Saving South America

By Richard Williams Stoker

The notion as to which historical figure if any, was used by Bram Stoker as the original model for his fictional character Count Dracula, has never been adequately resolved for some fans. Some argue it was his boss at London's Lyceum Theatre whilst others show cause why it was a composite of the landlord class during Ireland's Potato Famine.&nbs

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Stoker
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960159175

Richard Williams Stoker

The author grew up in middle class Australia and attended three years of high school. He then worked in offices for almost 20 years while studying business, accounting and commercial law. With his former wife he relocated to a different state where he drove trucks and taxis for the next 20 odd years. Later, he taught business subjects in a technical college, from text books he created. His son and daughter-in-law moved to a rainforest area of Australia and invited him to join them which he did. In this, his retirement years he became a committee member of a live theatre, attended the launching of the book 'The Lost Journal of Bram Stoker' held in the office of its publisher in London, England, wrote articles mostly for an on-line newspaper, short stories from his taxi driving days, a novel and a couple of feature film screenplays. He also toured several South American countries, loved the rainforests and would hate to see them destroyed, hence the motivation for this novel. One of his screenplays is taken from this novel.

Book preview

Prologue

Out of the darkness they came in numbers that would confound a super-computer. Out of extreme blackness at Formula One speed and suddenly into the glaring sunlight which fazed them not in the least, as they infinitely trusted the clicking echo-sounders located in their beaks which if synthesized, would render the present generation of stealth bombers obsolete.

    Directly outside the mouth of their ancestral cave, predator birds and springing snakes hungrily awaited. This too, fazed them not in the least as the comparatively small number that would be taken in this manner would be of no final consequence.

    Once outside, they spiralled clockwise through a funnel of green as the reverberations of their beating wings shook the very soil beneath the foliage and sent monkeys screeching and leaping from treetop to treetop in blind confusion and other mobile life-forms scurrying for the safety of their abodes.   

    More and more of the flying missiles exited their communal homes and stacked higher and higher into a solid, pulsating mass columned almost two miles above the canopy of the Mexican jungle.

Only the females would return.

When they were all out and assembled in this formation, they climbed even higher and took bearings somewhat to the north. They then moved off as a single, disciplined, throbbing, dark cloud on their 1100 odd mile journey to the American states of Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.

1

Dr. Vladislaus Drake: Managing Director of the South Central Dental Clinic for the Financially Disadvantaged, Fellow of the American Institute of Orthodontic Surgeons (Los Angeles Chapter), CEO of the Bel Air registered companies of Vladislaus Drake Dental Practitioner Ltd., Vlad Advanced Dental Equipment Ltd., Vance (South America) Land & Investment Holdings Ltd. and author of published texts on Central and South American Winged Mammals, rose to deliver his acceptance speech upon being invested as the 28th president of: The Americas Dental Hygienic Awareness Foundation Inc.

It was the culmination of an intense week of lobbying, entertaining, cajoling and debating so as to win the voting support of the seven hundred and fifty convention delegates, who represented many dental practices and authoritative industry bodies throughout North, Central and South America.

    Throughout his campaign, Dr. Drake had attempted to befriend his fellow candidates in order to secure their primary votes where possible, and then their preferential distribution votes should that become necessary. This demeaning choir was particularly distasteful. ‘After all, wasn't he the obvious choice? Didn't his bearing shine through? Was it perhaps the 21st Century drugs that prevented his fellow delegates from observing these facts?’ 

    No matter. He had played their silly games and was now being invested into the prestigious position of their foundation's top job. A position which opened many doors, permitted travel with entourage and equipment throughout the Americas without inviting undue suspicions, as well as de-sensitizing customs officials. Additionally, it carried a large financial grant.

    The vast majority of the attendees were fine, upstanding, dedicated professionals. Well-meaning and well-motivated and who displayed a genuine desire to improve the standard of dental care wherever possible. However, as in most industries and in most walks of life for a small minority of attendees, the personification of their incoming leader was relatively unimportant at this triennial convention. Business would continue as usual they supposed, and listening to a bunch of hopeful candidates expounding their own virtues, seemed boring in the extreme.

Overall the sojourn was fun as it should have been. The attendees liked the diversionary interlude from the daily grind of drilling incisors and injecting Lignocaine (the replacement for Novocaine). 

    Deep in the Nevada desert they especially liked being pampered and entertained by the professional staff of one of the largest resort complexes in the world, the incomparable: MGM GRAND – the City of Entertainment. The resort was proudly over-lorded by the King of the Jungle; the MGM Lion standing all of 70 feet high from the sidewalk. As an aside, the tax deductibility of this business convention was most acceptable. 

    The social aspect however, was no more than a means to an end for Dr. Drake who exacted his pleasures by other means. Seldom seem in the light of day, he avoided brightness wherever possible and was occasionally spotted glancing longingly into dark alleyways, into which he occasionally allowed himself to be lured by unsavoury characters whose bodies were found later in most puzzling states.

    Dr. Drake, aged 30 something, six feet five inches tall, slim build, straight back, sharp facial features defined by a long aquiline nose. His anaemic complexion gave a false impression of physical weakness. Always a little overdressed for this modern age, his contemporaries considered him eccentric. His clothing would have been considered fashionable a little over a century ago. Some speculated him to be color blind since he exclusively wore black and white. Many of his patients though, considered him to be ‘Cool.’

    Ever flanked by his three female employees—his receptionist, nurse and bookkeeper all of whom seemed to react instinctively to his moods and gestures as much as to his words the way animals do. He participated in most of the official functions and suffered through some of the lighter social activities so as to present his case for presidency.

    Resistance to his persuasive manner was difficult, as he exuded an aura of mystical urgency to which the individually targeted delegate felt somehow privy. Ever aided by his three assistants whose sensuous bodies radiated erotic and dangerous delights, available perhaps to those who favored their votes upon the candidate from Bel Air and South Central.

    His stated platform was uncomplicated: The need for the foundation to salvage the teeth of and dentally speaking, educate our impoverished Central and South America cousins as well as some of our own socio-eco disadvantaged North American citizens. His manner of expressing same however, the indurating smile, the indefinably sinister undertones were diametrically opposed to his honorable words.

