The Cowpoke They Called Wayne

He was the cowpoke they called Wayne
who some folks considered a pain,
others asked, where's his brain?
His doc said, he's insane.
But as far as living failures went,
he was considered one of the best
and he decided he'd be a-aheadin' west.

So he saddled up his saddlebag
and climbed up on his horse
took a look at his compass
and decided to set course.

Westward ho! he went,
banjo somewhat bent,
he soon stumbled on a mountain pass,
he surveyed the scene while scratching his ass.

Look! There's a tunnel there!
he said to his horse, Tiddlesquare.
Get along little Tiddle!
He played his fiddle
as his horse took a piddle.

Soon they arrived at the tunnel dark,
he found his horse a place to park
and then Wayne entered the tunnel dark
Should have brought a match
to add some spark
and a dash of light
this place's a fright
said Wayne in the midst of this dark tunnel,
so dark, he had to pee using a funnel.

And then Wayne gave a shout of delight
for he suddenly saw a big bright light,
there was light at the end of this tunnel,
Wayne jumped for joy
before he did stumble,
his life flashed
like a clog down the drain.
For the light at the end of the tunnel
was the light from the east bound train.



-The Cowpoke They Called Wayne
A cowboy poem
written by Dracul Van Helsing
Monday, September 28th, 2009.

Toasty Marsh O' Mallow

Renfield R. Renfield the shapeshifting hamster chief of security for Set Enterprises, London, England was sitting in an office in a film studio in North Hollywood.

Across from him was sitting a very red nosed gentleman.

"So," Renfield began, "you're Toasty Marsh O' Mallow the famous Irish arsonist?".

"That's right," O' Mallow beamed at him through a glass of Guinness which seeing as how it was a dark ale, Renfield could not see the Irishman smiling at him, "I just got released from Dublin Prison last week."

"I understand you've set fire to a large number of farm fields in your time," Renfield said as he carefully examined the Irish arsonist's resume.

"That's right, when I was younger my psychiatrist told me I suffered from agoraphobia which is fear of agriculture," the arsonist explained, "so as a result of those therapy sessions, I started setting fire to farm fields."

"Actually," Amadeus Emanon spoke up as he entered the office, "agoraphobia is Greek for fear of the marketplace."

"I do hate shopping malls," O' Mallow admitted, "wow those psychoanalysis sessions were a total waste of time. My psychiatrist didn't even know Greek."

"Most of them don't know much else either," Renfield was getting impatient, "but despite your misdiagnosis, you have had experience setting fire to farmers' fields."

"That I most definitely have," the Irishman hiccoughed.

"Good," Renfield handed the man a photo, "I want you to set fire to this man's face."

"Wow," O' Mallow took a good look at the photograph, "Do I drink too much? Or does this man's face look like a farmer's field?".

"The answer is yes to both of your questions," Renfield replied.

"Who is he?" the Irish arsonist asked.

"He's Doctor Johann Georg Faust," Renfield answered.

"Wow, the guy who was supposed to have sold his soul to the Devil back in the early 16th Century," O' Mallow whistled.

"That's right," Renfield nodded.

"Gee, my mother-in-law promised me immortality if I didn't marry her daughter," O' Mallow shook his head, "I guess she was right. I wonder which one of my mother-in-law's daughters Faust turned down in order to accept her offer."

"I have no idea," Renfield started drumming his fingers on the desk.

"Why does his face look like a farmer's field?" O' Mallow asked.

"An early 16th century experiment in genetically modified foods gone horribly wrong," was Renfield's answer.

"Why do you want me to set fire to him?" O' Mallow asked.

"He was the fellow who developed the H1N1 swine flu virus which devastated the Alberta hog industry and lead to a huge financial set-back for my boss," Renfield explained, "my boss has gone from being a billionaire to being only a mere multi-millionaire in the last year. Setting fire to his face will hopefully kill him and it will be payback for this rat."

"Okay," O' Mallow accepted the job.

"This is Faust's last known whereabouts," Renfield handed him a card, "you'll have to track him down from there."

"All right," O' Mallow picked up the card and left.

To be continued.

Eyes Without A Face

Dr. Morgana Jones the Baltimore Maryland psychiatrist was getting nowhere with the vampiress called Martini.

Martini was a vampiress with amnesia and had been sent to Dr. Jones for treatment by Dracul Van Helsing a couple of months earlier.

