Batshit

By Fred (Freddy) Barnett

Gentle readers,
Our publisher feels that it would be unkind and irresponsible to let you read this book without a word or two of friendly caution.
You are about to enter the world of demons, ghosts, goblins—the undead.
This story is fact. I lived through it. I still do.
Many centuries ago, Prince Vlad Tepes Dracula the Impaler and the “Bloody Countess” Elizabeth Bathory bathed their own homeland of Transylvania in blood.
There was/is nothing good or bad about the pair’s excessive bloodshed. That’s just what Transylvanians “do” and have done for centuries.
It’s the 21st century, Transylvania is becoming a cash cow, a vast amusement park.
Days ago, during nap time, tour buses first arrived at Vlad’s castle in Poenari, Romania.
After centuries of peace and quiet, the Prince and the Countess, were now being kept awake by endless construction and visitors.
Finally, the small families of Prince Vlad and the Countess Elizabeth were forced to fight corporate monsters for their own habitat.
This tale may cause nightmares. Even daymares!
So I offer you this last chance to close this cursed volume and run! Run home! Go back to your mommy now and be safe, my little snowflake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fred (Freddy) Barnett
• Release date: May 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311684332

Fred (Freddy) Barnett

Fred ‘Freddy’ BarnettFred 'Freddy' Jay Deutsch Barnett (1950-2200)When did I feel like a real writer? When, at 4-years-old I wrote my first dirty word and distributed it throughout the Miami hotel where my family was staying. It was widely read, reviews were good and we were 'moved' across the street.I was born in 1950, in Neponsit, New York, a hurricane's breath from the beach.

Book preview

Prey-Lewd

(Enemy Territory)

Čachtice, Slovakia (Formerly Hungary)

Inside his immense melon head, the bus driver could actually hear the menacing voice of Boris Karloff: Even your buth (bus) is dead, Kimo. Buth? What da kine hell is a buth(?), thought the Tour driver with the name tag that stated: ‘Aloha, My name is Big Kimo.’ Oh, bus(!), he suddenly realized. Please, bus, don’t die! Anywhere else, but here! Not in front of creepy Čachtice Castle,

Ladies and gentlemen, Kimo announced, we may be here awhile, so you can exit the bus, walk around a little and stretch if you like.

Bats and huge fanged moths — the kind that would happily eat your shorts—with you in them — were attracted to the lights within the bus and began pounding themselves against the windows. Anyone who was about to ‘go outside and stretch’ quickly gave up on the foolish idea.

Look, driver! Someone stood and pointed out of the right side of the bus. Big Kimo couldn’t see anything, at first.

It’s a lovely lady! said a British woman in the back seats.

Oh, look mum, said the woman’s young son. And the lovely lady has doggies! Four shadows leapt from Elizabeth’s parked Bats Mobile and took their places behind their mistress. They held baskets in their mouths.

Sure enough, tall and beautiful Countess Elizabeth and her sweet doggies approached the bus. She was a vision of 1950s glamour bathed in moonlight with her red bouffant hairdo and a blue and white checkered homemaker’s outfit. The lovely vision knocked on and waved at Kimo through the closed door. She held up a pitcher of an ice-cold beverage and a stack of Dixie Cups. He relaxed.

Oh goody, goody! a child in the front seat squealed. The nice lady brought us Kool-Aid!

What the tourists thought was rain, started to hit the windows. The drops were the plague tears that came from forgotten angels. The sound of the wind was a sickening wheeze from a grove of dreary and dying mourning wood trees.

Let her in, driver! The poor woman’s blouse is getting soaked, a woman from Ireland called out. All of the men, suddenly ‘concerned,’ stood up to get an eyeful. One elderly woman said, It must be the lady of the house. Let her in.

I hope it isn’t the lady of the house, thought Kimo. Bloody Countess!!!! Elizabeth Bathory once lived here. That was centuries ago. Still, it IS Čachtice!

The canines stood guard in shadows behind their mistress. Kimo opened the glass door—Oh, what the hell—with a hiss. The dogs will have to stay outside. The well-rounded ‘June Cleaver type’ stepped up into the bus and took a wide, aggressive stance in front in of the passengers. The ‘nice lady’ was soaking wet, a great deal nicer than most had expected. She captured everyone’s complete attention despite their age, sex, race, nationality, or even in the case of Mrs. Bernstein, in the back, species.

Hello, you nice people. I’m Mrs. Cleaver! Call me June, lied The Bloody Countess through the pretty red lips that concealed her deadly incisors.

Kimo was taken back. Cleaver? Why don’t I like that name?