    For some attendees the words were enough. To others the combined effect which included the sensuality of his staff was overwhelming intoxicating akin to that of a gambler who as post time approached, inwardly knew he couldn't win but was yet compelled to place another bet on the forthcoming race.

Of course there was opposition. As he lobbied he became increasingly aware that a small number of the delegates who represented various areas of the USA and neighboring countries and who didn't give a tinker's cuss about his or even their own stated programs for that matter but were solely dedicated to the pursuit of their own hidden agendas.

    Furthermore, it had become obvious that several cabals had formed alliances for the purpose of preferential vote distributions, and of course the inevitable follow-up favors. The strongest such alliance had its nucleus in the Midwest. Long before the convention started, the outgoing president had commenced number crunching for his business partner.

Not everyone who lives in San Diego serves or has served in a branch of the armed forces. Robert Hastings' father who stumbled through to complete two years of high school, was authoritatively advised by his school counsellor that his IQ was low and he was seriously dyslectic and therefore stuck with these afflictions for life. Consequently, he felt privileged to have a life-long job as a janitor in a warehouse which supplied cleaning equipment to the navy.

    To help make ends meet, Robert Hastings' mother took in washing. Robert was the second son in this god-fearing family of five children. At school, he excelled academically but when it was his turn to go to college, his father, with a tear in his eye, apologetically stated that which Robert had already suspected, I'm sorry son, I'm so very sorry.

    Robert's brother Leroy was not so academically inclined but was older by three years. At the insistence of their father and at great financial burden, Leroy scraped through college until the final year of an arts degree and then dropped out. He left home ashamed, never to return but the meagre family savings were gone. University was not possible for Robert.

    The recruitment officer looked over Robert's high school results and commented, Son, I'm impressed and I'm glad you came to us because right now the navy needs dentists.

    But . . . I want to study Computer Engineering, Robert protested.

    The experienced recruitment officer saw the desperation in the eyes of his mark and knew that the navy had fewer problems recruiting computer people these days than dentists. He continued as if Robert hadn’t spoken, Your grades are up to the point where you would easily be accepted into dental school so when you eventually re-enter civilian life, son, your dental qualifications and the experience you’ve gained with us will stand you in good stead anywhere in the world, and provide you and your family with a very good living. So, Robert relented and spent the next twenty odd years practicing his involuntary profession. He also paid the college tuitions for two of his younger siblings. 

    Robert Hastings was a tad under six feet tall, wavy, dark brown hair and fair complexion. He had the square build of a light heavyweight boxer, complete with the obligatory broken nose–a legacy from when he’d been a member of the navy’s boxing team. 

    By his mid-forties he’d served on aircraft carriers which provided several thousand mouths upon which to practice. Later he requested a shore posting and was transferred to the National Naval Medical Center, otherwise known as Bethesda Naval Hospital, in Maryland. 

    At Bethesda, he taught and supervised work experience for new dentists while they waited for a ship posting. A couple of years later Robert resigned. Part of his discharge from Uncle Sam was a respectable pension check.

    Along with a navy buddy in similar circumstances, they combined their financial resources to purchase a largish dental practice in the Midwest. Maintaining the navy work ethic, they offered cheaper rates for night visits and soon expanded into a thriving, 24/7/365 dental factory.

    As with the navy, they dispensed with privacy in their practice in favor of an open floor plan which contained eleven chairs on the outside ring of an ellipse shaped configuration and seven chairs on the inside. Ceiling mounted television screens showed continuous DVD’s featuring dental hygiene, intermingled with calming scenes of tropical fish with deer and antelope playing in rainforests. Birdcalls providing the background music. 

    Alternatively, patients could choose to plug headphones into an appropriate jack on an arm-rest of the dentist’s chair and using a remote, select from the large variety of DVD’s and CD’s of whatever genre.

    The air-conditioning replaced the stale air with a slightly higher-than-normal proportion of oxygen, negative ions and the smell of fresh pine-forests but the real difference in their business was the dental equipment. The ultimate in user-friendly chairs and no drill sounds.

    The silent drills were laser cutters which needed very steady hands. So to this end Robert and his partner employed only former navy-trained dentists who could drill, fill and pull teeth on rolling ships in heavy seas.

    All eighteen of their state-of-the-art chairs as well as all of their other dental equipment, had been purchased from a group of manufacturers which was relatively new in the field. One company was called Vlad Advanced Dental Equipment Pty. Ltd.  Robert and his partner had no idea of and cared less about who was behind this company. Maybe things would have turned out differently if they’d taken the time to find out.

    After two financially rewarding terms as president of The Americas Dental Hygienic Awareness Foundation Inc. and then the mandatory retirement, Robert Hastings relished being the numbers man, lobbying for his business partner. Their business had benefited greatly from his presidency. He could see no reason why with his partner soon to become the foundation’s newest president, this should not continue for a further two terms. 

They would win. They were Navy. Life was good.   

Robert Hastings had the chair while the immaculately attired waiters finished refilling the glasses in the room full of guests and their partners. The waiters then unobtrusively retired to the perimeters of the private banquet room in the superlative MGM GRAND.

A toast to my partner who will be the next president of our esteemed federation.

    Shouldn’t we be toasting with champagne? A dentist from New York State, offered.

    This is America—we drink whiskey.

    I’ll drink to that, a delegate replied and raised his hand to signal to a waiter as he noticed that mysteriously, his glass was empty again. 

    Ladies and gentlemen please rise, Robert Hastings continued. 

    The tables were arranged in a U-shaped configuration, with the chairs on the outside only. At the opposite end to the entrance there was a raised platform which was about a foot higher than the floor. This was where Robert was standing. The guests had been using the center area for dancing to the inspired sextet which played tunes from The Great American Song Book. Robert patiently waited as chairs rumbled back and guests rose unsteadily. They were finishing off a scrumptious five course meal and the chatter was loud and affable. It was an affair between Robert, his business partner and their supporters. A good many of the convention attendees were present.

    Robert and his business partner lifted their glasses and all attendees followed suit.

