"I'm not having much fun interrogating Anders Behring Breivik," Renfield said over the phone from Oslo, Norway.
"Why not?" Amadeus asked.
"Because the guy's willing to talk," Renfield complained, "how can I torture a suspect when he's willing to talk? It's much more fun when they refuse to talk so then I can torture them. I'm having to end up asking the guy questions from Trivia Night down at our old George and Dragon Pub that we used to go to and when he doesn't know the answers or answers incorrectly, then I get the chance to torture him."
"I see," Amadeus commented.
"And another thing, I thought this guy was supposed to be a fundamentalist Christian," Renfield complained, "and yet he says he believes in Darwinian evolution. I didn't think fundamentalist Christians believed in Darwinian evolution. He says in his long-winded 1,500 page manifesto "... it is essential that science takes an undisputed precedence over biblical teachings." Furthermore the guy's a Freemason. I thought Lucifer was the Great Architect of the Universe in Freemasonic teachings. Fundamentalist Christians are worshipping Lucifer now? He also writes on page 1307 of his long-winded 1,500 page manifesto that "If you have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ and God, then you are a religious Christian. Myself and many more like me do not necessarily have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ and God." Is that the thinking of fundamentalist Christians nowadays?".
"Well maybe since the advent of Rick Warren and the Church has now become Purpose Driven rather than Christ driven, that's the feeling of fundamentalist Christians these days," Amadeus answered.
To be continued.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Renfield's Joy Then Despair
"You look awfully happy again," Amadeus remarked to Renfield.
"That's because Norwegian police just hired me to do a freelance interrogation of the main suspect in yesterday's terror attack in Oslo and at some kids' summer camp," Renfield smiled, "this interrogation will offer me the chance to practice my Norwegian."
"But you don't speak Norwegian," Amadeus pointed out.
"That's why it will give me the chance to practice Norwegian," Renfield laughed.
Suddenly the phone rang.
Renfield picked it up.
Moments later, Renfield burst into tears.
"What's the matter?" Amadeus asked.
"Singer Amy Winehouse is dead at age 27," Renfield sobbed uncontrollably.
"Wow, I never thought I'd see you cry at the death of a fellow human being," Amadeus was flabbergasted at this show of compassion on Renfield's part.
"Normally I wouldn't," Renfield said between sobs and tears, "but just yesterday I placed a 2500 pound sterling bet with my bookie predicting that the age at which Amy Winehouse would die would be 28."
To be continued.
"That's because Norwegian police just hired me to do a freelance interrogation of the main suspect in yesterday's terror attack in Oslo and at some kids' summer camp," Renfield smiled, "this interrogation will offer me the chance to practice my Norwegian."
"But you don't speak Norwegian," Amadeus pointed out.
"That's why it will give me the chance to practice Norwegian," Renfield laughed.
Suddenly the phone rang.
Renfield picked it up.
Moments later, Renfield burst into tears.
"What's the matter?" Amadeus asked.
"Singer Amy Winehouse is dead at age 27," Renfield sobbed uncontrollably.
"Wow, I never thought I'd see you cry at the death of a fellow human being," Amadeus was flabbergasted at this show of compassion on Renfield's part.
"Normally I wouldn't," Renfield said between sobs and tears, "but just yesterday I placed a 2500 pound sterling bet with my bookie predicting that the age at which Amy Winehouse would die would be 28."
To be continued.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Renfield and Rebecca Black's Moment
"I noticed Rebecca Black has just released a new song and video called My Moment," Amadeus Emanon remarked as he spilled hot buttered popcorn all over his freshly washed shirt.
"That was the wonderful thing about being in a coma for two months," Renfield said through mouth loads of tuna fish sandwich, "I missed all the fuss and kefuffle over Rebecca Black's song Friday."
"I happen to like Rebecca Black's song Friday," Amadeus looked at the calendar and noticed that it was a Tuesday.
"Well, if you don't mind me saying so, Amadeus, I've always thought you a bit weird," Renfield put some bananas and chocolate sauce on top of his tuna fish sandwich.
