Diablos Nocturna At The NATO Summit In Newport Wales

September 12, 2014 at 7:47 pm (Commentary, Geopolitics and International Relations, International Espionage, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Diablos Nocturna At The NATO Summit In Newport Wales

The NATO Summit in Newport Wales was winding down.

Most of the world leaders had left.

And MI-6 agent Diablos Nocturna who had overseen security operations at the summit was watching the shutting down of the summit.

He saw Monica Dhaliwal his liaison with CSIS (the Canadian Security Intelligence Service) approach looking very attractive and stylish in her white blouse, blue jacket, tight blue skirt, black silk pantyhose and striking cerulean blue spiked stiletto high- heeled shoes.

She was definitely the reason he had enjoyed working this summit so much.

She flashed a warm smile as she stood face-to-face with him.

“So,” she flicked her hair back as she spoke, “how ever did you come up with the code name Diablos Nocturna – Devil of the Night?”.

“From medieval legends of the incubus,” Diablos Nocturna replied.

“The male demon who slept with beautiful women in the night?” Monica Dhaliwal smiled again.

“The same,” Diablos Nocturna nodded.

“Say who was that woman who looked like the singer Rihanna and was dressed in a Dior red evening gown and hob nobbed with all the world leaders at all the summit dinners?” Monica Dhaliwal asked.

“That’s the Paris-based billionairess and Egyptian Vampiress Isis,” Diablos Nocturna replied.

“Vampiress?” The female CSIS agent was shocked.

“Yes her brother, brother-in-law and arch-enemy the billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set lives in London,” the MI-6 operative answered.

“So you mean there really are such things as vampires and vampiresses?” Monica Dhaliwal adjusted her skirt.

“There are indeed,” the MI-6 agent replied.

“In my university days,” Monica Dhaliwal began stroking her hair, “I’d heard talk of a legendary Canadian vampire hunter by the name of Dracul Van Helsing. Does he actually exist?”.

“He does,” Diablos Nocturna nodded, “I’ve heard of him.”

“This London-based billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set,” the CSIS operative inquired, “does he have anything to do with Set Enterprises the British research and development firm that’s said to be engaged in secret and very controversial genetics experiments?”.

“Yes, he owns it,” Diablos Nocturna took note of a news channel helicopter in the distance, “you might also have heard of his controversial corporate Chief of Security and Intelligence Gathering the notorious Renfield R. Renfield. He has quite the reputation in international espionage circles.”

“Renfield R. Renfield works for Set?” The CSIS agent had indeed heard of the ruthless and totally psychotic individual that Western intelligence agencies turned to as a last resort when it came to dealing with the vilest scum of the Earth.

There were rumours that The Blacklist TV series’ character of Raymond Red Reddington was actually modeled on Renfield R. Renfield.

“Yes he works for Set,” Diablos Nocturna answered.

The MI-6 agent invited the CSIS agent for a drink in a nearby Welsh pub.

As they approached the pub entrance from the street, Welsh werewolf (although most people didn’t know that he was a werewolf) British Labour MP Magog Rhys Petley came rushing out of the pub.

“They don’t have any buttermilk in this pub,” Magog Rhys Petley gasped, “in fact, they don’t seem to have buttermilk anywhere in town.”

He went running down the street shouting, “Buttermilk. I need buttermilk.”

“Quite the eccentric character,” Monica Dhaliwal looked down the street after him.

“That was Magog Rhys Petley a Welsh Member of Parliament at Westminster,” Diablos Nocturna stated, “Obviously a man who enjoys his buttermilk.”

They entered the pub.

. . .

“So what was this Vampiress Isis doing talking to all those world leaders?” Monica Dhaliwal asked Diablos Nocturna after they sat down.

“She’s hoping to use NATO to destroy Vladimir Putin’s Russia,” Diablos Nocturna replied.

“I see,” Monica Dhaliwal looked puzzled, “and why does she want to do that?”.

“Because it was a Russian nuclear submarine that used a laser death ray to disintegrate the spaceship that was returning her brother, husband and lover Osiris to Earth from the star system of Sirius back on December 21st 2012 and she’s vowed vengeance ever since,” the MI-6 operative replied.

“I see,” the CSIS operative felt she was in a dream.