    Victory! Robert loudly asserted. 

    Victory! The attendees echoed and for the first time in their lives many of them tasted Johnnie Walker Blue Label Whisky. They resume their seats.

    Better than a night in the cot with my old man. A female dentist declared as she threw-back a mouthful. Much laughter followed.

    Robert, himself three parts to the wind and feeling like the king of the world, after downing his whiskey, threw his glass on the floor in the center of the U-shaped spacing. It didn’t break but just rolled around. It was however, the signal for guests to follow suit and many of the glasses did smash. The Maître'd winced and motioned to a waiter to bring replacements and another to fetch a broom.   

    This turn of events meant for Robert that the guests would now really let their hair down. With the night rolling on admirably, he quickly and silently withdrew, leaving his partner to continue as host, whom Robert was quietly confident would become their next president.

    A table by the entrance was covered with an amber and white checkered tablecloth, upon which the guests could see the light green cellophane wrapping paper around each magnum bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label Whisky. Each bore the name tag of an attendee to be handed out by the Maître'd and his staff at the end of the evening. Robert reasoned that the next morning when they woke and spied their gifts, they’d remember from whom they were received and vote accordingly. ‘The expense of the night has been well worth it’ he mused.

    Those guys sure know how to buy votes. A delegate commented to his neighbor.

    The American way. His neighbor acknowledged as they again toasted each other with JW Blue and the glasses were again quickly refilled by the attentive waiters.

    Clutching a single bottle of the cherished JW Blue and having made his departure, Robert found himself in the opulent lobby and so ambled towards the key-card entry door leading to the Grand Tower elevators and up to his suite. His face wore the smug smile of self-satisfaction.

They would win. They were Navy. Life was good.

Too much alcohol. He changed course and diverted towards some blackjack tables but from the adjacent Wolfgang Puck Bar and Grille, he caught the high-pitched laughter of a chorus of female larynxes. His head reflexively swivelled to follow the sounds as he stumbled a few steps but somehow managed to stay afloat. 

    After a moment his blood-shot eyes focused over the silver railing of the waist-high, glass partition of Wolfgang’s towards the source of the laughter. It was Carnivora the blonde-haired receptionist, sharing a joke with her two companions.

    What luck! Never before had he seen this attractive trio without their boss that sallow, pasty-faced insufferable jerk who dared challenge for the coveted top job. Great! He said aloud venomously and then a little quieter, great, as he gazed around furtively. ‘Great,’ he mused.

‘I’ll glean some inside dirt on my unworthy opponent from South Central and Bel Air and have fun doing it.’ Super-charged with alcohol he brazened over not even vaguely aware of his five-degree list to port.

    Too eager. Walking too fast to reverse his engine, he tripped on the top step and stumbled with his size 11 boot, inadvertently striking the leg of a chair at an unoccupied table. It skidded into the next table which was where the trio sat.

    It shook their table and almost upset an untouched glass of red liquid which, with inhuman reflexes, Plazmette, the raven headed nurse easily lifted and set down safely once more. Awkwardly, he had announcing his arrival to everyone in Wolfgang’s without uttering a word. 

    The buzz of conversation ceased as Robert, with wavering head, gazed around. He wasn’t too far gone not to realize that everyone was staring, waiting expectantly for him to make a further spectacle of himself. That is, everyone except the young couple around the far corner to the left, clinging to each other as honeymooners do. They didn’t notice anything beyond their own private world. 

    Everyone else however—the guy sitting at the bar drinking a Coors, the lady in the dark blue, stripped business suit who looked like a life assurance agent. She had a lap-top open displaying amortization charts. She appeared to be annoyed by the interruption as she explained a vital point to a prospect who was another well dressed, business-type woman. Adjacently, two middle-aged couples attired in ‘Casual-after-Dark’, sat. 

    A uniformed waitress with pencil poised over an order pad, froze in the act of taking orders from the likewise frozen group of six Japanese tourists sitting at two tables placed together. They were in ‘polite-but-silent’ mode, with heads down yet listening intently.

    They wanna show I’ll give ‘em a show. Robert muttered intentionally loud enough for all to hear.

    Pulling himself stiffly to his full height but still with his five-degree list and the precious bottle of JW cradled safely in the crux of his arm, he drew a deep breath and turned towards the trio and somehow regained partial control over his thickened tongue. He addressed them not too loudly and not too quietly either, but with all the sincerity he could muster under the circumstances.

    Ladies, a long beat of hesitation expired as he gathered his thoughts and moistened his lips, cleared his throat and then plunged in, boots and all. "Ladies, the vista of Las Vegas is best appreciated as the sun sets from the window of my penthouse suite.

However, at this late hour I can't give you the sunset, but Johnnie Walker Blue Label whisky has the taste of the sun as its rays caress the pallet then cascade beyond like mischievous firesticks guaranteeing inner warmth and consummate satisfaction. And Las Vegas after dark needs no illumination other than itself. So please join me in my suite for a nightcap . . . or . . . er . . . whatever." He bowed to the waist from which as if broadsided by a king wave, had great difficulty righting himself.

    ‘He! He! I’ve still got it.’ His broad shoulders shook as he silently chuckled, then raising an eyebrow and swivelling his wobbling head, surreptitiously he thought, observing his extended audience and imagining how cool they must think him to be.   

    The trio of girls stared up at him blankly. He became aware of the deafening silence which seemed to last forever. Shifting nervously from one foot to the other and adjusting his list from port to starboard, his self-confidence quickly evaporated and his smile turned to a look of embarrassment. ‘Maybe I don’t still got it,’ he speculated and looked pleadingly from one to the other of the trio.

    The remaining patrons made like to resume their own conversations, as they strained their ears to pick up every nuance of response as the atmosphere pretended to return to normal. 

    The dental trio, who were dressed for an up-market night on the town, broke the silence by putting their heads together and giggling, then smiling up at him not in surprise but as though he’d arrived on cue. Robert relaxed and his list corrected itself as if some ballast had shifted. Lubricously, they eyed him up and down with murmurs of approval. 