"I noticed Canadian vampire hunter Dracul Van Helsing on his relationship status at Facebook says In a complicated relationship with Rebecca Black and Robinson Crusoe's manservant Friday," Amadeus then helped himself to his plate of fish n' chips.
"Really?" Renfield was shocked, "But Rebecca Black is only 13 years old. I didn't know Van Helsing liked them that young and wouldn't a manservant be a reference to a guy? I didn't know Van Helsing swung both ways."
"I believe his relationship status is meant to be a joke," Amadeus explained, "since Rebecca Black had a hit song called Friday and as for Robinson Crusoe's manservant Friday, he's a fictional character in a fictional novel called Robinson Crusoe that was written by British writer Daniel Defoe back in 1719."
"Well not everyone has the advantage of a classical education such as yourself," Renfield snorted between mouthfuls of tuna fish and banana and chocolate sauce sandwiches.
"Well, I've never had a formal classical education," Amadeus replied, "I just read a great deal of the books in the Boss' library. Maybe if you read the books in there instead of all the porno girlie magazines, you'd be classically educated too."
"I don't look at porno photos of women in magazines," Renfield protested, "I look at them on the Net."
"So Van Helsing doesn't really pursue 13-year-old girls nor is he bisexual," Amadeus put some more malt vinegar on his fish, "in fact he's 100% excessively heterosexual."
"How can someone be excessively heterosexual?" Renfield put his sandwich down and stared at Amadeus quizzically.
"Well those were the words that South Korean vampire huntress Hyung Grace Kwan used of him in a conversation I had with her once," Amadeus bit into the batter of fresh Atlantic cod.
"Really?" Renfield bit his lip, "Damn! I knew I should have videotaped what Dracul and Hyung were doing in that hotel room in Cannes that time we had a room next to them. It would have made for one hot tape."
To be continued.
"That was the wonderful thing about being in a coma for two months," Renfield said through mouth loads of tuna fish sandwich, "I missed all the fuss and kefuffle over Rebecca Black's song Friday."
"I happen to like Rebecca Black's song Friday," Amadeus looked at the calendar and noticed that it was a Tuesday.
"Well, if you don't mind me saying so, Amadeus, I've always thought you a bit weird," Renfield put some bananas and chocolate sauce on top of his tuna fish sandwich.
"I noticed Canadian vampire hunter Dracul Van Helsing on his relationship status at Facebook says In a complicated relationship with Rebecca Black and Robinson Crusoe's manservant Friday," Amadeus then helped himself to his plate of fish n' chips.
"Really?" Renfield was shocked, "But Rebecca Black is only 13 years old. I didn't know Van Helsing liked them that young and wouldn't a manservant be a reference to a guy? I didn't know Van Helsing swung both ways."
"I believe his relationship status is meant to be a joke," Amadeus explained, "since Rebecca Black had a hit song called Friday and as for Robinson Crusoe's manservant Friday, he's a fictional character in a fictional novel called Robinson Crusoe that was written by British writer Daniel Defoe back in 1719."
"Well not everyone has the advantage of a classical education such as yourself," Renfield snorted between mouthfuls of tuna fish and banana and chocolate sauce sandwiches.
"Well, I've never had a formal classical education," Amadeus replied, "I just read a great deal of the books in the Boss' library. Maybe if you read the books in there instead of all the porno girlie magazines, you'd be classically educated too."
"I don't look at porno photos of women in magazines," Renfield protested, "I look at them on the Net."
"So Van Helsing doesn't really pursue 13-year-old girls nor is he bisexual," Amadeus put some more malt vinegar on his fish, "in fact he's 100% excessively heterosexual."
"How can someone be excessively heterosexual?" Renfield put his sandwich down and stared at Amadeus quizzically.
"Well those were the words that South Korean vampire huntress Hyung Grace Kwan used of him in a conversation I had with her once," Amadeus bit into the batter of fresh Atlantic cod.