“All part of a long-standing family feud that originated in Egypt millenia ago,” Diablos Nocturna explained, “when their brother Set cut up Osiris into 14 pieces and scattered the body parts throughout Egypt. Isis who was married to Osiris managed to find all the parts save one and put them back together again and using Egyptian magic managed to resurrect Osiris. But then Set managed to cast a Black Magic spell on Osiris transporting him and exiling him to a planet in the star system of Sirius. So Horus the son of Isis and Osiris who was also Set’s nephew buried Set alive in a tomb. Set’s tomb was then discovered and opened on November 11th 1918 at ironically enough exactly 1100 hours Greenwich time when the Armistice ending the First World War came into effect. Set fled the tomb after his sarcophagus lid was taken off and he’s been wreaking his havoc on the world ever since.”

“I see,” Monica Dhaliwal sipped her Chai tea (which she was surprised to see offered in a Welsh pub), “and how was it that Osiris returned to Earth on December 21st 2012?”.

“It was because of the Black Magic spell that Set cast on Osiris,” Diablos Nocturna explained, “for ancient Egyptian witchcraft Black Magic spells like most modern food and dairy products had an expiration date on it. And the expiration date for the spell exiling Osiris to the star system of Sirius ended December 21st 2012 on our calendar. It was an expiration date of which the Mayans, the Aztecs and the Hopi Indians were aware. Their prophecies about this event gave the History Channel a lot to talk about on its programs throughout most of the first 12 years of the 21st Century. For all intensive public purposes since nothing appeared to happen on December 21st 2012, they’ve scrambled to try to find a replacement and think that endless reruns of American Pickers will somehow capture the imagination of the television viewing public. If, like Isis, subscribers to the History Channel knew what really happened on December 21st 2012, they too would be calling for Vladimir Putin’s head on a silver platter.”

“So for Isis, all hopes of Osiris’ return have vanished into thin air like disintegrated particles from the after effects of a laser death ray?” Monica Dhaliwal asked.

“Yes, having one’s anatomical body parts reduced to the sub-atomic level is certainly more of a challenge to put back together again than just being cut up into 14 pieces,” Diablos Nocturna admitted, “but it so happened that leading Swiss scientist Dr. Fahrenheit Celsius happened to be in the area of Vancouver’s English Bay at the time and happened to use a mirror and the sounds of the sea from a large sea shell he was holding to collect the disintegrated particles from the laser death ray explosion and put them into a working model of the CERN Large Hadron Collider he had in his rowboat with him at the time.”

“So the particles of Osiris’ sub-atomic structure were gathered into Dr. Fahrenheit Celsius’ working model of the CERN Large Hadron Collider?” Monica Dhaliwal asked.

“Along with the sub-atomic particles of the Aztec feathered serpent god Quetzalcoatl who was arriving in a space ship from Saturn’s moon Titan in the same vicinity at the same time and was likewise disintegrated from the laser death ray fired by the Russian nuclear submarine that was illegally trespassing in Canadian coastal waters at the time,” Diablos Nocturna answered.

“Wow, I never heard about that in my History of War and Conflict Class at UBC,” said Monica Dhaliwal who was a recent graduate of the University of British Columbia prior to her recruitment by CSIS.

“Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper covered up the whole incident to prevent a possible war with Russia,” Diablos Nocturna explained, “and Harper’s NATO ally U.S. President Barack Obama is still working on a strategy to respond to the whole incident. He may come up with such a working strategy at the same time he finally comes up with a strategy against ISIS- that is the Islamist terrorist caliphate not the Paris-based billionairess Egyptian Vampiress.”

“So whatever became of the particles that were placed inside Dr. Fahrenheit Celsius’ model of the CERN Large Hadron Collider?” the CSIS agent asked.

“They’re now in the Vampiress Isis’ secret subterranean laboratory below Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris,” Diablos Nocturna replied, “although it’s not as secret as she thinks it is since MI-6 knows all about it. There Dr. Fahrenheit Celsius and a number of other of the world’s leading scientists are working to put the particles of Osiris back together again.”

“Why is the Vampiress Isis’ laboratory located beneath Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris?” Monica Dhaliwal inquired.