Piranhya, the red headed bookkeeper with the cobalt eyes was sitting closest. She leaned way back in her chair and threw out her chest and drew back her head to one side so as to give him a bird’s eye view of the buttermilk skin of her bulbous cleavage, as she looked deeply and purposefully up into the hairs in his nose which she noted needed blowing.

    Robert nearly dropped his precious bottle of JW as he gawked straight down at the pale and almost translucently delicate blue veins brooking like road maps to paradise. The matching mummeries which were barely contained within the strapless, royal blue, brushed velvet evening gown were easily two hands apiece, he estimated as he gawked down from his vantage point.

    She spoke through thin, rippling lips, tilting inwards like lavender colored rose-petals. Oh, we've seen Las Vegas at sunset from much higher than your penthouse suite but we’ll come with you for a drink and we'll drink not whiskey but the wine of life to revive the dead. Again, the nurses put their heads together and giggled among themselves, sharing a private joke.

    Sexy, Robert heard himself mutter as once again he caught his breath and his heavy head nodded excessively. To him her voice sounded as though she was huskily breathing filtered atoms of stardust through spun-gold, silk sheets.

    With an ‘I told you so’ look, his head wobbled around the room as he glanced at the other patrons. The honeymooners were still unaware of the outside world. The guy at the bar couldn’t stop his arm from shaking as he held his glass of Coors near his open mouth. 

    The Japanese tourists were still positioned with their heads down and from somewhere within their group, a cluster of cameras flashed. They hadn’t quite understood the words but got the gist and were hard put to disguise their disapproval of such public displays but it was a tale to be told of their Las Vegas adventure, upon their return home. 

    The two middle-aged couples were frowning and shaking their heads at the trio in stern disapproval. The two businesswomen were looking enviously, appearing on the verge of asking if they could join in and the waitress was breathing heavily while rhythmically stroking her pencil up and down and pressing it firmly into the order-pad, until the tip broke.

    Robert had not a clue as to what Piranhya meant by her comments and could care less. He was a little unnerved however, at the speed by which the trio suddenly arose and surrounded him to the bemused stares of one and all, as they took him by the elbows and ushered him at a fast pace out of Wolfgang’s and back through the foyer towards the Grand Tower entrance walkway.

    While ascending in the lift, the trio leaned in heavily against him. He stared transfixedly at the rising numbers on the floor indicator and mused, ‘today has been a great success and now?’

    He was sure that he would get the skinny on their boss his adversary and maybe a little something extra on the side. Maybe a little three something’s on the side. His eyes glazed as his lecherous mind instructed his endocrine system to send blood rushing into his main erogenous zone. 

They would win. They were Navy. Life was good.

The lift door opened at the top floor and his companions issued him forth with equal urgency into the foyer. Plazmette impatiently snatched the keycard from him and speedily inserted it into the slot and the penthouse door opened. 

    They marched through the entry and into the lounge room. He tried to veer towards the kitchen and a refrigerator, to get some frosted glasses and ice with which to cool the JW Blue. Two fingers in each glass, he anticipated.

    With his hand still connected to the neck of the bottle he was pleasantly startled as from behind, his fingers were covered by two smaller, slender, delicate hands and the sensation of a matching pair of firm breasts pressing into his shoulder blades was almost too exquisite to bear.

    She moved around in front of him. It was nurse Plazmette with her wavy, long raven hair covering her bare shoulders above a full-length rust colored evening dress. Her figure was decidedly fuller than that of the average super model. She expertly flicked her bouncy hair to one side which caused it to cover the right side of her face and one green eye. 

    Robert buckled at the knees as the effect upon him was devastating. She reminded him of the former screen goddess Veronica Lake, although Ms Lake was mostly blonde. Now with her elegant, dark tan, patent leather stiletto shoes with three inch heels, Plazmette stood six feet two inches tall. As with her two companions, she looked down to eyeball and crowd in on her prey. 

    Robert could not maintain eye contact and was surprised by the strength of her fingers as she easily pealed his hands off the bottle and held it to her bosom. This was a first—nobody had previously successfully separated him from the award-winning whiskey. 

    All three sirens successfully stopped his knees from buckling further and kept him afloat as they guided him gently but firmly away from the kitchen, through the lounge room and onto the thick, arctic-white, shag pile carpet on the floor of the master bedroom. He heard one of them kick off her shoes and the whiskey bottle thump but not break (he wasn’t too drunk to notice that) as it landed heavily on the carpet.

    A different pair of gentle hands partially turned down the gold colored, satin bedspread revealing silver, silk sheets. Another set of feminine hands impelled him across and down onto the king-sized bed while yet another unbuckled his belt.

    But—a belt of whiskey? First?

    Hush! The thin, rippling, lavender rose-petal lips of Piranhya, artfully kissed his open left eye. Robert shuddered and tried to talk.

    Your reflexes. I didn’t even have time to blink. He marvelled through blurred vision but the words were lost as the rose-petal lips rippled down to his lower lip, suckled and bit viciously, drawing blood and tearing the soft flesh. He flinched unaware of the extent of the damage. 

    The lavender lips sucked on the blood then continued to work sensually, tantalizingly, unhurriedly around and about his mouth until the flat, pointed tongue forced itself inside his mouth and explored, then re-emerged again to sample more blood from his torn lip, then to make a lazy, sticky, burgundy trail across his cheek and up and into his left ear. He shivered with delight. His shirt was torn away by sharp fingernails as another pair of lips belonging to which of the remaining two he knew and cared not, worked tenderly on his abdomen. 

Please don’t stop.

From somewhere across the room, a dull, masculine cackle began. He moved his head to one side to locate its source, thus exposing and stretching the sensitive skin on his neck.

    Large canine teeth suddenly appeared from within the open mouth of Piranhya. They struck like a cobra and bit deeply and prolongedly into his jugular. 

    Pain. Beautiful pain. But only briefly at the moment of penetration. He winced the way his patients do each working day as he administered Lignocaine. The dull cackle from across the room strengthened and turned to laughter, now soft velvet, now changing pitch to the ringing sound of fine, delicate Czech crystal wine glasses. He tried to identify the moment of change in pitch. 

Please don’t stop.