‘June’s’ audience was riveted on the icy pitcher of swirling sky blue liquid that she displayed.

I brought you some refreshments while you are waiting to be rescued, said the beguiling all-American housewife. I’ve got dozens of our best local Batina’s cookies and something to quench your thirst. Here! Pass them back. Thank you. If it’s all right with Big Kimo, maybe I could teach you nice folks a little bit about our local cuisine.

The tired driver nodded, stared out the bus window into the downpour which had turned sickly along with the dull thunder of his irritated bowels. Kimo decided that he didn’t like the size of those dogs. They seemed well behaved but they all wore cute red doggy bibs around their thick necks. Bibs?! Cleaver. Cleaver. The name still made him nervous.

We’re proud of our Fritz Haarmann cutlery, said perky ‘June.’ Mr. Haarmann was originally a meat salesman from Germany, but now he makes and tests his fine cutlery products right here in Transylvania. Look at the detail in the snake motif on this knife!

Schone asp! (Nice asp!) said the big jolly drunk sitting in front of her.

Are you from Germany, sir? Then you would certainly appreciate the craftsmanship. I mean, just look at this edge. The big bald German didn’t understand one word. While he smiled up at the outline of June’s ‘chilled’ nipples above, June took a bead on his shiny head. Just feel this edge! Her arm shot up to the lights ——— then down.

Soon, Mrs. June Cleaver/Elizabeth was doing the backstroke up and down the blood-filled center aisle of the bus as her good doggies dragged piles of tourist-flavored vittles into the Countess’ sob-flooded front yard.

The Countess Elizabeth’s housekeeper, Penelope, disposed of the bus with an explosion fueled by Transylvania’s largest export, Premium Bat Guano (also an ingredient used in the country's famous Raise the Dead Pöcs (dicks) Coffee.

All of this took five minutes.

The flapping bats applauded.

Elizabeth, curtsied, leapt into her muscle car, and floored the gas pedal five-hundred miles to Poenari.

Chapter 1: The Gibors

The shadowy figure hanging upside down at the top of the great hall had ‘futin (fucking)’ had it!" with the corpulent little blood dumplings, named Gibors, who packed the hall below. The shiny forty-five-foot-long, midnight blue, bat-embellished Gib-Pak tour buses could barely negotiate the narrow road leading up to Poenari Castle. Hundreds of Gibor tourists now came to Vlad’s home, also known as Dracula’s Castle, daily. In the past, the forty-foot walls across the moat protecting Poenari used to be regularly decorated with the corpses of the very same Gibors that were streaming into the blood-saturated courtyard.

Up until a century ago, Vlad’s henchmen would—to put it delicately—set the Gibors upon ten-foot pikes. Next, they would brutally (Is there any other way to impale?) punch the Gibors down upon the pikes with giant ACME-style sledgehammers. Pop! Long trenches lining the top edges of the spiked walls that protected the castle were built to drain the blood into a large catchment basin in the catacombs beneath Poenari Castle. A portion of the blood would run down a smaller trestle toward the same dining room in the grand hall where descendants of the same ugly little blood blisters were now snapping pictures.

Blood.

In the good old days, Vlad’s two pet gargoyles, Wichtor and Wichtoria, stationed above the drawbridge would spout blood continuously after the Prince’s mass impalements. Lately, there had hardly been a trickle. And that, god blessit, was because were no more hench-people. Vlad had already killed and drained them along with his other employees. The ‘Henching Class,’ like the St. Vitus dancing and gallows dancing classes, had been cut from school budgets in 2006.

Things had changed vastly in Transylvania.

They were down there, Vlad’s snacks, the Gibors, with their uniform black T-shirts and shorts; bald, brainless heads; backward baseball caps; and plenty of bling. Below, the horrid group chattered in the chaotic language of Gibborish.

With all the cacophony below, Vlad the Impaler Tepes, the King of the Vampires, could no longer catch a quiet nap. Vlad’s three wives were bitchier than usual—and that’s saying a ‘câcat (shit) load’ since all three were second cousins to the devil.

Their squeals of delight from the floor far below irritated Vlad’s pointy ears. Gibors! It’s amazing how quickly these squishy sub-human tomatoes forget their own past, Vlad thought. These vere the same plump vesicles that fed us Transylvanian viovode (royalty) for centuries.

For over eight hundred years, the tasty Gibors were raised on the Prince Vlad’s Wallachian Farms in western Romania. Originally, a colorful variety of flavored Gibors were brought to Hungary from Pisica Caseta, the cat box of Mesopotamia, by Ghenghis Kahn as a gift (like a fruit basket) when he visited the Hungarian King Bela. Since their arrival, the fat bloody sub-human things had been raised as two-legged livestock.

