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The Chizzel House of Horror Presents: Good Old Norman Part 1





In tribute to the great HAMMER HOUSE OF HORRORS







Copyright by Dave Lassut 2017


Second Edition


Published by Wonky Books at Shakespir



This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Shakespir.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.




EPUB ISBN: 978-1-910103-50-0

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-910103-51-7


Hello wellbeing curious person; how are you on this bright and sunny day? Or dark and starry night if you’re relaxing after a hard day’s graft.


Wellbeing means, being in a harmonious relationship with your body’s mind on a regular basis; but the real you i.e. the being who that sentence was aimed at, knows that. But really, it’s the other way around which we should be addressing. So, wellbeing means, being in a harmonious ‘mind’ relationship with your inner being. Your body (notice the ‘your’) is the bio-spacesuit and the inner being is the astronaut i.e. the actual you; a vibrational being; the non-physical part. Parts physical and non-physical, all together then, working not harmoniously as in ‘normal’, we then have mind, body, spirit; that mostly troublesome triad as far as most humans are concerned.

The trouble started when our creator (a legend) said, ‘what about this?’, and then presented the idea to us that when we come here for a ‘life’, just to make the experience more interesting, why don’t we forget who we are. We can then mess around with a brain that is like a laptop, meaning … programmable with any old rubbish (chaos causing old rubbish). It was okay for the boss, who would just sit around all day, observing, and giving us exactly what we think we want to make us feel good, without questioning our motives … that’s an evil trick if ever there was one. Never the less, it was voted in 100% unanimously. And look what’s happened over the millennia.

But, it’s hard to feel good consistently, have you tried it? Normal people (the ‘not too badders’) look, without realising it, for the bad and find it and then complain about not finding much good at all. That’s because they are seeing what they have attracted with their vibration and, as a result, refreshing that vibration (they are expert negative vibration plate spinners); they aren’t ‘allowing’ what they desire; which is a higher vibration.


Good old Norman Cousins was, by all accounts, a happy go lucky chap with a view-and-laugh attitude to life’s spicy bits i.e. a loony. Somehow, he developed a disease which knocked him off his feet. You see, he was out having a walk one day when the cold he had developed was ready to make itself known. He stopped in front of some old houses, struggled to get out his hanky and sneezed. Unfortunately, he had stopped directly in front of a demolition ball; which knocked him off his feet. Actually, the disease was pretty harsh and he ended up in bed. Lemsips didn’t do the job, but Norman did a bit of figuring out. He figured that if negativity could damage a body, then surely positivity would have the opposite effect. As laughter is part of the positivity toolbox. If he had of been Robin Cousins, the figuring would have been skating.

What he was saying in wellbeing terms was, ‘wouldn’t the mind, joining with the inner being, bring healing to the ‘negatized’ body?’. So, he had a movie projector set up in his ward and he watched comedy films, laughed and ‘positive energized his body via his mind; he got himself on the road to recovery by refusing to be negative.


I thought about this and wondered if there was enough material around to provide so much laughter; the best medicine, so it says. Laughter though can get dangerous. Sometimes when I’m writing a story, the images which come to my mind and the silent voice (inner being), combine to have me rolling on the floor. I wrote one particular story about the town I used to live in, which got itself in a little bother. I laughed so much i.e. gut laughter which made it hard for me to breathe; I actually ended up tearing my stomach muscles. These days, I get a little frightened about letting it go when I feel the inner laughter button click. We therefore try and provide amusement, which we call Enceefulness (N= Norman Cee = Cousins), a fun companion to mindfulness maybe. The two wonky horror stories which follow this will hopefully bring a few smiles to you; anything higher than that is a bonus.

For the greatest wellbeing ‘teaching’ on this planet, embrace Abraham Hicks.



Or, listen to magical Abraham speak through magical Esther on You Tube.


Ok, go read the stories and wallow in a bit of Enceefulness.


Have a nice day



When I was twelve, my hobby, apart from dating rich older women who paid all the bills, was getting up late and therefore being late for school on Monday mornings. This was because my mother allowed me to stay up late watching the brilliant Hammer House of Horrors on a Sunday evening. I would lie on the mat in front of the fire, crucifix on a chain next to me, watching my favourites, Dracula and Frankenstein. I eventually failed all of my exams, but not because I was Hammer tired, just academically thick.







The Chizzel House is a tribute house to the great Hammer House of Horrors.

Formed in 2013 by Wonky eBooks, the Chizzel House has one writer, Frankie Lassut, who, luckily, has several personalities all of which write horror for the Chizzel House. For example, we have Stephen Cling and James Turbot. These two personalities tend to re-write the works of Stephen King and James Herbert, in an effort to try and ‘tutor by example’, Mr King, to help him improve his style and become more successful. Obviously, it is too late for the late Mr Herbert. He is now lying in his grave, his skull smiling after all the flesh was removed by the rats which tunnelled down for the feast after getting a tip off. You see! In the Chizzel House we just can’t help oozing out horror, like evil green slime with shark jawed maggots and leeches in it, from a tap … for the toddler’s bath.

Shark jawed maggots? You ask.

Well, his dad was a genetic scientist.



Thunder and lightning by the Wonky eBooks special effects department

NB: You have to imagine them.

Friendly advice: Play along and don’t be a sap.



The Story of Dr Hamkenstein and his creation.


Dedicated to Mary Shelley



I once knew this girl, and she wasn’t the only one by any means, who was obsessed by the Lord of the Rings thing. She had re read the book quite a few times, had loads of figurines everywhere, pictures on her room door, etc. Coming from Cumbria, near Waberthwaite, I am also extremely aware of Richard Woodall’s ‘pig shop’ famous for its Cumberland sausage and hams … the shop ceiling has lots of award winning hams hanging from it … obsession?




Thunder and lightning storms by the Wonky eBooks special effects department

NB: You have to imagine them.