The lips at his abdomen purposefully traced lower and became needle sharp teeth, repeatedly nipping, causing scrapes and scratches which brought blood to the surface. Another piercing penetration. More beautiful pain. More intense pleasure.

Please don't stop.

The laughter. Once soft velvet, once delicate, changed to sweet wine and then sour vinegar, now ringing metallically like a hollow-headed bullet ricocheting inside his skull. 

    With his head still to one side Robert located the source of the laughter. On the gold curtain rod of the open emerald window drapes, something appeared to be hanging upside. He blinked, attempting to focus. It was still there—the creature who had produced the laughter. Grotesque, hanging upside down, large and white with wings folded around itself, eyes on fire and a twitching prune-like nose, mouth salivating, watching, approving, directing even? ‘Was it a gargoyle? A bird? A bat?’

    From the dental assistants—more penetration—more pain—more pleasure. The three P's, he mused. Penetration, pain, pleasure. He chuckled at his own joke.

Please don't stop.

As Piranhya moved away, blood oozed from his neck. The room was becoming dimmer but life was becoming brighter. He now understood the meaning of the earlier comment about the wine of life to rejuvenate the dead.

Please don't stop.

Now, from much higher up than the penthouse suite, Robert could see Las Vegas. It was indeed beautiful. Not beautiful like a New York night but the beauty of a clear desert evening studded with twinkling electric stars far below as well as far above. 

    All senses were magnified way beyond the times when he’d sampled hallucinogenic drugs. Looking down from way beyond the top of the MGM GRAND without the shackles of a body, he was rejuvenated. ‘A real Natural High,’ he mused.

They would win. They were Navy. Life was . . .

What are you giggling about? The bloody, rose-petal lips asked the lecherous Plazmette whose own bloody face looked up from somewhere south of his abdomen as she spat out a mess of flesh in a red wine sauce, across the bed and onto the arctic-white carpet.

    Alcohol!

    What?

    His system is drowning in it. This guy’s blood alcohol level must be through the roof!

    Well he certainly is by now. Piranhya affirmed while observing the shrinking shell that he’d once occupied. He died happy, she justified matter-of-factly.

    Who cares! Plazmette shrugged.

    With blood dribbling from their mouths and down the front of their evening wear, both females were joined by Carnivora in a cacophonic chorus of cruel, steely laughter as the sickening sweet smell of sticky blood filled the room. The creature hanging upside down added baritone laughter to the symphony.

    Carnivora, who had so far been standing aside watching, decided it was her necrophilic turn. Wearing her so far unmarked silk apricot off-the-shoulder evening gown, she peeled back her lips to reveal razor-sharp, elongated eyeteeth. Sliding onto the king-sized bed, her pointed fingernails tore away what little was left of Robert’s shirt as she wantonly lowered her head down to within grazing distance of his chest and sniffed. Her face was covered by her long blonde hair which commenced to act like a blotter as it soaked up the liquid from Robert’s leaking hull. 

    A sudden upward jerk of her head revealed for an instant, insane eyes and as she opened her mouth to its full capacity, her eyeteeth looked as though they could chomp through 16-gauge hardened steel as they extended in size to those of a saber tooth tiger. With her neck muscles stretched as tight as those of a Liverpool Nutter about to deliver one of his famous kisses, she struck Robert’s chest ripping away bone and spitting out muscle so as gain full access to the chest cavity. An agonizing scream erupted from Robert’s throat as a spray of blood and foamy bubbles, belched forth from both his mouth and neck wound.

    He’s back! Why would he come back? Puzzled Plazmette. 

    Maybe he thinks life is worth dying for, ventured Piranhya.

    Or death is worth living for, answered Plazmette.

    Both girls laughed long and loud at their impromptu jokes as they settled comfortably on the end of the bed to watch their evil sister enjoy her hedonistic excesses.

    Carnivora was nearing the top of her game as in a frenzy she bit in quick, violent, impatient staccato attacks and thus engorged herself, sometimes coming up for air and shaking her head from side to side. Her strong jaws continued to rip flesh, muscle, sinews, breastbone and ribs as it made mincemeat out of what was left of his chest and as the hole steadily enlarged, she drank deeply.

    Withdrawing her head, she fervently spat a piece of lung across the gold, partially turned-down bedspread. It left a bloody trail as it slithered off the bed and onto the carpet which in places, was becoming seriously discolored. I prefer spareribs, she offered.

    Sitting on her haunches at Robert’s side, she violently shook her head, shoulders and body as a wolf might to remove snow or water off its coat. This caused burgundy colored streams to catapult off her hair leaving welt-like impressions over her two accomplices as well as giving the bed a red spotted polka-dot motif. Her apricot gown was being dyed a deep red. Even the walls were not spared. 

    Robert’s body gave an involuntary jerk as blood pumped out of his pulmonary artery. The body thrashed its arms and legs weakly and opened and closed its eyes and its voice tried to squeak an objection. For Robert, the pleasure had long gone–now there was only the pain.

    He’s still in residence, some tough navy home boy, marvelled Piranhya.

    Overcome with bloodlust and determined to make the most of it, Carnivora straddled his body with her thighs holding it tightly around the waist. She was transfixed by the spurting human oil from the hole she’d drilled. It's a gusher! she exclaimed.

    Not wanting to lose a precious drop she took another deep breath and threw her mouth over the spurt and lowered her head as one might over a water fountain. Her head almost disappeared into the cavity as she drank feverishly while her hips and thighs gripped tightly and began to gyrate quicker and quicker and more urgently.

As claret spread from the wound, her hair could hardly be recognized as blonde as it enveloped the edges of the ever-enlarging chest hole. 

    Her two voyeur companions embraced each other unable to look away as they sat with satanic pleasure at the foot of that giant-sized bed. Blood had dried on their teeth, chins and on the tops of their bodices, as the exposed swells of their flubulating bosoms rose and fell in time to their own gyrating thighs and hips in mesmeric rhythm to that of Carnivora. They kissed. 