"Really?" Renfield bit his lip, "Damn! I knew I should have videotaped what Dracul and Hyung were doing in that hotel room in Cannes that time we had a room next to them. It would have made for one hot tape."
To be continued.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Citizen Renfield
"So what are you looking pleased as punch about?" Amadeus Emanon asked Renfield R. Renfield as the latter sat at his computer grinning away like a Cheshire cat.
"I've been thinking," Renfield couldn't keep the grin off his face, "that if this News of the World phone hacking scandal continues to deepen, the Boss might be able to pick up the remains of Rupert Murdoch's news empire at bargain basement prices and he'll naturally name me the head of this new news empire and I shall use it to control the world."
"There's a dreadful thought," Amadeus saw such a future and knew it wouldn't work for humanity.
"So hopefully the Murdoch empire will go down, down, down," said Renfield, "and we shall pick up the pieces."
"But you've hacked into other people's phones and computers on numerous occasions yourself, haven't you?" Amadeus asked.
"Yes, but there's a difference between me and Rupert Murdoch's reporters in that," Renfield answered.
"What's that?" Amadeus asked.
"I've never been caught," Renfield stuck out his chest proudly.
To be continued.
"I've been thinking," Renfield couldn't keep the grin off his face, "that if this News of the World phone hacking scandal continues to deepen, the Boss might be able to pick up the remains of Rupert Murdoch's news empire at bargain basement prices and he'll naturally name me the head of this new news empire and I shall use it to control the world."
"There's a dreadful thought," Amadeus saw such a future and knew it wouldn't work for humanity.
"So hopefully the Murdoch empire will go down, down, down," said Renfield, "and we shall pick up the pieces."
"But you've hacked into other people's phones and computers on numerous occasions yourself, haven't you?" Amadeus asked.
"Yes, but there's a difference between me and Rupert Murdoch's reporters in that," Renfield answered.
"What's that?" Amadeus asked.
"I've never been caught," Renfield stuck out his chest proudly.
To be continued.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Michelangelo The Psychic Lobster And A Radio Transmission From The Future
Michelangelo the Psychic Lobster was picking up yet another radio transmission from the future on his antenna.
This had happened to him a few times in the past- he'd pick up radio transmissions from the future.
And now it was happening to him in the present- picking up a radio transmission from the future.
He wondered how a philosopher of the subject of space and time would think of the terms he was currently using.
Anyhow he decided to tune in on this particular radio transmission from the future.
It seemed to be a radio news broadcast from July 2021- 10 years from now this month.
He heard the announcer's voice, "Today New York State became the first state in the Union to pass a bill legalizing inter-species marriage. The bill was passed by the state legislature after a controversial debate and signed into law by New York Gov. Yet An Other Flaky Cuomo. The first to take the plunge were a woman and her wild salmon love interest. Next to get hitched were a man and his horse..."
Michelangelo decided to tune off the transmission.
He felt perspiration and sweat on his brow despite the fact he seemed to be in a tank of fairly cool water.
He then noticed one of the female lab technicians in the Set Enterprises Lab looking at him intently with her eyes and licking her lips.
That expression in her eyes... was it one of hunger? Or one of lust?
As the female lab technician raised her lab coat and her skirt exposing her upper thighs, Michelangelo backed away from the scene to the other side of the tank.
Michelangelo was glad that he was not living in the year 2021.
The way that female human looked at him just then...
The poor fellow reflected that he just might find himself in the boiling hot waters of the bonds of unholy matrimony in the year 2021...
To be continued.
This had happened to him a few times in the past- he'd pick up radio transmissions from the future.
And now it was happening to him in the present- picking up a radio transmission from the future.
He wondered how a philosopher of the subject of space and time would think of the terms he was currently using.
Anyhow he decided to tune in on this particular radio transmission from the future.
It seemed to be a radio news broadcast from July 2021- 10 years from now this month.