Friendly advice: Play along and don’t be a sap i.e. don’t analyse

(it has the word anal in it)



John Smith closed the book and put it down on the table as the storm raged outside (imagination!). That was six times now that he’d read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

John loved the book and considered Mary Shelley a genius (fuelled with wine and poppers most probably). He thought to himself about the dangers of reading this sort of material just before he went to bed; he was bound to have a nightmare (especially as a storm raged outside). Thankfully though, the story didn’t act as an invite to a horrible dream and, instead he dreamt that he was playing with his son in the garden, except that he didn’t have a son; so, it was a bit of a nightmare after all. He and his wife Tina had no children as she couldn’t have them (one day she would come clean and tell him she was a tranny and that he should maybe drink in another bar), so there was no one to pass the business on to. That was a worry. Who would run the place and look after the castle with the Dyson V6? But, what if they had a child and … and … what if the child sold up and blew the lot i.e. their fortune and ill-gotten gains on holidays, cars and other delights and not keep it for a rainy day? (Another worry).

John was a pig farmer who had done very well from his ‘art’. He also had a shop in the village which will remain anonymous for very good reasons, I’ll call it Crackledale. He bred pigs in open fields and sold the products, which were very popular ... John’s crackling was the best in Britain, and his 95% meat and 5% spiced sausage was th e best in Britain too and, like the crackling, exported almost everywhere civilised. He loved his pigs; after all they gave him a great lifestyle, and a beautiful home, Crackle Castle, on the top of the hill overlooking the village.


As far as John’s obsession went, apart from the books, he also had the DVDs, the original Frankenstein story, and the brilliant Young Frankenstein, directed by Mel Brooks, featuring Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman. John wondered if that could actually be done i.e. put a man together using bits from here and there (morgues, graveyards etc), and then bring it to life using electricity. Well, they had crash teams in hospitals doing that every day, so?

He had also been brought up being told ‘nothing’s impossible John’, you can be, do, and have anything you desire (as long as the desirer believes it, of course).

John’s castle was extremely nice inside, in a medieval way. There was one door however that was always locked and only John had the key. His obsession had seen him have the room modelled so as to replicate of the lab in the Frankenstein movies; plus all the gear which he had collected here and there over the years. It was a fantastic room and John liked to use it as his man cave.

One night, John’s wife Tina told him that she was a bit worried that, as they had no child to inherit their fortune, maybe they should think of adopting while they were both below seventy. Maybe the poor peasants in the village below them had a child they didn’t want? Or the social services had a kid they needed a home for? Whoever it was would obviously have to like sausages, ham and pork crackling, and have his or her school lunch box packed with pork scratchings (with big hairy pieces). He didn’t know what to say and he certainly wasn’t in the mood for a fight as he’d had a gruelling day in the slaughter house and then making sausages.

That night when he went to bed, John managed to refrain from reading Frankenstein (no storm) and, he decided instead to appeal to the little boy inside him and read Pinocchio. He cried as he realised that Gepetto was so ugly that no woman loved him and certainly didn’t want his child; like Mary Shelley’s story, he had to create his own … so there you go, Gep had made his own child, which, probably due to crippling loneliness and a little mental illness, seemed to come to life …

‘Hmmm’, thought John as he lay there waiting for sleep to come claim his racing mind.

Then though, just as he was about to enter the land of sleep, the voice of Victor Frankenstein came to him.


“Hello John, Victor Frankenstein here …”

“Erm! Hmmmmcghg?”

Hello John, Victor Frankenstein here.”


“Oh sorry. Hello Victor …”, said John in sleepy tones.

“Whadddd?” asked Tina, and then went immediately back to sleep.

“In your head John, talk to me in your head.”

So, John did as requested.

“Ok, who are you?”

“I’m Victor Frankenstein, from Mary Shelley’s story.”

“Really? What do you want?”

“Well, I’m a character from a book, but I’ve never had a life so to speak, so I’ve come to hang with you for a while, help a bit maybe.”

“What do you mean ‘help me a bit?’”

“Well, you like Mary’s story, you even have a fully equipped lab, and your wife is obviously grieving for a child she never had … so, why not produce a late ‘teens’ youth as you are both getting on a bit … she can then have a son or a daughter to worry about and have someone to put first above everything, even her own happiness. She has been putting herself first for quite a while you know, and she has been a bit over – happy and had a good life; not exactly normal is it John.”

“I’ll think about it. Goodnight Victor.”

“Goodnight John, speak soon.”

And John joined Tina in sleep.



The next day, John, who remembered the conversation with Victor, spent a long time considering the idea. Getting the bits shouldn’t be difficult, but he didn’t want to go to his local morgue or graveyard as the townspeople would then recognise his creation. It was easier than you would probably imagine, not at all like the days of Burke and Hare. The local Reverend, Reverend Donald Goodman, a man of God, had won the lottery and hired a team of miners from Poland who had come and dug a network of tunnels that went from the church crypts and, ran in a set of corridors under all the graves so, the Reverend could take an order from say an amateur horror film production team for an arm or a head (or both). All the Reverend had to do was go under a suitable grave and use his forklift to lower a coffin, which were in the ‘sides’ of the underground cells. He would then remove the necessary parts and then replace the coffin; it was like an underground ghoul warehouse. What if he did it, and then someone one day said of his son … “Why all of the stitches Norman?”

It would be a good question. Why were all of Norman’s limbs sewn on? Plus, his head, the top of his head, etcetera. If Norman told them “Well, I had an accident a few years ago” it wouldn’t really wash.


That night John was laying there about to drop off, when …

“Hello John.”

“Hello Victor. Have you had a nice twenty-four hours?”

“Oh yeah ‘not too bad’; how about you?”

“Yeah, not too bad, weather’s been a bit down, but, you know, not too bad; soon be Christmas.”

“Ok, that was very British. How about out little, erm, project?”