    Carnivora came up yet again panting for air and shook her head in a wide, violent arc as it flung even more claret and gore around the room. The top of her torso looked as if it was painted with red ochre. She caught sight of her blood-soaked image reflecting in the window and grinning an evil grin, stated, Blondes have more fun 

    Taking another big breath, Carnivora’s head once more disappeared into the chest cavity as she continued her feeding frenzy.

    Rising from within Robert’s chest once more, she threw her head up towards the ceiling and a low-pitched gurgle came from deep within her throat as she gargled blood which bubbled freely out of her up-lifted mouth and rivuleted from her nose and even trickled out through her ears.

    She swallowed and adjusted her body position as her thighs clamped vice hard around Robert’s waist and her hips gyrated ever more frantically as she leaned her shoulders backwards resting her arms and hands behind her as her sinewy fingers urgently clutched the silk bedspread and threw her long, blood-soaked hair back high over her head as she gazed in total concentration at the ceiling as if baying to the moon with her mouth open wide. A river of blood ran from her hair down her back and onto the bedspread. Her legs tightened in a final prolonged scissor squeeze around the abused body as she squealed in climactic ecstasy as more blood ejaculated in seemingly unending bouts from out of her open mouth.

Plazmette and Piranhya were riding high with her, while gripping tightly onto each other. Carnivora slowed her hips to regain equilibrium as she looked around protectively as if to defend her prize but there wasn’t much left to defend. 

Plazmette and Piranhya also ceased moaning and slowed their sensual motions. They kissed, let go of each other, swooned and fell off the end of the bed. Plazmette landed in some bloody muck which stuck to the back of her hair which she pulled off.

The muck looked to be a part of the right ventricle. It too squashed and oozed more red wine onto the hairy carpet. In patches the floor covering was standing up on end as if spiked and teased by a professional hairdresser and dyed with a stiff, red starch.

Piranhya recovered from her swoon and her voice was weak and pinched as she sat up on the floor and barely managed to squeak, Finished?

    I'll just lick the bowl, replied Carnivora with an alcoholic slur as she now took a slow deep breath and this time not so frantically, her head disappeared up to her shoulders into the well of Robert’s chest chasm which not long ago had been the home of his beating heart.

    A long moment later she again emerged panting once more. With an evil grin she licked her lips and her long tongue splashing the remaining few drops of burgundy over the soggy pillowslip. She wiped her hand across her dripping mouth and gave a satisfied smirk to her companions.

Plazmette picked herself up from the floor and plucked a piece of respiratory membrane from the matted hair around her right ear. She studied it as if trying to recognize exactly where in the human anatomy it belonged. Shrugging, she threw it at the tinted glass window. It stuck momentarily where it hit, then slid slowly down the glass leaving a sticky red trail.  She looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time and noticed the condition of the walls, floor, bed, fellow occupants and even the ceiling and of course the cadaver. She gave a nod of approval and commented, Nice touch—we should charge for redecorating.

‘Finished now?’ Piranhya had regained her voice and again addressed Carnivora.

Carnivora drawled, Effllluent schuffficiency, as she slowly gazed around and gave a satisfied burp which caused a spongy piece of lung to pop out of her mouth. She watched it slide between her bosoms and disappear down the cleavage of her strapless décolleté, previously apricot colored, evening dress. 

    A li'le alcohol in the soup, I think! She slurred as her head wobbled.

    43% alcohol, stated Plazmette. 

    At least, confirmed Piranhya.

    More like 86 Proof, asserted Carnivora, still with her head wobbling while holding up three fingers of one hand and two of the other. She examined them and noticing the red stickiness, proceeded to slowly lick them one at a time.

    Not like this. Robert did not want to go out like this. With almost no blood left in the torn and shattered body, the prime-mover could not have been physical. To the surprise of all, the human form struggled to sit up, brushed Carnivora aside and flung itself at the window.

    Somehow it smashed through the thick glass which was located above the yellow lion’s head electric sign, with its impressive mane displayed to one side of the main entrance driveway. The impetus of the effort caused the body to clear the outer wall, palm trees and sidewalk, and land half over the front rail of the open top deck of the double-decker tourist bus. It was moving slowly along Tropicana Avenue and stopped at the red traffic lights, ready to turn right into Las Vegas Boulevard while giving its occupants an excellent close-up view and photo opportunity of the MGM Lion.

    After a few shrieks following the initial surprise, the passengers recovered quickly and with cameras and cell phones, furiously took photos of their unexpected and bloodied but bloodless companion who had recently joined their tour from the sky.

We had to pay! Ask him to produce his ticket, a lady passenger demanded as the bus commenced to turn right with the green lights and continue on its merry way, the driver still unaware of the drama taking place upstairs above him. This time Robert had definitely left the building. 

    Back inside the penthouse suite on the floor by the door of the master bedroom, on one of the few spots not affected by the bloodbath, lay the intact bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label whisky.

    Meanwhile, an angry screech emanating from the gold curtain rod demanded the trio’s attention. They flinched and looked as the creature which had been hanging upside down and had thus far remained a spectator, flew out through the broken window and into the night.

    Can you fly–with all that blood alcohol in you? Plazmette asked Carnivora.

    Well I certainly can't drive! More raucous laughter as three similar but slightly smaller white creatures flew after their leader.

    I'm as high as a kite, squealed Piranhya, as she executed a wobbly loop-the-loop while enjoying the cool desert breeze against her outstretched cellophane wings. Not to be out-done, Plazmette retaliated, And I'm as blind as a bat! As she dipped a wing and sailed out of sight around the corner of the majestic building.

    Dr. Vladislaus Drake stood his full six feet five inches tall, attired in his usual formal wear and top hat. With his toes over the edge he looked down from the roof directly above the yellow neon, lion’s head and for a fleeting moment, his feeling of misery lifted. He felt almost alive. ‘Those fortunate beings,’ he mused as he looked down upon the sidewalk at the gathering crowd far below who, in the electric glare were gazing upwards in disbelief at that which they thought they had just heard and seen—the silhouettes of a cluster of joyous, screeching, white winged creatures at play.   

    The double decker bus was now a quarter mile further along on its journey. Nobody had bothered to mention the upstairs hitchhiker to the driver.