He heard the announcer's voice, "Today New York State became the first state in the Union to pass a bill legalizing inter-species marriage. The bill was passed by the state legislature after a controversial debate and signed into law by New York Gov. Yet An Other Flaky Cuomo. The first to take the plunge were a woman and her wild salmon love interest. Next to get hitched were a man and his horse..."
Michelangelo decided to tune off the transmission.
He felt perspiration and sweat on his brow despite the fact he seemed to be in a tank of fairly cool water.
He then noticed one of the female lab technicians in the Set Enterprises Lab looking at him intently with her eyes and licking her lips.
That expression in her eyes... was it one of hunger? Or one of lust?
As the female lab technician raised her lab coat and her skirt exposing her upper thighs, Michelangelo backed away from the scene to the other side of the tank.
Michelangelo was glad that he was not living in the year 2021.
The way that female human looked at him just then...
The poor fellow reflected that he just might find himself in the boiling hot waters of the bonds of unholy matrimony in the year 2021...
To be continued.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
The Scientist and Jack O' Hare
"Why shouldn't pigs have wings?" the man with glasses in the white lab coat asked Jack O' Hare.
The wild hare bunny rabbit raised his big ears when he heard the question and calmly continued to eat his carrot.
"We can make the sea boiling hot with nuclear explosions," the scientist rubbed his hands together enthusiastically, "so why not give pigs wings? My colleagues and I are working on such wonders with genetic engineering. Perhaps you'd like wings, my big earred furry friend."
Jack looked up at the sky.
He saw a crow and a magpie fighting.
Not all was so friendly in the skies despite the vast beautiful blue and the luminescent fluffy white clouds.
No, he was quite content with who God had made him to be- a bunny rabbit.
When Jack finished his carrot, he turned his back on the scientist in the lab coat and hopped away.
"But I can make you a god if you'd just give me the chance," the scientist shouted after Jack O' Hare, "for that's the next stage in the cosmic evolution of all us species."
The scientist's name wasn't Frankenstein but it may just as well have been.
The wild hare bunny rabbit raised his big ears when he heard the question and calmly continued to eat his carrot.
"We can make the sea boiling hot with nuclear explosions," the scientist rubbed his hands together enthusiastically, "so why not give pigs wings? My colleagues and I are working on such wonders with genetic engineering. Perhaps you'd like wings, my big earred furry friend."
Jack looked up at the sky.
He saw a crow and a magpie fighting.
Not all was so friendly in the skies despite the vast beautiful blue and the luminescent fluffy white clouds.
No, he was quite content with who God had made him to be- a bunny rabbit.
When Jack finished his carrot, he turned his back on the scientist in the lab coat and hopped away.
"But I can make you a god if you'd just give me the chance," the scientist shouted after Jack O' Hare, "for that's the next stage in the cosmic evolution of all us species."
The scientist's name wasn't Frankenstein but it may just as well have been.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Cyborg Goes Beserk Over Cupcakes
Renfield R. Renfield picked up the phone when it rang.
"Colossal London mansion of billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set," Renfield answered, "This is Renfield R. Renfield Chief of Security and Intelligence Gathering For Set Enterprises speaking."
"Is Mr. Set in?" an exasperated voice asked.
"I'm sorry," Renfield replied, "seeing as how it is still daylight, Mr. Set is currently napping in his sarcophagus."
"Are you the one in charge then?" the exasperated voice asked.
"I am," Renfield answered.
"Well, this is the Blue Bell Bakery calling," said the exasperated voice, "just to let you know that Mr. Set's cyborg Sophia is going beserk with the cupcakes in this place. She's eating them all and the more she eats the more she goes on a sugar high and the crazier she becomes."
"I'll be right there," Renfield put the phone down, "hm. Eating that many cupcakes is surely the sign of an addiction. And an addiction is a weakness in my opinion." He finished eating his 99th tuna fish sandwich of the morning and ran to the door.
Amadeus Emanon followed him- eating his 50th bag of potato chips for the day.
* * *
Later in the Blue Bell Bakery, the short skirted redhead Cyborg Sophia was dancing on top of the counter in her spiked stiletto heels and singing, "Friday. Friday. Gotta get down on Friday."