“Well, I’m not so sure I want to do a youth, it could be a bit too local. Wouldn’t be so good if nineteen-year-old Andrew Troutman came back after getting hit by that bus last week, it would be a bit too Stephen King. So, I don’t know what to do? I suppose I could get in the four by four and go to the nearest hospital and ask them in the morgue if they have enough fresh, in sell by date, parts to build a body, or just a full body minus the offal and the brain they would sell me?”

“Yes. I think you’ve been going to pig market a bit too often.”

“You could be right thereVic. So, I’m a bit stuck.”

“Well, while you’re pondering the problem, why don’t you play around with a pig, you have plenty of them. Chop one up, sew it back together, and then we’ll zap it on a stormy night.”

“Where will I keep it until then? In the deep freeze?”

“Yes, that’s close to what they do in morgues. The brain is a different matter. When you acquire one, remember, they’re much more delicate. You’ll have to fill the fish tank in the lab with amniotic fluid and put a heater in it and keep it at body temperature. We can also run a little current through the fluid to imitate life just to keep it fresh.”

“That sounds good. I’ll tell you what though Vic, since no one is going to be bothered about a pig, I, or ‘we’, sorry, could pop a human brain in!”

“That sounds like a swell idea John! That’s what we will do then, a youth pig, that should be harmless. Women are quick to get used to such things, so your wife will soon get used to him and start putting him first and worrying and stuff like that, her life will be full of stress and heartache then but she will be happy.” … that’s women for you! He could be my son!”

“He could, couldn’t he.”

“Ok Vic. I’m off to sleep now, speak tomorrow bro, bye for now!”




The next day John got straight to work on his new son, but first spoke to his wife.

“Darling, how would you like to adopt a boy as a son, not a stepson?”

“Oh, I’d love to. Will I be able to put him first, before myself and definitely-before-you? You’ll have to give up the business and get a proper job so you will have a steady wage. And can I worry about him and always call him my little baby especially in front of his friends?

“Yes, you can, but can I go to the pub and talk pigs with my mates when you’re doing your grown-up baby things with him? Can I be out of here when you try and wipe his mouth with your hanky and say, ‘be safe my little baby’ when he’s going to the pub with his mates, because he will be nineteen you know (this is the real horror bit reader, the gore later is tame stuff).”

“Yes of course.”

“And, when he gets home from the pub at night, can I have a weepy girly conference call with all my friends who have babies too, and cry about him coming home?”

“Yes. So, it’s okay then if I go to the agency and pick a previously unloved young man up and then bring him home to meet you, his ‘mother’.”

“Oh yes, yes, sob, sob …”

And that was that, a lot, lot, lot easier than a pregnancy, hormones, mood swings and all the other ‘pleasures’ … men everywhere are all saying, ‘how come HE got away with it all?’


John, who actually preferred the sharper and catchier Jack, first went to the Names place and changed his second name by Deed Poll to Hamkenstein and awarded himself an honorary doctorate from the internet … he couldn’t really choose Victor, because it would confuse the dialogue sections of the story (this terrible, evil story).

He came home, told his wife it would be a few days before the youth was ready, and then had to stop her building the nursery. He then had her go and change her name too just so things were in balance. She protested a little, but went and converted to Hamkenstein. He then went to his shop to change it from the boring John Smiths Pig Bits Shop, to Dr Jack Hamkenstein’s Pig Products, much catchier. It would also be wonderful to have & Son written on there! He then went home to his study and composed a letter to the hospital morgue in the nearest town (I can’t tell you where it is, because this is a true story).


Dear Morgue Manager.


My name is Dr Hamkenstein. As my wife and I are childless, we have no one to leave our massive wealth to. Apart from being a pig farmer and pig product seller, I love reading Frankenstein. I had thought about creating myself a son i.e. someone to inherit my wife and I’s fortune, but a friend of mine, a voice in my head, THE Dr Victor Frankenstein, advised me that it was probably not a very good idea to build a youth in my designer lab in my castle, because if I got him from the local graveyard, locals would recognise him and get spooked by all the stitches around his neck and arms etc. I would also have had to chop him up and then sew him back together come to think of it, to make him look authentic. This may spook the locals as well as arouse their curiosity … and I obviously don’t want to lose their custom.

In the end I have decided to kill and dismember a pig, then put it back together, but because we (my wife and I, and Victor I think) want a human boy, please could we have a male brain from someone about nineteen if you have one laying around? I would be very grateful for this, and, could you send it to me, Dr Jack Hamkenstein, at the big, cool, f-off castle, top of the hill overlooking the village of Crackledale.

I enclose a cheque, for fifteen thousand pounds for YOUR trouble.


Dr Jack Hamkenstein

The big cool f-off castle

Top of the hill

Overlooking Crackledale Village


PS: If I could also have a plastic barrel of amniotic fluid from the maternity ward, I will (have enclosed) enclose another five grand.

PS: The fluid in eyes is amniotic fluid, (vitreous humour,) so if they don’t have any in the maternity ward (mop buckets from mopping the floor?), you could maybe fill the barrel by squirting the fluid from dead people’s eyes into it (air bubbles don’t matter I don’t think).


Yours faithfully

Dr J Hamkenstein.


That night, when all the world slept and questions ran deep in woozy minds, Jack lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He then heard the voice in his head.


“Well Jack, this could be fun.”

“Couldn’t it just. Goodnight Victor.”

“Night, night Jack.”



Four days later a van arrived at Castle Hamkenstein, in it were two containers marked ‘Urgent’, but missing the bit ‘medical supplies’. The driver used the ramp to unload a barrel which was in a strong plastic bag packed with ice cubes, and a smaller box in a picnic freezer bag … the goods had arrived! Jack used his brand-new helper he had received from the Job Centre that very morning after calling them, after Victor had encouraged him in the early hours:


Victor: “Jack! Jack! Wake up.”