#

How and where did the Gibors gain their new found wealth?

In 1987, the Van Helsing Co. invested in mining and, being the lucky rich pricks that they were, naturally discovered a huge deposit of Alexandrite in the tiny farming area of Gibor, located in Sibiu, near Brasov.

Overnight the dim-witted snacks became rich.

The Gibors love to brag about their new pickup trucks and their riches. Every Gibor wears a single earring with a minimum 100-carat diamond amongst their platinum chains and other tacky decor.

* * * *

The sixth double-decker bus from Gib-Pak HoHo Tours, the Gibor tour company, pulled up to the gates behind the others. Today, the drivers started to use the courtyard for parking next to the passage leading to the secret coffin room. To top things off, the little bastards were going to begin moonlight tours! Since the moon always happened to be full above Transylvania, this would be a nightly event!

Elizabeth Comes A-courtin’

Vlad, the evil Master-bat-or, was hanging forty feet above the tour group, hidden and hurting like a drug addict. The hunger pangs were not in Vlad’s stomach. He wasn’t thinking of the camera-toting blood bags milling about on the castle floor beneath him. His soul was starving for Elizabeth Bathory the Bloody Countess, (or Betty as he called her). They rarely got to see each other as she had her own castle to attend to.

For four hundred years The Bloody Countess had danced a wanton bodily-fluid-boogaloo upon Vlad’s pike. Tonight was their ‘Date Night.’

She’s probably in the bath, thought Vlad. He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his wings, and kiss the bloodbles sliding down her ţâţe vith all the subtle finesse of a slobbering mastiff.

There! I can see her in my mind’s eye! Hubbah hubba! Vlad could see that ‘Betty’ was reading his mind across hundreds of fog-shrouded miles, while she picked out her trashiest pantyhose for their date.

Betty, the Bloody Countess, the direct daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Satan, was awakened earlier that day in her bath by the another noisy busload of Gibor plasma pouches outside her own castle walls.

When Betty was upset, the blood in her tub would begin to boil.

Over the ages, the countess’s supply of fresh female virgin blood had dwindled. The disappearance of the innocent maidens of yore had attracted the attention of authorities, which meant the countess was now forced to bathe in the unwholesome blood of Gibors — who no one, even their own families, ever missed. Most of Elizabeth’s higher quality bathwater only came from the fresh blood of virgin males who lived in their basements of their parent’s homes. These pallid geeks, hardly seen were seldom missed. Guys with names like Irving, Seymour, Poindexter, and Marvin. Bathing in Le Nectar des Dorks had its plus side. Real virgin sap made her already impressive mellükön larger and decidedly perkier. Extracto empollón (nerd extract) was also good for firming up her yumalicious fenék. It also served as a coolant when the Countess’ overheated bod would threaten to spontaneously combust.

Back at Poenari Vlad was thinking: Should I ask her to move in, despite the three humorless old bats already living...uh, undying in my cellar? He could feel Betty looking back at him, drooling over him, from over five hundred miles away—as if he were a rack of Famous Dave’s spareribs.

Vlad’s deep thoughts were interrupted Blattttttt by the sounds of twenty Gibors having a farting contest below in the main hall and laughing at their own echoes. Even on the sacred Sundays, Jack Lord’s day of rest. How could such a tiny country produce so many noisy, dirty, ill-mannered, annoying little…ewwwww, just the thought gave Vlad shivers.

He twirled his aerodynamic mustache, When fate gives you lemmings, make lemming-ade! swooped down, eyes ablaze, and within his devilish trick of the five-second time shift, he was able to lift a Gibor woman up onto the rafters, chomp down on her fat neck, and extract all of her blood before anyone in the crowd could blink. The Gibor slobs were far below, farting in the long hallway, taking photos, and busy stealing clippings of Vlad’s tapestries. But, the imbeciles were moving in a slower parallel world as he enveloped his prey. The woman’s husband, Morty, only witnessed her dripping blood and gore running down a column. He was busily snapping photos when he noticed (Hey, Lucy! Look at this ancient W(V)ibrator!) that had actually fallen out of Lucy’s purse. She’s probably in the gift shop, he thought. Morty snapped a few hundred more shots as his louse-spouse’s splatter was licked up by several wampyre bats that had escaped from the confines of Vlad’s faster parallel world.

Vinged varmints! Get back up here! Vlad demanded in a high-frequency whisper.

Morty the Gibor husband never thought to look up, or report his missing spouse to the big New Guinea tour bus driver, Xomerang, who was busy eating the jerky-like pieces of his own grandfather’s buttocks as a snack.

