Renfield Sings A Song About A Serial Killer

Renfield R. Renfield would be performing a solo act tonight at the Soho Solo Club in the Soho district of London.

He'd be quite literally going solo.

Usually his sidekick Amadeus Emanon would accompany him to these performances.

But Amadeus was in the dog house.

Quite literally in the dog house.

He had been living, sleeping and eating in the dog house in the back yard of the billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set's estate as punishment for having the wrong packages delivered to the wrong addresses as a result of his negligence and carelessness.

Lost was a $250 million genetically created hybrid creature who was involved in a lorry accident in northern England as a result of being sent by truck to the wrong address.

The creature was expected by authorities as having its body stolen after the accident.

Coincidentally a series of brutal murders had been happening in northern England shortly after the lorry accident.

So Renfield had written a song about this new serial killer and would be performing it tonight for the first time at the Soho Solo Club.

So Renfield went out and threw his evening dog bone to Amadeus in the dog house in the back yard and then proceeded to walk to the Soho Solo Club.

The door man at the Soho Solo Club was made to look like Star Wars character Han Solo.

Renfield sat at his usual table and made time with all the sexy waitresses.

When it came Renfield's time to perform, the M.C. called his name.

Renfield crawled out from under the table covered in used condoms while all the sexy waitresses put their clothes back on and went back to work.

Renfield approached the microphone with his replica Jimi Hendrix guitar and spoke into the microphone, "This is an original piece I just wrote the past week. I call it Song About A Serial Killer."

Renfield sang:

Way up north they say there's a serial killer on the loose

possibly as a child he was traumatized by Mother Goose

in the old days if caught, he'd be getting the noose

handed him by a judge on the bench

who'd be reeking of whisky stench

but not anymore

today it's the therapist's door

where psychiatrists reek in the big bucks

while sex therapists give him fucks

all at taxpayers' expense

in this world lacking sense

no one will remember one of his victims' name

it's serial killers that enter the Media Hall of Fame.

"That brings tears to my eyes," remarked Magog Rhys Petley blowing his nose as he sat in the audience.

To be continued.