    Only in Vegas. A voice from amongst the gathering crowd, a tallish, lean, fortyish sage, mumbled to no one in particular. He had the face of a grayhound but was trying hard to be Brando in ‘Guys & Dolls’ as he nervously shuffled a bunch of monkeys ($500 gambling chips) between the fingers of his left hand. 

    He was decked out in a black, pinstriped suit, black shirt with a white tie and white pocket handkerchief and wearing a 1950’s style, dark gray fedora with two decorative white horizontal stripes running through the black hat-band. On his feet he wore black and white, patent leather shoes.

    Come back to the tables Lefty! A male voice called from somewhere distant behind him.

    Lookout below. A less affected middle-aged man called out. He was wearing a crumpled, brown colored, cheap rayon suit. Five will get you ten they start shooting craps.His voice carried up the side of the building to Plazmette who now stood next to Dr. Drake. She still looked an unholy mess in her tattered, rust colored evening dress. The comment was a challenge which she couldn't let go unanswered and so decided that the would-be Brando should be her target. 

    He heard the rushing air, splitting around the winged missile with its mutilated looking nose and hateful eyes as it catapulted directly towards his face. It was still some 30 yards diagonally above when in the glow of the neon sign he spotted the white missile closing fast.

    With reflexes borne out of years of escaping the street justice of unpaid debts to east coast loan sharks and bookies, he made the safety of the opening elevator door which lead to the pedestrian overpass crossing to the Tropicana Resort where Wayne Newton was performing, but not before dropping his valuable chips and losing his fedora and hair-piece onto the sidewalk, thus revealing a highly polished bald, pink head. 

    The creature pulled up sharply and retreated out of the electric glare. People scrambled for and fought viciously over the monkeys. In the ensuing scuffle however, the crumpled brown rayon suit was pushed onto the roadway and into the path of a single decker tourist bus, coming out of the wide driveway of the MGM GRAND. It was moving a little too fast onto Tropicana Avenue.

    The silver haired, 64 year old, khaki uniformed bus driver was half turned towards his passengers with his foot resting on the accelerator as he matter-of-factly gave the same running commentary into a microphone attached to a flexible tube, that he’d been giving four times a day for the last 47 years. He’d been in this job since many of the casinos were single story buildings and he thought he’d seen it all several times over. He still enjoyed his own commentary in the city he loved. In Las Vegas you gotta expect the unexpected.

    In response to the urgent eyes of his passengers, he looked forward and touched the brake pedal at the same time. Seeing the brown suit sprawled on the road in front, he instantly stood on the pedal and swerved.

    After months of perfect weather, the earlier light rain had unsettled the layer of oil and rubber on the roadway. The old bus slew sideways and glancing off the SUV in the curb side lane which sheared off the fire hydrant, breaking loose the plug and thus water indiscriminately gushed across the wide roadway.

    The bus continued its sideway journey and came to rest over the top of brown suit. It swivelled in time and so didn’t actually make contact. Bewilderedly, brown suit crawled out from underneath and remained sitting on the road. The bus’s motor cut-out and the elderly driver flooded the carburettor while trying to re-start the ancient engine.

It now blocked all four northbound lanes as the traffic that followed came to a sliding, glancing, bumping stop. 

    A police car headed south on the opposite side of the two foot six inch high concrete road divider in the center lane. The rookie cop at the wheel activated the flea lights (flashing roof lights) and stopped. Following too closely in his mother’s Ferrari, an inexperienced young driver was straining to see over the road divider, trying to watch the antics of the bus instead of the road ahead. It was still accelerating when it ploughed into the rear of the police car. 

    The taxi following had no chance of stopping on the slippery road which was now flooding on both sides as a result of the broken fire hydrant. The taxi concertinaed the Ferrari. Vehicles behind swerved every which-way to the tune of squealing tires, crunching metal and breaking glass. Horns began to blow, voices began to profane and dogs began to bark.

    A young couple wheeling a pram, came down in the elevator from the overpass and stood back under the massive billboard advertising the current world class entertainment at the MGM GRAND.

    Call in this mess and then do what you can at the intersection. The traffic sergeant ordered the rookie driving as he alighted from the passenger side of the patrol car and walked to the rear. He took the appropriate details from the Ferrari driver and the taxi behind it. The rookie hit the radio’s transmit button and called in the incident. 

    The urgent mix of extraneous sounds combined to wake the drunk who was hitherto sleeping peacefully in the bushes behind the sheltered seat for passengers waiting for airport minibuses, as they departed after offloading visitors at the grand foyer of the MGM resort. 

    The drunk struggled to sit up on the bus-seat. From under his worn and filthy overcoat, he produced a bottle wrapped in brown paper. He pulled the stopper, took a swig and was content to sit there and be entertained by the goings on.

    After Plazmette’s nosedive at the would-be Brando, Piranhya and Carnivora were not ones to be left out of the action. 

    Brown rayon suit still sat on the road gazing around and his eyes focused on the bus from under which he’d just crawled unscathed. He slowly became aware of being tended by his long-suffering, blue-rinse wife.

    Are you all right dear? There was real concern in her voice.

    Horror registered on his face as he stared up into the semi-darkness above her. He opened his mouth to call out when Piranhya laid a sloppy, multi-colored bat-crap on his half open mouth, nose and chin. 

    Closely following, Carnivora laid a similar crap on the nest of the recently teased hairdo of Mrs. Blue Rinse who screamed while trying to brush it off and only succeeded in making it worse and bringing her hair undone. Forgetting about her husband she charged towards the main entrance of the MGM Grand, instinctively looking for a lady’s comfort room. Both creatures happily retreated to the resort’s rooftop.

    Still sitting on the wet road which was fast becoming a river, Rayon suit sat thinking for a moment then moved his mouth to motivate his gastric juices as a food gourmet might when sampling an exotic canapé. Theatrically, he raised his right index forefinger and daintily sampled the titbits consigned by Piranhya to his nose, and then smelt his finger. Tastes like booze–smells like blood, he announced to anyone who might be listening.