“Ehmmmm hooommm? Whaaaaaa?”

“It’s Victor Jack, I wanted to say to you. Get an assistant Jack; they can do all the dirty work. Ring your Job Centre tomorrow/ later on because it’s morning.”

“Ok Victor, I’ll do that.”

And he did, at 9.30 a.m.





Eggornog Pretokria from Romania, who he, Jack had immediately decided to keep because he worked harder than an English labourer and, was a bit cheaper because he had a bit of a lump on his back which made him look weird (so it said in the letter on really nice posh paper from the Job Centre). He had previously worked on a dam on the River Mures, the Notara Dam where he had left because the other hard labourers had taken the mick out of him, especially when he had rung the canteen dinnertime gong. It wasn’t that he rang the gong, but stood on the top of the serving area when he did it with muddy boots on. It wasn’t big enough to swing on and that made Eggornog sad.

Eggornog carried the barrel on his back (he got on all fours) to the lab, and Jack carried the delicate brain. In the lab, Jack, who was getting on a bit and had a bad back (he was actually an addicted delegator), got Eggornog to tip the amniotic fluid into the fish tank, which filled it to about three inches from the top … now, it was time to put the brain in. Jack didn’t want it to lie on the bottom of the tank which to be honest, would look rubbish; so, what to do? “Eggornog, how shall we put the brain in the tank so it looks ‘serious’ at least? Like we mean business?” Eggornog just stared and looked dumb, and thought.

And thought …

And then said.

“Jack …”

He had a marvellous grasp of the language and a beautiful English accent, except it was Romanian.

Victor: “Jack, what Eggornog is saying, and I agree, is if you send him to the welder’s bench in the far Northern corner of the lab, he will build you a stand with a base, four legs which comes up six inches, with one of those wire egg cups on the top of each, which should make a perfect stand for the brain. You could then run a red wire (live) and a blue wire (neutral) and fix each one to opposite legs and fasten them to a car battery, which will provide the electric to keep the brain dead but not rotting … the rest will be done by the lightning later. How does that sound? It’s a good bit of co-creation between Eggornog and myself.”

Jack: “Eggornog … could you go to the welder’s bench over there an …”

Eggornog: “Metrognapuntapa boss! ….” and he ran off like only people with lumps on their backs can.

There were flashes of blue and white light from the welder’s bench. Jack thought, ‘he’s fab for minimum wage minus ten percent for the ‘restrictive’ lump.’

Victor: “Hey Jack! This is good stuff! Your lab is well fitted out, not quite as good as mine with all the electrical stuff, but good nonetheless. Can you get Eggor to fill the glass bottles with coloured liquid, make them look good in the reader’s mind.

Jack: “I’ll do that later Victor.”

Victor: “Good! I especially like that welder’s bench with ‘electricity’; I didn’t have one of course. I can’t wait to see what else you’ve got.”

Jack: “Oh, I’ve a couple of things lined up … comes with being a wealthy pig breeder.”

One hour later, Eggornog presented Jack with the brain stand. It took him that long because he had had to put it through a black iron oxide magnetite (Fe 304) coating process in the opposite corner of the lab. Well, he didn’t ‘have’ to, but it looked a lot nicer all in black; if you’re going to do a job, do it proper like.

He handed it to Jack, and Jack was well impressed, and gave Eggornog a pat on the head, which Eggor was well chuffed about. Then Jack, being the expert delegator, delegated Eggor to put the device in the amniotic fluid filled fish tank. Eggornog indicated that the electrical wires from the car battery should be fitted to the device first. Jack therefore suggested Eggor fix the thing up and then place it carefully in the Fish Tank, but be sure to remove the swim-under bridge and the imitation weed first, although ‘they’ did leave the pump bubbling away in the back of the tank … didn’t brains need oxygen?

The brain was next and Eggor took it from the ice wrapping in the box. He managed not to let it slip from his hands (it was a good job he had his welder gloves on, which were now full of amniotic fluid), and placed it onto the wire egg cup brain stand. Job done! Just think, if Eggor had mixed the amniotic fluid in his gloves with aloe vera and buttermilk, he could have created his own brand of welder’s hand cream.


Welding all day? Playing havoc with your hands? Stand there with your hands in your pockets on Saturday night with the missus holding your pint to your mouth because you’re ashamed of your wrinkly, rough ‘welder’s’ hands? You can stop this with Eggor’s Amniotic Hand Cream. Also, good for your wife’s gorgeous feet if she happens to be a grape treader working with particularly tough skinned pinot noi (no-r) grapes from the Crackledale vineyards (Crackledale is unknown for its fine pinot noi wine because the locals want it all for themselves) … especially if some of that rough vine gets in the vat with them (which it does); the only cure is Eggor’s Amniotic Hand Cream.

See! Genius!

Do YOU want to sell it by Eggor and Jack’s networking business and live the life of your dreams? Speedboats and stuff? (Jack may decide to be manager when he finds out) … then sign up for Hamway International?


As all of these infinite possibility thoughts went through the authors head, Jack and Eggor got fed up of standing around waiting for instructions on what to do next, so Jack put Eggor into the hole in the wall, which he’d kindly filled with straw for him, and locked the door behind him, simply because he didn’t want him setting up any more cottage industries while Tina and he were sleeping. He left him a bucket of water, a bucket loo, and some biscuits, so don’t worry about Eggor. Eggor had of course knocked himself a skeleton key up while welding, and had also coated it black, so it looked lovely.

Jack felt pleased, and Eggor sat there in the light of the single energy saver bulb, and pondered the thought of reversing his name and adding another R at the end (small case), and maybe calling himself Rogger, and then removing one of the R’s … he could then be British-ish? What about a second name? Smolokovitch?

Hmmmm? SMolokovITcH … Smith?! Roger Smith! That’s what he would call himself one day when he was a free businessman … ahhhh!