"But it's Monday," Amadeus pointed at the calendar.
"Just another manic Monday," Sophia kicked up her heels and did a juggling routine with the few remaining cupcakes in the Blue Bell Bakery.
Renfield fired a tranquilizer dart at the Cyborg.
She collapsed on the counter.
"Who's going to pay for the damages?" the Blue Bell Bakery owner demanded to know.
Renfield fired a tranquilizer dart at him as well.
"Okay," Renfield threw the short skirted Cyborg over his shoulder, "let's get out of here."
To be continued.
Sexy Cyborg Sophia: Please don't feed her cupcakes.
"Colossal London mansion of billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set," Renfield answered, "This is Renfield R. Renfield Chief of Security and Intelligence Gathering For Set Enterprises speaking."
"Is Mr. Set in?" an exasperated voice asked.
"I'm sorry," Renfield replied, "seeing as how it is still daylight, Mr. Set is currently napping in his sarcophagus."
"Are you the one in charge then?" the exasperated voice asked.
"I am," Renfield answered.
"Well, this is the Blue Bell Bakery calling," said the exasperated voice, "just to let you know that Mr. Set's cyborg Sophia is going beserk with the cupcakes in this place. She's eating them all and the more she eats the more she goes on a sugar high and the crazier she becomes."
"I'll be right there," Renfield put the phone down, "hm. Eating that many cupcakes is surely the sign of an addiction. And an addiction is a weakness in my opinion." He finished eating his 99th tuna fish sandwich of the morning and ran to the door.
Amadeus Emanon followed him- eating his 50th bag of potato chips for the day.
* * *
Later in the Blue Bell Bakery, the short skirted redhead Cyborg Sophia was dancing on top of the counter in her spiked stiletto heels and singing, "Friday. Friday. Gotta get down on Friday."
"But it's Monday," Amadeus pointed at the calendar.
"Just another manic Monday," Sophia kicked up her heels and did a juggling routine with the few remaining cupcakes in the Blue Bell Bakery.
Renfield fired a tranquilizer dart at the Cyborg.
She collapsed on the counter.
"Who's going to pay for the damages?" the Blue Bell Bakery owner demanded to know.
Renfield fired a tranquilizer dart at him as well.
"Okay," Renfield threw the short skirted Cyborg over his shoulder, "let's get out of here."
To be continued.
Sexy Cyborg Sophia: Please don't feed her cupcakes.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Just Another Day and Night In The Wild West?
Sheriff Cecil Cartwell proudly looked over the graves of the Boot Hill Cemetery.
The Boot Hill Cemetery wasn't where they planted regular folk like the townspeople might say.
Regular folk were planted in the town cemetery.
No, Boot Hill was reserved for outlaw gunslingers, ne'er do wells, the tough guy bandits of the Wild West.
And Sheriff Cecil Cartwell had shot and killed them all.
All 32 of them.
That now lay dead and buried in the cemetery.
At Boot Hill.
Given the boot by Sheriff Cecil Cartwell.
Sheriff Cartwell got on top of his Pinto horse Kiss My Grass and rode on back into town.
He stopped off at The Wild Horse Saloon and had himself a whisky.
Then he went back to the sheriff's office and slept the rest of the day.
At 6 P.M. he went to Kate's Dining Hall and had something to eat.
When he left Kate's Dining Hall at 7 P.M. a stage coach rode into town.
A well-dressed black man got out of the coach.
Sheriff Cartwell wondered if he was one of the freed slaves from the Civil War that had been over some 11 years now and was coming to make his home in the American West.
But Sheriff Cartwell heard the man speaking perfect French.
He reckoned not many of the slaves in the American South could speak perfect French.
Sheriff Cartwell walked on down the street.
A defiant looking 16-year-old blonde girl in a long blue dress blocked the street in front of him.
"One of these nights, you're going to get yours for shooting my pa dead," the girl spat at him.