    The pseudo Brando had circled around and was now watching from the safety in the shadows of the top entrance to the New York New York, casino. Resigned to the fact that his chips were gone, his mission now was to recover his hair piece and hat. 

    Furtive glances at the chaos, confirmed that all appeared well for him to venture forth. He hastened down the escalator and across the stationary traffic to where in the gutter just around the corner on Las Vegas Boulevard, his prized possessions had blown. Miraculously, they had missed being dosed by the wayward water-spray.

    He savagely kicked the stray dog that was sniffing his toupee. It yelped and ran off into the darkness. Glancing around, he recovered his grubby hairpiece and stuffed it in his right side jacket pocket. His hat was still some 10 yards further along as it scudded to the tune of the swirling breeze.

    He gave chase, twice catching up only to have a swirl of wind whisk it beyond his grasp. The third time he was lucky and snatched the brim and held it to his heart as if he’d just rescued a loved-one.

    From the MGM’s roof top, Plazmette had been patiently watching and waiting. She seized the moment and stealthily circled several times before making her final approach, this time slower and quieter. The Brando heard the beat of the flapping wings too late as she hovered only feet above him and took aim. 

    He tried to react but a paralysing screech held him in a catatonic grip and the safety of the nearest doorway was too far away. There was no way he could use his sharp reflexes to get him out of this one. Approaching from directly above, the twin bombs both found their marks. One on his beloved hat still cradled to his chest and the other on his pink, polished bald head. 

Plazmette changed her screech to a victory pitch while retreating back up to where her companions waited. The would-be Brando cried out in dismay as the world witnessed him loose his much-practiced cool as his persona disintegrated.

    Tourist cameras caught the moment as the tall, lean forty something gambler with the face of a grayhound, jumped up and down on his fedora and stomped it into pulp on the sidewalk. He then sat in the gutter and wept. 

    After a long beat, he re-gained his composure and looked around to see if he was being observed. From his pocket, he extracted his hair-piece and placed it on his bald head on top of the soiled part and then picked up his now shapeless hat and placed over the hair-piece. He drew himself up and with shoulders back and head held high, he felt in his jacket pocket and produced some more monkeys which he again shuffled between the fingers of his left hand as he marched towards the Las Vegas Boulevard entrance of the MGM Grand.

    Inside the single decker bus which was still blocking the road, the retired potato farmer from Idaho and his bride of forty three years, got up from the floor where they’d been thrown and brushed themselves off. They sat back in their seats and looked at each other and then at the chaos both inside and outside the bus. The wife spoke, The driver sure was right Paw, out here a body should expect the unexpected.

    The rookie police officer stood in the middle of the intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard and Tropicana Avenue. Ineffectually, he put his hands up the in manner he’d been taught to control traffic, in the academy. His shoulders slumped as he looked in all four directions at the sea of stationary vehicles and their impatient occupants. His sergeant looked across at him with what the rookie imagined, was a critical eye.

    ‘What should I do now? My first time out,’ he thought to himself. ‘I must look a fool in the eyes of my sergeant. I wish now I’d taken mom’s advice and followed in the footsteps of my dad and brothers and gone into the fire department.’ 

    The rookie’s boss who that night was showing his charge the ropes, and who sported the mandatory sergeant’s gut hanging over his belt, struggled over the concrete road divider and while taking it all in, strode past the bus to the sidewalk. He determined to arrest someone so as to make himself look good in the eyes of the rookie.

    All right, who's responsible? He bellowed to no one in particular as he stood by the wide exit driveway of the MGM and looked around for someone to target. 

    Several people ducked their heads and scurried off. The drunk from the bus seat staggered forward nursing his bottle and somehow managing to maintain his footing. He successfully negotiated the milling pedestrians.

    I sshh-aw the whole f’in’ thin’ ossiffer. He leaned in towards the police sergeant who recoiled from the smell.   

    Well? Hands on hips, the sergeant assumed the Duke’s (John Wayne’s) stance.

    The drunk pulled himself up to his full height which was several inches shorter than the sergeant and with total conviction, squared up to the menacing police officer and bravely announced, Bats!

    Bats to you too stumble-bum. Get outta here or spend the night in the drunk tank.

    Still looking down from the rooftop, Dracula and missed nothing. Neither did he miss the plaintiff cry of a baby in a pram. It belonged to the young couple who were still standing under the MGM’s large entertainment advertisement sign. The young mother stuck a bottle in its mouth and offered words of comfort. Then with one hand rocking the pram, she took her husband's arm with her free hand and contentedly joined him in surveying the confusion of the impatient traffic, the incongruous fusion of lights, car horns, over-excited voices, a dog chasing a cat and a dog chasing the dog that was chasing the cat and other hostile noises and profanities.

    Two ambulances were trying to negotiate a passage through in case they were needed.

A driver who’d been waiting patiently with his car engine idling, noticed steam coming from under the hood. He quickly switched off, pulled the hood catch, jumped out and opened it. Too late, the sickening smell told him he’d cooked the engine solid.

    The drunk would not be put off, Look! he yelled pointing skywards. The gathering crowd looked and reluctantly, so did the police sergeant. The drunk took a long swig from his bottle spilling most of it down his stained coat front as he pointed. It was still there.

    I see it! Somebody cried out.

    What, where? Others called as all heads peered skywards.

    Up there! The drunk asserted, a bat!

    This time, others saw it. Rising vertically up the side of the MGM resort building, it seemed to be lifting a rag doll by its neck and trailing downwards, a white shawl fluttered in the breeze. 

    It's not a bat it’s the wrong color and it’s too big—it’s an albatross! Announced the onlooker who was standing on the sidewalk behind the drunk. The astonished drunk turned and stared closely into his companion’s face and in an incredulous voice ending in a high pitch, quizzed in wonderment. Have you been drinkin’? Anyonecanseeitzza-hic-bat! He slapped the side of his baggy trousers and he took another swig from the bottle.

    Fragile cries drifted down.

    They sure make those dolls realistic these days, announced another onlooker as the image slowly gained height.

    Two additional police cars escorted yet another ambulance. With lights flashing and using the sidewalk as the roadway, the lead car forced a passage through the mayhem. A television news van with a camera clamped