“Hey! Eggor! … Can I be your ‘friend in your head? Hmmm?”

“OK, who are you? Am I going mad?”

“Yes of course you are. Look it’s not fair! My boss Victor is Jack’s ‘friend in the head’, I’m Marty, Marty Feldman.”


Marty Feldman



“Ok Marty. Night.”


Ahhhhh! The freedom of thought and imagination and a friend in my head, thought Eggor as he passed into the world of sleeeeeeeeeeeemmmmmmmppppmmmmmZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.




The next day Jack and Eggor checked out the bed frame, which would play host to the new son which Jack would create for Tina and himself to love. They would nurture him, educate him and give him the happy life they enjoyed, and then leave him everything; he would be wealthy. Wasn’t that what you worked for? For your children? It felt like a bit of a fundamental error … if you worked for your children, and then your children then worked for their children … work meant hard graft and the children meant worry, how could anyone with children ever be ‘happy’? If you left him or them a lot of money, surely, they and you would be happy (in the rest home) … but, what if something happened and you lost the money? What if the bank went bust? What if a recession happened? It was a massive worry; worrying that the children would be all right … especially if you were a ‘mother’ (it may send the mother dementured; real horror … that was a new word).

The bed frame was a single all wood frame with arm and leg straps and a metal cap with wires leading from it which were attached to the bed frame, plus a red light on top which indicated that life was being fed into the corpse, which would be bits sewn together. The frame itself was on chain pulleys which reached to the ceiling at the Northern corner of the lab. In the top of one of the posts was a male jack plug, which, when the bed was raised on the pulleys, plugged into the female jack on the bottom of the lightning rod which reached thirty feet into the air (like a blue whale’s erection if it’s swimming on its back, ignoring the forty five degree angle and going for ninety instead).

Next though was the main part … Jack and Tina’s son. It was time to select a suitable pig, and give it a zap of electricity across its brain to kill it. Jack wondered at this, ‘I use electricity to kill it, and then use electricity to reanimate it. That seems a bit screwy.’ He decided to ask Eggor about this conundrum.

“Eggor. My wife and I have decided to have a son, but, we’re too old and social services won’t give us one because we’re too old and too nice. Because of these obstacles, we’re going to kill some pigs, chop them up, put a human brain in a head, sew everything back together etc., then zap it with electricity from a lightning storm, and then treat it as our own, OK? But, I can’t work this out and I thought you might have an idea. Here is my dilemma: I’m going to kill my son-pig with electricity and then bring him back to life using electricity. How can this be so?”

For ease of this story, Eggor can now speak fluent, middle class English.

“I haven’t got the faintest boss” … and in his head, he asked, ‘Marty, have you got any ideas? Is this man mad?’

‘Yes mate. You’re going to kill the pig with mains electricity … that’s processed, but, lightning which I assume you’re going to create life with is natural, from the sky … it’s organic. It’s better you see, it has more of a zing. No, he’s not mad, he’s creative. I’ve been there, done that, got the T shirt … just go with the flow mate. Make sure you wear wellies.’

‘Thanks Marty.’

“Well boss. Natural lightning is organic electricity, but mains electricity is man-made rubbish. It’s like food without monosodium glutamate is bland, but with? Well, if you eat it you feel so much joy you want to leap majestically through flower saturated meadows with daisy chains in your hair. That’s why organic lightning can bring life to the corrupt deceased. It’s all very clever boss, almost scary in fact. Put on your wellies”.




That night, Jack sat at his desk pondering the next day. He would first of all select and kill the pigs. Secondly, he would chop them up. The first problem then revealed itself. It was OK sewing back on arms and legs, but it was the head that was going to be complicated.

Victor: “Why don’t you just leave the limbs on? Then all you have to do is split the head in two, take out the brain and replace it with the human one? A lot easier.”

Jack: ‘No Victor, I want to try out my lab, The Mary Shelley Life Creation Lab … I just thought of that today. And I want to keep faithful to her story, it’s my unhealthy obsession, but, look on the bright side, I may be into the macabre and stuff, but I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. I work hard, so I need some sort of hobby. Something to take my mind of squealing pigs all day and blood spraying from jugular veins, etc., etc.

Victor: ‘Fair enough Jack, just use a metal pin to stick the head back on, or better still, a piece of shaped bone in the shape of a metal peg, carved from another pig’s leg?’

Jack: “That’s a good idea Victor. I’ll do that” said Jack just as Tina entered the room.

She asked Jack who he had been talking to?

“Oh, just myself.”

“Who is Victor then?”

“I was just toying with names; I thought Victor might be good for our son when social services finally find us one.”

“Victor? I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone called Victor, save the man in the Frankenstein book and movie. That’s a bit macabre for me. How about something nice like Simon or Kevin?”

“I don’t like them” said Jack. “Maybe we should discuss them over tea later?”

“Ok We’ll speak later” said Tina and left the room.

‘Hello Tina!’



“Hello, who are you and where are you?”

‘I’m the spirit of Mary Shelley; I’m your mind friend. Jack and Eggor have them so why should you miss out?”

“Oh, really? OK then.”

‘Talk to me in your head in case anyone else is about. You don’t want them thinking you’ve gone mad now do you. They might put you in a loony bin and you don’t want that, do you?’

‘I don’t, no.’

‘Listen Tina, boy’s names. I reckon Huckleberry, or something lovely to help him bring out his feminine side and get tough at the same time as the entire world take the piss out of him … something like Marian, or Nancy.’

‘Oh, I simply love Nancy!’

‘Great! I’ll speak with you later Tina, bye for now.’

‘Goodbye Mary, have a nice day.’


It was at this time that the leaflets went through the village letterboxes, all thirty of them.

“This village will soon be an oil refinery, so, could we please give you advance warning to sell up and move out … we will buy your houses.