It was Daisy Durkins- the daughter of Dukehart Durkins one of the West's most notorious outlaws- and one of the 32 who now lay dead and buried in Boot Hill Cemetery- shot and killed by yours truly- Sheriff Cecil Cartwell.
Sheriff Cartwell grabbed the bratty blonde, threw her across his knee and spanked her. Fifty good whacks across her backside with his firm powerful hands.
He left her in the dusty street and continued home.
At midnight, the deputy came pounding on his door.
"Sheriff Cartwell, Sheriff Cartwell," the deputy screamed, "there's some sort of trouble going on up at Boot Hill Cemetery".
Sheriff Cartwell ran to the town livery stable, got on top of his horse Kiss My Grass and rode off in the direction of Boot Hill.
He noticed a group of people standing around.
"Disperse in the name of the law," Sheriff Cartwell commanded.
The people turned.
They were all men.
Dead men.
Corpses.
With vacant eyes and soulless expressions, the corpses raised their arms and headed in Cartwell's direction.
Watching the spectacle was the well-dressed black man who spoke perfect French.
Standing alongside him was the beautiful blue eyed blonde haired Daisy Durkins in her pretty turquoise blue dress still rubbing her sore and well-spanked bottom from the spanking she had received at Sheriff Cartwell's hands earlier this evening.
The corpses pulled Sheriff Cartwell off his horse Kiss My Grass and then tore him to pieces eating what was left of him.
All that was left of Sheriff Cartwell was a single ear.
Daisy Durkins picked up the ear and buried it in a grave.
Grave #33 of Boot Hill.
The black man who spoke perfect French handed her his card and addressed her in perfect English, "Should you need me again, my lady."
The card read, BARON SAMEDI Voodoo Practitioner, Port-au-Prince, Haiti.
The Boot Hill Cemetery wasn't where they planted regular folk like the townspeople might say.
Regular folk were planted in the town cemetery.
No, Boot Hill was reserved for outlaw gunslingers, ne'er do wells, the tough guy bandits of the Wild West.
And Sheriff Cecil Cartwell had shot and killed them all.
All 32 of them.
That now lay dead and buried in the cemetery.
At Boot Hill.
Given the boot by Sheriff Cecil Cartwell.
Sheriff Cartwell got on top of his Pinto horse Kiss My Grass and rode on back into town.
He stopped off at The Wild Horse Saloon and had himself a whisky.
Then he went back to the sheriff's office and slept the rest of the day.
At 6 P.M. he went to Kate's Dining Hall and had something to eat.
When he left Kate's Dining Hall at 7 P.M. a stage coach rode into town.
A well-dressed black man got out of the coach.
Sheriff Cartwell wondered if he was one of the freed slaves from the Civil War that had been over some 11 years now and was coming to make his home in the American West.
But Sheriff Cartwell heard the man speaking perfect French.
He reckoned not many of the slaves in the American South could speak perfect French.
Sheriff Cartwell walked on down the street.
A defiant looking 16-year-old blonde girl in a long blue dress blocked the street in front of him.
"One of these nights, you're going to get yours for shooting my pa dead," the girl spat at him.
It was Daisy Durkins- the daughter of Dukehart Durkins one of the West's most notorious outlaws- and one of the 32 who now lay dead and buried in Boot Hill Cemetery- shot and killed by yours truly- Sheriff Cecil Cartwell.
Sheriff Cartwell grabbed the bratty blonde, threw her across his knee and spanked her. Fifty good whacks across her backside with his firm powerful hands.
He left her in the dusty street and continued home.
At midnight, the deputy came pounding on his door.
"Sheriff Cartwell, Sheriff Cartwell," the deputy screamed, "there's some sort of trouble going on up at Boot Hill Cemetery".
Sheriff Cartwell ran to the town livery stable, got on top of his horse Kiss My Grass and rode off in the direction of Boot Hill.
He noticed a group of people standing around.
"Disperse in the name of the law," Sheriff Cartwell commanded.
The people turned.
They were all men.
Dead men.
Corpses.
