rush Limbaugh’s huge dressing room and waited for the enormously stout talk show host to return.

The Fuhrer’s spirit tried to help himself to a piece of chicken from one of the 6 dozen buckets of KFC that sat on the dressing room table awaiting Mr. Limbaugh’s return.

But since he didn’t know how to project material objects into a spiritual reality, he couldn’t.

When Rush returned, the Fuhrer greeted him enthusiastically.

Speaking in a thick German accent and spraying his own moustache with his enthusiasm, the Fuhrer said, “I really love your show and agree with everything you say.  The non-whites in this country are getting far too uppity in my opinion.”

                 .         .         .

The Greek vampire Hades used the remote to turn off his satellite TV and then spoke to one of his aides, “You know the reception is so bad underground.  We really should think about switching over to Cable.”

“I’ll look into it, sir,”  his aide replied.

“But still despite the blurry picture, it still gives me some idea of the chaos that exists above,” Hades helped himself to some pomegranate seeds, “we must see what we can do about getting Cerberus back to his guard dog position again so we can stop all these damned spirits from crossing back over the River Styx to the world above.”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” his aide remarked.

“It’s all so frustrating,”   Hades hit his forehead, “where’s Persephone when you really need her?  All this masturbation starts to get on one’s nerves after a while.”

“You’re forgetting that it’s summer on Mount Olympus, sir,” his aide reminded him.

“Why doesn’t anyone remember to turn over the page on this damned calendar?” Hades snapped as he turned over the calendar several pages.

                 .           .            .

On one side of the River Styx,  Chris de Burgh sang, “Don’t pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side…”

On Mount Olympus, Vincent Price spoke as he watched Michael Jackson dance on the moon,  

“Darkness falls across the land,
The midnight hour is close at hand…”

To be continued.

-A vampire novel chapter 
written by Christopher
Friday July 26th 2013

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A Marxist Werewolf In Madrid

August 21, 2011 at 8:19 pm (Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

Walking in Madrid in the middle of the pouring rain…

… I was walking in Madrid in the middle of the pouring rain…

… wearing the coat of a werewolf in the middle of the pouring rain…

… The Senorita in red asked me, “Are you a Christian, child?”…

and I answered, “Marxist-Leninist.”

Magog Rhys Petley was beginning to feel that he was the central character in a badly written parody of a Marc Cohn hit song.

The far leftist Labour Member of Parliament from Wales had been battling an acute outbreak of lycanthropy ever since he got bitten by the ancient Hindu demon Rahu several months ago.

Part of the curse was that he did not turn into a werewolf only during the full moon but also whenever he was deeply aroused by something.

And lately the agitation of rioters in Britain the past couple of weeks had been turning him into a werewolf.

Now Scotland Yard was under the impression that he was responsible for organizing the riots.

So Magog decided to leave the country for a while until the heat died down.

Coming to Spain may not have been the brightest idea in the world.

All of these beautiful young Spanish senoritas were getting him sexually aroused.

Not to mention the streets of Madrid were crowded because of Papal World Youth Day celebrations.

And now here in Madrid as he stood in the middle of the pouring rain, thunder and lightning flashed all around him.

Water and several hundreds of thousands of volts of electricity was probably not a good combination Magog figured.

But it still might put an end to his werewolf’s curse.

Magog drank his buttermilk.

He had discovered that drinking buttermilk seemed to serve as an antidote to his outbreaks of Rahu-bite induced lycanthropy.

The beautiful young Senorita in red had asked him if he was a Christian.

No doubt because of all the visitors here to the Papal World Youth Day.

She walked down the streets in her red dress which fit even more tightly around her lovely figure because of the wetness caused by the rain.

As the glass of buttermilk had been emptied and she continued to swish elegantly down the streets in her spiked stiletto high-heeled shoes, Magog felt himself getting aroused.

As he turned hairy and started crawling around on all fours, the woman in red turned around and faced him without fear, “To remove the curse, seek the help of the Key.”

She then turned and vanished down a Madrid alleyway.

“A key?” Magog thought to himself as he started to howl.

Where was he going to find a key in this tumultuous weather?

What did she mean by the Key?

Thunder and lightning flashed all around him.

To be continued.

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