Plus: This village will soon have a High-Speed train line running right through the houses that aren’t in the way of the oil refinery. Please sell us your houses.”

Well, well … straight to the point.



The next day Jack took Eggor to one of his free-range pig fields to select his and Tina’s son; ‘half grown I think’ thought Jack, ‘should be about right for nineteen.’

There was one with quite a nice face. “That one should be a handsome boy, don’t you think Eggor?”

“Oh yes boss!” said Eggor.

Marty: ‘Ah yes mate, but the one over there has better front trotters.’

Eggor told Jack who made a mental note.’

Victor: ‘That one over there has better back trotters Jack.’

“Hmmmmm!” Jack agreed.

“That one there has the best curly tail”, said Eggor.

Marty: ‘Best ears, that one there mate’, Eggor told Jack.


Jack then had Eggor jump in the pen and mark the pigs i.e. ears, front trotters … with a paintbrush with red paint on it, and then the pigs were taken for slaughter. As Jack got Eggor to zap the pigs in the slaughter pen, there was lots of grunting and squealing, but soon, all were dead … they had achieved, the silence of the pigs (sorry). It was horrible and eerie. Eggor chopped the pigs up, being careful to leave the guts in Jack’s future son’s torso and not remove them for use in the sausage skin making department. The brains were removed and chucked in the cattle feed bin, and then all corpse pieces were thrown in respective meat trays … the pair then set off back to the castle.



Jack was keen to pop a few volts through his son to get him motivated, but, they needed as they knew, proper organic volts and not the processed mains stuff. For this they needed a thunderstorm with the works i.e. thunder and lightning, and maybe a bit of rain, only because it had been a hot day and the rain would be refreshing. But, the sky was clear and the weather forecast was crap i.e. nice weather.

Jack had Eggor stitch his son together minus the brain which was ok in the amniotic fluid tank, and then shove him and the rest of the meat in the chest freezer. The animal which had donated the ears was popped onto the hog roast spit which was turned on, and the rest were frozen. Jack then wondered what to do? How do you ‘arrange’ a thunderstorm? He and Eggor walked onto the top walkway of the castle and looked out over the rolling countryside, and talked storms.

“We could do a rain dance” suggested Eggor.

Jack had an image of Eggor dancing in full Red Indian regalia.

“I don’t think so” replied Jack. “That’s all mumbo jumbo.”

“We could build a fire and burn Bibles and make God angry, that might do it?”




“Well, that ten-acre woodland over there, we could chop that down?”

“What good would that do?” asked Jack.

“Well, if you chop the rain forests down, you change the weather system, then everyone complains. So, we could create a micro climate and if we chop that wood down, we should get our own thunderstorm as the local weather system goes mad.”

“That sounds good. We could sell the trees to the newspaper industry and let them print bollocks and then people can throw them on the street” said Jack.

“Done then!” said Eggor, and he chain sawed the trees down while Jack supervised.






The little eco system Jack and Eggor had created was getting used to its micro self and beginning to work. Nature was a bit pissed off because its lungs had been ripped out, so it decided to kick some human ass, it was literally getting ready to ‘rumble’.



Nature’s beautiful, but she don’t take no shit.




Three days later, at about two o clock pm, Jack had a feeling in his big toe that bad weather was coming, even though the forecast for the rest of the country was quite good. He immediately got Eggor to take his son’s bits from the freezer and de-frost them and then stitch them together. He must not forget to make a bone pin from a bit of leg bone from another pig, for the top of the spine which would then fit into the bottom of the brain stem of the head. When everything was de-frosted and stitched together, to get the brain from the amniotic tank and put it into the skull making sure that the pin went into the bottom of it and that it didn’t wobble around too much. Then close the top of the head and stitch … the skull bones would knit when his son came to life. Everything was looking bright, except the local sky, which was a mass of angry, dark, slowly whirling clouds … it looked like a bad stomach.

The next evening at around ten pm, Mother Nature was ready to kick some ass.

“Ohhhh Jack, sounds like a storm is about to cause havoc” said Tina.

Mary Shelley: “I feel a bad moon rising Tina.”

Victor: ‘We’d better get to work Jack.’

“Yes, I’ll have to go check Eggor is okay in the lab, says he’s terrified of thunder and lightning. I may be a while.”

“Ok, see you later.”

Jack left.

“Why do you say that Mary?”

Mary Shelley: ‘Oh, no reason, just a feeling I have. I think it’s just storms, they are pretty scary things because of the horror film industry, don’t you think?’

“Oh yeah, I do. It was in the Frankenstein movie where the monster was created by a storm. Did you get any royalties for that?”

Mary: ‘That’s a bit of a sore subject actually. There are a lot of authors and composers floating around in here with me, they’re all pissed off, Mozart’s been in a crap mood for a while now, I can tell you.’

“I bet he is. Well, I want to get on with my embroidery now; I’ll speak with you later. Bye.”

Mary: ‘Bye for now.’





Outside the storm was building, rumbling. Eggor had strapped Jack’s still ‘dead’ (thawed) son to the bed, put the helmet on his head, and raised the bedframe up so it was plugged in to the lightning conductor.

Both went up to the top walkway and stood a decent distance from the bedframe.

“This is it Eggor! My moment of truth!”

Victor: ‘Isn’t it exciting Jack! I would have goose bumps by now.’

“Yes boss.”

Marty Feldman: ‘Glad to see you remembered to wear your wellies mate.’

There was a roll of thunder, a gap, and then the first streak of lightning hit the conductor. Sparks flew! The red light came on on top of the helmet. He was receiving life!

Jack: “Wa Ha! Ha! Ha! Haaaaaa!”

Eggor jumped a little at Jack’s outburst of manic laughter … then he joined in.

“Waa! Ha! Ha! Haaaaa!”

Victor: ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’

Marty: ‘Whoooop! Oh yeay!’

End of first bit.