But no sign of any memory. Hypnosis. Regression. Nothing seemed to work.

Now Martini was asleep on the couch.

It appeared that this latest session was going to waste as well.

Something had so traumatized the beautiful vampiress that she had lost all memory of her previous life.

Suddenly Martini woke up screaming.

"Martini, what is it?" Doctor Jones asked.

"I was singing the role of Marguerite in Charles Gounod's opera Faust when I saw someone staring at me from a second floor box seat," Martini sobbed, "he had eyes but no face. His face was made of wheat, barley, crabgrass, dandelions, Scotch thistle, purple dock and ragweed."



* * *

Renfield R. Renfield, Chief of Security and Intelligence for Set Enterprises (the conglomerate owned by the multi-millionaire and formerly multibillionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set) was hoping to track down the one responsible for creating the H1N1 virus. That virus had devastated the hog industry in the Canadian province of Alberta and was one of many financial setbacks his formerly billionaire boss had to endure this past year.

Of course the paranoid UN and WHO were chattering about a possible pandemic that could kill millions of people.

But that didn't concern Renfield. People were only people. And money WAS money.

Renfield now had an informer from the murky world of intelligence and espionage.

An informer called Brooklyn Costello.

"The man you're after... if you can call him a man," Brooklyn coughed, "is a scientist who does contract work for some of America's largest arms manufacturers. Some people claim that he's the legendary Doctor Johann Georg Faust the famous Renaissance alchemist. astrologer and magician. Born in 1480, and supposedly sold his soul to the Devil in 1512 in exchange for 28 years of service from the demon Mephistopheles. He supposedly died in 1540 in an alchemical experiment gone horribly wrong. His body was found mutilated. But some reports say he never died and the Devil will collect his soul on Judgement Day."

"Well," Renfield replied, "if Richard Dawkins is right and there is no God, then presumably there's no Devil and Faust has nothing to be worried about."

"Would you like a picture of him?" Brooklyn asked.

"That would be nice," Renfield replied.

"Personally, if it was an experiment gone horribly wrong," Costello handed Renfield the photo, "I think he was trying to create the world's first genetically modified foods rather than turning lead into gold."

The photo was of a man with eyes but no face. The face was made up of wheat, barley, crabgrass, dandelions, Scotch thistle, purple dock and ragweed.


To be continued.

Approaching Summer's End

Approaching Summer's End


It seems another summer has come and gone
won't be long until an autumn dawn
the weather was wild where I lived
violent storms with their havoc to give
trees and buildings hit the ground
winds blew with furious sound
and when no storm
it wasn't warm
but cold and dry
farmers sigh
no bumper crop this year
adding to economic fear
A summer I'd like to forget
but I realize
it's still not over yet.

-written by Dracul Van Helsing
on Tuesday, August 18th, 2009

Trailer Park Attack

Peter Whitstable of Interpol looked at the scene.

The entire trailer park had been destroyed.

Normally an attack on a trailer park in the U.S. midwest wouldn't have brought in an Interpol agent let alone Peter Whitstable (whose Fox Mulder-like specialty at Interpol was investigating cases of the Paranormal and Supernatural).

But this attack had been different.

For eyewitnesses said that the trailer park had been destroyed by a walking skeleton of a T-Rex.

"Do you suppose maybe the people in this trailer park supported health care reform?" a deputy sheriff asked, "and this Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton was an outraged far-right Republican?".

"Maybe," Whitstable nodded.

He looked in the direction of a pretty young woman in her mid-20s. She was wearing a yellow mini dress and was kneeling at the site of one of the destroyed trailers. She had placed a bouquet of flowers on the Welcome mat in front of what had been the entrance door of one of the trailers.

"You knew the people who lived in this trailer?" Whitstable asked the woman as he walked over to her.

"I knew Matt," the girl wept, "he was a musician. Both a composer and a songwriter. He was a great budding young talent and now he's gone. He had just completed the finishing touches on a rock opera he had written."

"I'm sorry," Whitstable said. He fell silent not knowing what else to say. Then he spoke, "What was the subject of the rock opera he had written?".

"It was a new take on the legend of Doctor Faustus," the girl answered.

Meanwhile in the office of the CEO of one of America's largest arms manufacturers, the CEO was reflecting on his meeting a few days before with that mysterious enigmatic individual that was just known to him as the Doctor.

Who he thought was the Doctor? And what was he a doctor of?