With vacant eyes and soulless expressions, the corpses raised their arms and headed in Cartwell's direction.
Watching the spectacle was the well-dressed black man who spoke perfect French.
Standing alongside him was the beautiful blue eyed blonde haired Daisy Durkins in her pretty turquoise blue dress still rubbing her sore and well-spanked bottom from the spanking she had received at Sheriff Cartwell's hands earlier this evening.
The corpses pulled Sheriff Cartwell off his horse Kiss My Grass and then tore him to pieces eating what was left of him.
All that was left of Sheriff Cartwell was a single ear.
Daisy Durkins picked up the ear and buried it in a grave.
Grave #33 of Boot Hill.
The black man who spoke perfect French handed her his card and addressed her in perfect English, "Should you need me again, my lady."
The card read, BARON SAMEDI Voodoo Practitioner, Port-au-Prince, Haiti.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Lord of The Flies
Set Enterprises' chief scientist Dr. Cadbury Rocher was sitting on the outside patio of The Black Knight Pub enjoying the warm sunny weather.
As he drank his glass of dark ale, the mood was somewhat tempered by the amount of flies buzzing around.
They kept trying to land in his beer.
Obviously must have a taste for dark ale.
Finally one fly ticked him off so much, he managed to quickly hit it with his hand and kill it.
The fly although dead had not been thoroughly squished however.
Dr. Rocher decided to dissect the fly using his pen knife.
As he did so, something caught his attention.
The fly was indeed real as far as he could tell.
It wasn't a synthetic fly or a robotic fly and yet the fly seemed to have a tiny minature camera attached to its eye.
Curious, he grabbed a fly swatter and started killing flies all over the patio.
He then brought the flies over to his table and started dissecting them.
More cameras attached to their eyes.
Dr. Rocher started text messaging his colleagues all over the world with his findings.
Some of them started text messaging him back saying they had killed flies and then dissected them and they too were discovering tiny minature cameras behind the left eyes of the flies.
What was up with this? Dr. Rocher wondered to himself.
In a distant spacecraft on the edge of the Milky Way galaxy, the entity inside the ship spoke to its compatriots.
"It looks like we've been discovered," said the dark reptilian like entity.
"What should we do?" asked one of his subordinates.
"This ship while far from earth spatially speaking is not that far from the interdimensional gateway portal where we can reach Earth in one-sextillionth of a second," said the entity, "so it's too late for this abomination called humanity to do anything about us anyways."
And the reptilian entity whose name was Beelzebub- the lord of the flies- smiled.
To be continued.
As he drank his glass of dark ale, the mood was somewhat tempered by the amount of flies buzzing around.
They kept trying to land in his beer.
Obviously must have a taste for dark ale.
Finally one fly ticked him off so much, he managed to quickly hit it with his hand and kill it.
The fly although dead had not been thoroughly squished however.
Dr. Rocher decided to dissect the fly using his pen knife.
As he did so, something caught his attention.
The fly was indeed real as far as he could tell.
It wasn't a synthetic fly or a robotic fly and yet the fly seemed to have a tiny minature camera attached to its eye.
Curious, he grabbed a fly swatter and started killing flies all over the patio.
He then brought the flies over to his table and started dissecting them.
More cameras attached to their eyes.
Dr. Rocher started text messaging his colleagues all over the world with his findings.
Some of them started text messaging him back saying they had killed flies and then dissected them and they too were discovering tiny minature cameras behind the left eyes of the flies.
What was up with this? Dr. Rocher wondered to himself.
In a distant spacecraft on the edge of the Milky Way galaxy, the entity inside the ship spoke to its compatriots.
"It looks like we've been discovered," said the dark reptilian like entity.
"What should we do?" asked one of his subordinates.
"This ship while far from earth spatially speaking is not that far from the interdimensional gateway portal where we can reach Earth in one-sextillionth of a second," said the entity, "so it's too late for this abomination called humanity to do anything about us anyways."
And the reptilian entity whose name was Beelzebub- the lord of the flies- smiled.
To be continued.
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