“It’s my understanding that Isis is a big fan of the late great British actor Charles Laughton,” the MI-6 agent answered, “and particularly enjoyed his 1939 film The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

“So are they having any success putting the particles of Osiris back together again?” The CSIS agent looked at the pattern in her cup of chai tea.

“Well according to a theoretical research paper written by a professor of particle physics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” Diablos Nocturna put a little pepper on his dish of Welsh rarebit, “an ET gray’s laser death ray gun fired in reverse into the surrounding atmosphere might be able to put the particles back together again.”

“So all Isis has to do then is to get her hands on an ET gray’s laser death ray gun,” Monica Dhaliwal picked up her fork to sample her own dish of Welsh rarebit.

“That’s right,” Diablos Nocturna nodded, “and there may be a bit of a problem getting that.”

On the radio in the Welsh pub was playing the latest release from the American music group Nero Wilson and The Cleveland Cleavers with their lead vocalist Sekhmet singing the lyrics that were also the title of the song, “Mr. ET Gray, I’m So Sorry I Lost Your Laser Death Ray Gun.”

In the distance outside the pub could be heard the melancholy haunting sound of what sounded like a werewolf howling.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday September 6th
2014

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Flashback To The End of The World- Dec. 21st 2012

September 9, 2014 at 4:04 pm (Commentary, Geopolitics and International Relations, Humour, News, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Flashback To The End of The World- Dec. 21st 2012

The vampire novel chapter I wrote back on December 21st 2012 when something of cosmic significance was supposed to happen on Earth on that date according to Mayan, Aztec and Hopi Indian prophecies.

http://thevampiresamurai.blogspot.ca/2012/12/dec-21st-2012-tempest-or-much-ado-about.html?m=1

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Sidney Seagull Private Eye

January 4, 2014 at 4:50 pm (Entertainment, Humour, Movies, Satire, Short Story) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Sidney Seagull Private Eye

British Columbia’s most famous seagull Sidney had opened up a private eye’s office on the beach at Vancouver’s English Bay.

He sat around drinking a bottle of bourbon and smoking a cigar while he waited for his first client to show up.

He got a lot of peculiar looks from human passers-by as he did so.

His friend Red Herring Gull flew in to see what he was doing.

“Hi Sid,” Red greeted him, “what’s up?”.

“I’ve decided to go into the private eye business, sweetheart,” Sidney answered in a Humphrey Bogart sounding voice.

“And are you coming out of the closet in the process as well?” Red asked, “You just called me sweetheart.”

“Of course not, you moron,” Sidney choked on his bourbon and cigar, “that’s just the way private eyes talk.”

“Sidney,” a female seagull who sounded a lot like Ingrid Bergman flew into his office.

“Why of all the private eye offices on all the beaches in all the world did she have to fly into this one?” Sidney buried his head in his fedora hat.

“Oh Sidney,” the seagull whose name was Ilsa sighed, “we’ll always have Paris.”

“Funny you should mention Paris,” Sidney belched bourbon, “Miss Hilton was quite pissed off when I crapped all over her dress.”

“I’m talking about Paris France, silly,” Ilsa batted her false eyelashes at him.

“I got the point right on the top of the Eiffel Tower,” Sidney recalled, “most painful enema I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Oh Sidney,” Ilsa started to cry and her mascara flowed like rain along the beach, “why are you so angry?”.

“Gees, I don’t know,” Sidney’s seagull lips dripped with sarcasm, “maybe it was because I was sitting alone in the rain looking stupid on a statue of Charles de Gaulle holding a note that said ‘Dear Rick, I find I have to suddenly leave Paris without you. Love, Ilsa’. That note pissed me off for two reasons. Reason #1: You had forgotten my name because you called me Rick and not Sidney. Reason # 2: You suddenly had to leave Paris without me.”

“Oh, Sidney, you’ve changed,” Ilsa sobbed.

“Of course I’ve changed,” Sidney replied, ” you think I’d wear the same suit that I wore in Paris? With all those coffee stains on it as a result of all those clumsy French waiters?”.

“You don’t understand, Rick,” Ilsa had forgotten Sidney’s name again, “that day when we were supposed to leave Paris together… the day when they started selling German sausages at stands along the Champs-Élysées… I received word that my husband did not die in a hockey training camp after all. He was alive and well and living in Paris. I had to leave Paris with him.”