Part 2


The storm raged, lightning flashed between the heavy metal thunder claps. Sparks flew when the lightning hit the conductor pole. Nature was angry, very angry! The rain fell in sheets and made Jack dance around a bit when the lightning struck the pole, what, with his patent leather soles. Eggor just stood there not bothered.

Marty: ‘I bet you’re glad you put the wellies on mate.’

‘You’re right Marty, thanks for that foresight.’

Eventually, the whole storm died down, Mother Nature had finished for now and needed to chill somewhere. The storm of course didn’t move on, and was detected but never reported by the Met office … it was too strange for them, a storm appearing over one square mile? Eggor unplugged the jack plug and lowered the bed frame into the lab. It looked good in the lab with the glassware full of coloured water, some being heated with Bunsen Burners and some bubbling air from goldfish pumps. The pig lay on the bed and there was a little smoke coming from his body and the red light was still on, on the top of the helmet … Jack thought the worse and sniffed the pig. In his hand he held a bowl with cling film over it.

“What are you doing boss?” asked Eggor.

“I’m trying to check he’s not cooked” replied Jack.

“What’s in the bowl?”

One of the pig’s ears twitched.

“Apple sauce.”

“Apple sauce? (Twitch) Why?”

“In case he’s roasted” replied Jack.

Marty: ‘There’s no answer to that mate, but I think it’s ok because the skin looks uncooked, by no means is it crackling.’

Victor: ‘He’s OK Jack.’

“What happened?! Where am I?!” asked the pig in the clear well spoken ‘jaunty’ voice of a well to do nineteen-year-old full of the joys of spring.

Jack and Eggor jumped back with a stereo ‘whoa!’

“Cooked?! What’s cooked?! Who are you two guys?! What’s that in your hand?! Oink!” asked the pig.

Jack: “It’s apple sauce, I like to eat it when I’m nervous” replied Jack.

Victor: ‘Nice one, good quick thinking.’

Jack: I’m Jack and this is Eggor. I’m your father and Eggor is, erm, your brother.”

“Am I?” asked Eggor.

Pig boy: “Apple sauce when you’re nervous?! That’s a good one, better than Prozac! Why am I tied to this thing? What happened!? Oink! asked the pig.

Victor: ‘I don’t know.’

Marty: ‘Tell him they were full at the hospital and that he drowned in a river after getting cramp swimming and because they were full at the hospital the crash team wasn’t available. So, you brought him home really quickly, froze him, then waited for a storm and did your own DIY crash session using an electrical storm, and hey presto, here you are.’

Eggor: “Well boss … tell him they were full at the hospital and that he drowned in a river after getting cramp swimming and because they were full at the hospital the crash team wasn’t available. So, you brought him home really quickly, froze him, then waited for a storm and did your own DIY crash session using an electrical storm, and hey presto, here you are.”

“You tell him Eggor”, delegated Jack, who didn’t want to do anything else for the rest of his life now he had Eggor.

Eggor: “Well mate. They were full at the hospital and you drowned in a river after getting cramp swimming and because they were full at the hospital the crash team wasn’t available. So, we brought you home really quickly, froze you, then waited for a storm and did our own DIY crash session using an electrical storm, and hey presto, here you are.”

Pig: “Oh?! Well then, in that case guys, thank you both for saving my life! I take it then that you, the old one must be my dad, and you must be my brother? Oink.”

Jack: “That’s correct.”

Pig: “What’s my name dad?! I can’t remember. Oink.”

Marty: ‘Well, he goes oink at the end of each sentence, so anagram that and call him Niko; that’s fairly trendy.’

Victor: ‘That’s a good idea! Call him Niko Jack; it’s an anagram of oink, which he does at the end of each sentence.’

“Son, your name is Niko.”

Pig: “Oh that’s a nice name, I think; sounds very trendy. Oink!”

Eggor then let Niko off the bed, he stood up pretty well and his head stayed on, which was a plus. Jack then went for his supper and left Eggor and Niko to bed down for the evening. Eggor made him a straw bed up in his little room.



Part 3: Niko.


Jack decided to leave Niko in the lab with Eggor for a while until he introduced him to his new mother. He told Tina that social services had delivered the boy, but he had decided to leave him in the lab for a while with Eggor so that they could bond a little before introducing him to his mum because he had received some abuse in social services, especially with his old family who had done all sorts of horrible things to him. Eggor had a word with Jack saying that he didn’t think it would be too wise a move to serve the lad pork products in the circumstances. This time gap before introductions to others also gave his scars a chance to heal.

That then is how it went on for a few weeks during which time Eggor taught him the way of the world, for it seemed that he had lost his previous memory (memory is in the cells of the body too).

One day, Eggor was having a snooze and Niko was doing some suppleness exercises, when Jack came in, he was carrying a bag of something.




“It’s time to meet your mother Niko, could you put these things on please Niko.

In the bag was a pair of shoes, some gloves, and a full-face balaclava in blue and a hat with a wide brim. “It’s so your mother doesn’t recognise you, I’ve told her that for now you’re covering your face up because you got a lot of abuse because you were told you were ugly, so, until you have the confidence, you’re covering your face up.

“Ok dad” Niko replied in sad tones.

Maybe he didn’t think (well, people don’t like to think, it hurts), but Jack led Eggor and his brother Niko into the dining room just as Mrs Hamkenstein was having her dinner … and you can guess what it was. She was just biting into a piece of crackling when the three appeared.

“Here’s your new son Niko, dear” said Jack.

“Oh son! Oh son!” wept Tina immediately. She wiped her hands and the pork gravy off her chin, got up from the chair, walked over to Niko …

She crouched down, threw her hands around his neck, kissed his balaclava covered cheek … “I’ve waited a lot of years for you Niko, what did those nasty people do to you?”

“Oh, I’m OK mother” he replied, “I’m just a little paranoid about my ugly face, oink.”