In the background, the CEO's CD player played Franz Liszt's Mephisto Waltz No. 1.

To be continued.

The Doctor Is In

He was the CEO of a large U.S. arms manufacturer- one of the Pentagon's largest suppliers.

As such, he expected people to wait on him- and to wait for him.

He was to be approached as if he were a god- which he was- as far as the U.S. government was concerned.

But with the Doctor, it was different.

He had to beg to visit the Doctor's office.

The Doctor supplied his company with the most dazzling innovations- innovations that seemed to be right out of Buck Rogers in The 25th Century.

Occasionally the Doctor's assistant would call- to let him know that the Doctor would be supplying him with another one of his inventions.

And the CEO would rush to the Doctor's office like a young high school graduate paying a visit to his first bordello.

On other occasions, the CEO would hear rumours about one of the Doctor's inventions. Inventions it seemed that the Doctor was not willing to share yet with the world.

And the CEO would go- non-existent hat in hand (since CEOs never wore hats anymore) down to the Doctor's office and beg on his hands and knees (like a client in the presence of a leather skirted dominatrix) to see the Doctor.

Today the Doctor would see him even though he didn't have an appointment (oh, if only the health care system were this easy!).

"Yes?" the Doctor sat in the darkened corner of an already dark room smoking a pipe.

"Doctor," the CEO began, "umm... we've heard rumours that you have invented a new type of laser beam which has the ability to shrink things in size and then restore them to their original size later."

"Really?" the Doctor blew smoke rings with his pipe, "and do you believe these rumours?".

"Well, if they're true, Doctor," the CEO answered, "we'd wish you'd sell this new technology to us. The U.S. Air Force's drone attack planes we could shrink in size, go into difficult spots of Afghanistan and Pakistan, bomb the Hell out of the Taliban, return to base and then go back to the original size."

"Bomb the Hell out of the Taliban," the Doctor nodded and smoked thoughtfully on his pipe, "you know Dante had the Prophet Mohammed confined to the fires of Hell in his work The Inferno which I suppose explains why you don't hear too many public readings of Dante these days."

"I have an M.B.A. from Harvard, Doctor, so I know nothing whatsoever about the Classics," the CEO sounded exasperated, "do you have this technology or not?".

"Your appointment is now over," the Doctor gazed through a small telescope through a small crack in the office curtain at the time on the sundial in the garden outside his office.

"Oh, bugger all," the CEO swore.

"I believe there's a gay health spa and sauna room over on the next block should you wish to resort to that," the Doctor answered.

The CEO left harrumphing.

The Doctor went over to a chest of drawers and opened the bottom left drawer where a small skeleton of a live spirit possessed T-Rex was growling.

"Now," said the Doctor, "if we were to restore you to your original size this evening, which place should we get you to attack?".

To be continued.

Ghost Of A T-Rex

South African witch doctor Sterling Makabo was at the world-famous Royal Tyrrell Museum of Paleontology in Drumheller, Alberta, Canada.

He was to demonstrate his powers for a particular client.

He had several clients including North Korean dictator Kim Jong-il. Kim was wanting Sterling to raise an army of zombies for him.

Makabo had demonstrated his powers for Kim by bringing the spirit of Jack the Ripper back from the dead.

He also had a sports promoter for a client.

For this promoter, Makabo had brought back a 19th century boxer called Gordon "The Black" Donnelly from the dead.

Since the 4th of July weekend, this zombie boxer had not lost a single fight.

Of course he wouldn't not being able to feel any mortal pain.

And now the highly talented witch doctor had another client.

A client who wished to remain anonymous for the time being.

And this time the client chose the test.

And just after midnight here at the Royal Tyrrell Museum of Paleontology in Drumheller, the client approached Makabo.

Makabo nodded as the man approached.

"I want the skeleton of this T-Rex brought back to life," the man commanded.

Makabo suddenly felt anxiety within himself but didn't show it.

Summoning back animal spirits was actually more difficult than summoning back human.

Makabo closed his eyes and started chanting.

A few miles southeast of the Royal Tyrrell, those strangle figures on the Red Deer River Badlands hills known as the hoodoos turned into giant beings.

Soon they started pounding the rocks like drums.

And those drums of Hell at Drumheller were able to raise the dead.

Even the ghost of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

And the wraith-spirit possessed skeleton of T-Rex made a t-bone steak out of the museum security guard.

To be continued.