Vlad had to get the crowds out of here — now(!) Betty is bringing her entire volf pack vith her this evening. Tonight is date night! Which reminded him...

Within another half-minute, Vlad snagged another half-dozen Gibors for his Gibor-matic chopper. He was going to make salsa to go with his Lupta’s Nerd Chips ©.

Once a week, beneath Transylvania’s perpetual full moon, the Countess Elizabeth and Prince Vlad would relax within his double-wide coffin and listen to the music of Elizabeth’s pet wolves mating in the surrounding mountains. Hypnotized, they would lose themselves in passion. The pack’s leader, known as Blue Eyes Ferenc, would offer the two love-bats his sad song of a lost love from 3 a.m. until dawn. Vlad sadly remembered that if the Ferenc hadn’t eaten his own daughter, Nancy, she might still be singing duets with him.

Date night at Poenari Castle this week was to involve Vlad drinking the Countess’ bathwater (the entire blood-filled tub). This was to be followed by a thoroughly invasive cleaning of every pore of her luscious body after he transformed himself into a hot steamy Mist-o-Matic. A concert of classical wolf song’s featuring Good Doggie Bocelli and a final game of Ingropa Batwurst (Bury the Batwurst) would round out their evening.

Below, another fifty chattering Gibor tourists entered the great hall and began to pose for each other’s cameras. Their ultimate plan, with the Van Helsing’s help, must be to erect a miniature Transylvania by 3D-ing their millions of photographs, demand that the old Transylvanian royalty shrink themselves, and then place the vampires into the tiny replicas of their ancient homes. Vlad was sure there couldn’t be any other explanation for the excessive picture taking.

"Thank Hell (!) for my Betty-bun’s blind volf, Bocelli. The hound would clear the castle of tasteless Gibors with his famous rendition of "Con Te Partire (Time to Say Goodbye").

Gibors could not stomach fine music. Especially the music-of-the-night.

* * * *

Grieves’ dried-up old heart was touched by the Prince’s love for Elizabeth. The sad old butler’s face nearly cracked into a smile though Vlad was using his desiccated finger to stir a small mix of virgin blood, and a cup of Elizabeth’s used bathwater, over a candle flame. Though Grieves appreciated the attention, Vlad thought, I’ll let the poor old fellow go to his tomb and vallow in his bottomless misery. Torturing his dried-up butler would have given Vlad no pleasure.

Sniffing the heated grail of Elizabeth’s bathwater, Vlad had to admit that the traditional virgin blood used to be richer. The cherished cupful, which still held the essence and bouquet of the Countess (vanilla, fruity, peppery, cassis with a touch of hedonistic) was delicious to the very last drop. Vlad’s sensitive reptilian tongue had lapped up all that was Liz within the vessel. Both Vlad and Elizabeth would have to be patient. They needed to give the human villagers a few decades to breed before they could resume drinking the good stuff.

Vlad had been saving two plump bacon-fed Gibors for breakfast that he’d picked up from Fritz Haarman’s butcher shop. The Countess would be coming to the castle soon. From the bath chamber window he scanned the moat. The reliable lightning lit up the castle entrance. Thunder in the distance. The kind of obnoxious thunder that could only come from a 392-cubic inch Hemi V8.

There was an explosive roar outside of the Poenari walls. Elizabeth’s Challenger, the Bats Mobile, skidded to a stop. A car door closed. Vlad sprinted toward the window overlooking the moat to see her hooded figure walking toward his drawbridge.

When she felt Vlad watching, she would gracefully drop her cloak. Vlad watched as her naked-as-a-jaybat body left a trail of scorched earth beneath. Fire, goood! Vlad quoted, imitating the voice of Patches, his tall new friend who was made from a variety of old short friends. Patches had just gotten married to Jigsaw, a woman with big hair and interchangeable parts.

Elizabeth’s loving entourage of bats circled above, forming pictures of hearts complete with atriums, ventricles, arteries, vena cava, and aorta.

Vlad’s Gargoyles — Wichtor and Wichtoria

Halt! Answer this question. What movie did this quote come from? ‘I see the dead,’ asked Wichtor the gargoyle from above.

You don’t look so hot yourself, Wichtor, said Elizabeth.

No, no, no, said Wichtor. It’s a quote. It’s our new security protocol. You’re supposed to tell us who said it.

You said it, said Elizabeth.

Wichtoria hit Wichtor on the shoulder with an outstretched wing. Let me try one. Are you listening, Countess? Ahem. ‘(Silence)’ mouthed Wichtoria.

Could you repeat that?

Do you want to summon a favorite spirit for help?