“What? You couldn’t have dumped your husband and eloped with a bum like me?” Sidney swallowed his cigar, “what’s good enough for the Kardashians isn’t good enough for you?”.

“You don’t understand, Sidney,” Ilsa was crying as much now as a guest would on one of those sisterly blubberfests on the old Oprah Winfrey Show, “my husband is a leader in the Czech resistance movement and he’d fail without my love and support.”

“And as leader of the Czech resistance movement,” Sidney reached for another bottle of bourbon, “just what is it that he’s supposed to be resisting?”.

“Well,” Ilsa replied, “as leader of the Czech resistance movement, he always resisted losing at Chess.”

Just then a blackbird landed on the beach.

The blackbird had a harmonica in his mouth.

“Sam,” Ilsa greeted him, “play it Sam.”

The blackbird looked at Sidney, “That all right with you, boss?”.

Sidney winced as he said, “Play it Sam.”

And so Sam the Blackbird played Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush on his harmonica.

At that moment Jonathan Livingstone Seagull flew overhead.

He had spent New Year’s Day down in the state of Colorado where they had just legalized the sale of cannabis.

While Jonathan was busy singing that old John Denver song The Colorado Rocky Mountain High, he failed to notice the giant redwood tree in Stanley Park directly in front of him and flew into it- knocking himself out in the process.

At that moment, a falcon flew into Sidney’s office.

The falcon spoke in an unknown language.

“What the Hell are you saying?” Sidney spit out his bourbon.

“I think it’s Maltese,” Red said, “I watched a documentary on Malta on The History Channel last night.”

“You mean they occasionally show other programs on The History Channel besides that stupid American Pickers?” Sidney spit out his bourbon again.

“Sorry,” the Maltese falcon spoke, “I forgot you speak English here.”

At that moment a dog whose name was Sam walked by crying, “I’ve just been spayed. I’ve just been spayed.”

“We’ll be seeing you later, Sam spayed,” Sidney spoke in his Bogart voice as he had been speaking all afternoon.

The Maltese falcon spoke to Ilsa, “I’ve been sent here by your husband to put you directly on a flight to Sochi, Russia. Your husband has been named Captain of the Czech National Hockey Team- the first seagull in history to receive this honour and he’ll be playing in the 2014 Winter Olympics.”

“But why does she need to fly to Sochi now?” Sidney asked between shots of bourbon, “The Winter Olympics are still another month away.”

“Yes but the line-ups for the best borscht soup and beef stroganoff in town have already started,” the Maltese falcon answered, “and your husband wants to be the first in line.”

A sea plane landed on the water by the beach at English Bay.

An old-time train conductor (still waiting for his ship to come in) opened the door of the sea plane and shouted, “Next flight to Sochi, Russia. All aboard.”

“Oh Rick,” Ilsa sobbed on Sidney’s shoulder, “I don’t want to get on that plane. Tell me what I should do and I’ll do it.”

“The name’s Sidney and it looks like I’ll have to do the thinking for both of us. And in the alcoholic haze I’m in, that’s going to take a great deal of talent on my part,” Sidney answered, “Look I may not be the most noble guy in the world… in fact I haven’t been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize even once. But I do know this. The problems of two seagulls don’t amount to a a hill of beans in this world. They amount to a hill of something else. But if you don’t get on that plane, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday and soon.”

“Good-bye Rick,” Ilsa kissed him and boarded the plane.

“The name’s Sidney,” Sidney remarked as the plane flew off into the sunset.

“You know, Sidney,” Red broke the silence, “you know how you said you thought you looked stupid sitting alone on a statue of Charles de Gaulle in the rain?”.

“Yeah,” Sidney nodded sadly.

“Well personally I think anyone would look stupid sitting on a statue of Charles de Gaulle whatever the weather,” Red stated.

“You know, Louis,” Sidney grinned at him, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“The name’s Red,” Red answered, “and if you want me, whistle.”

They walked into the water together as Sam the blackbird played on his harmonica the song whose lyrics went, “Does your memory stray to a bright summer day when I laughed and called you sweetheart…”

The unconscious body of Jonathan Livingstone Seagull floated by.

Sidney took off his fedora in a sign of respect and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

-A Sidney Seagull short story
written by Christopher
Friday January 3rd
2014.

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