“Oops! He has bad sinuses” said Eggor.

“What’s the lovely smell? What are you having for dinner mother?” asked Niko.

Victor: ‘Chicken.’

“It’s chicken Niko, you can have a fresh one later, you and Eggor can share it. Ok, we’d better go now and let your mother finish her dinner. Perhaps she can pop down into the lab later and say goodnight to you?”

“I look forward to that. I’ll go out this afternoon and get you some new clothes Niko.”

“Thank-you-mother, I look forward to seeing you later and receiving my clothes. Oink!”

And with that they went.

“I like mother, she’s really nice. I can’t wait for that chicken meal later. Oink.”




Things went OK for a while. Eggor continued to bring Niko books from the library and Niko continued to learn. Then, one fateful day, Jack decided to take Niko up to see his mother again and do the grand unveiling now that she loved him like a son.




Jack, Eggor and Niko stood in the middle of the living room, and Jack said to Tina, “We have a surprise for you my dear, Niko has decided to show you his beautiful youth face.” Tina sat upright on the edge of the settee looking eager and excited.

Victor (too nervous to speak).

Marty (ditto).

Mary (ditto).


As predicted by destiny, fate and the team, there was a loud scream, followed by a shrill woman’s voice.

“Arrrrrghhh! My God! You’re a pig! You’re a pig boy! A monster!”

She turned and looked at Jack, hatred, disgust and anger filled her face and her voice:

“Do you hear me Jack?! I want a proper ‘human’ son, not that ‘thing!’ This is sick! I want you to kill him Jack! I don’t want that dirty stinking vile ‘monstrosity’ in my house! Now take it, and kill it! Then burn the body! Get rid of it Jack! NOW!”

“That’s our son Tina; he has a human brain, so he’s OK.”

“What!? You’ll be telling me next that he’s made of bits of other pigs as well as bits of himself.”

“That is true actually” said Jack.

Mary Shelley: “I don’t suppose I can say anything helpful here.”

“No! You can’t! Shut up!”

“No, I can’t what?” asked Jack.

“Not you! Mary Shelley; my mind friend.”

“Really, you have a voice in your head and it’s Mary Shelley?!”

As they were arguing like this, the door slammed and Eggor and Niko left the room. They went into the lab and Niko insisted they lock themselves in. The row carried on in their absence.

“Yes, I talk to her.”

Victor: ‘Well, you can talk Jack.’

“Ahhh … erm, tell her, it’s a good book is Frankenstein, can she do an autograph through you? Mind you, she’s got me in the shit.”

Mary Shelley: ‘Typical man! No responsibility! Tell him the signature would be yours, and they would never believe him on Flog It.’

Meanwhile in the lab, Niko decided to have a read to take his mind off the disaster his life was turning out to be. Eggor had picked a Gordon Ramsay cook book from the library and Niko chose that one. He turned the page to Sunday Belly Pork with crackly crackling … he was just staring at the page shaking his head slowly from side to side. Eggor asked him what was wrong? …

“I can’t believe what I’m reading, oink” he replied.




Eggor sighed and then gave him the full story that made Jack out to be, as far as Niko was concerned anyway, a mass murderer of ‘his’ kind, but that’s what humans did to eat, and in Jack’s case, make money too! To say Niko was pissed off would be an understatement. He immediately began to plan his revenge. What else was a mother rejected monster to do? Charity work?

As Eggor was his brother, and brothers were supposed to love each other … did he fancy a spot of revenge? As Eggor owed no one anything, and as Jack made his life a misery with his delegating every last little task to Eggor, and as Tina had rejected his brother as a monster when actually he was a very, very nice and pleasant chap ... well oh, he did have a big nose, but as appearances only counted for 99.99999999% of attraction, what did that matter?

If you remember his other name, Roger Smith? Eggor Smolokovitch and Niko Hamkenstein would become wanted felons, while Roger and ‘Okin’ Smith were raking the readies in somewhere and having a ball.

They decided that not only would Jack and his evil wife kop it, but as the rest of the village were a bunch of miserable, snobby, pork crackling loving bastards, they would get their comeuppance too. Above them, Mother Nature who was listening in because he was bored (and you reader thought it was a woman), gave out a little practice rumble, ready. Jack tried to talk to them and he hammered on the locked door, but they didn’t answer. He also tried the fire door, but to no avail.





Late the next night when all of the world was asleep and only the man in the moon was keeping guard, Eggor drove Niko to the pig pens. Niko was on all fours and nude when he entered the field. He roused the pigs and told them what had happened, fortunately, he could still talk pig, which means he had two first languages.

He told them of man’s love for pig meat, especially crackling, and how they were all doomed to die and be served probably as Sunday lunch or Saturday dinner. Plus, humans thought of them as filthy animals, and used the name pig to describe really dirty fat humans. Would the pigs help him carry out revenge on the humans, and then, quite rapidly, move from this cold wet dirty field to human houses? They could all be human! He told them about one of the books he had read i.e. George Orwell’s Animal Farm, and it wouldn’t be like that … simply because pigs were very nice animals. He’d seen enough of his ‘father’ and he didn’t wish to be like him in any way. He then told them that if they wanted to join in his and pigs friend Eggor’s plan, they would have to die first, be killed actually, by him or Eggor or whoever, and then go through the process to partially humanise them. All the pigs agreed. All two hundred went up to Eggor, rose on their hind legs, trotters on his shoulders, and kissed him for looking after their friend Niko. One or two of the sows actually used their tongues and promised Eggor a good time after they came back to life with their new brains.

Firstly, Jack and Tina had to be dealt with, and using a cunning and devious plan, Eggor and Niko lured them into the lab. Niko told them both he forgave them and told Tina especially how he understood her reaction fully, and how he planned to leave and maybe even end it all in some dark corner somewhere as he was ‘wrong’ as far as humanity was concerned. He then begged them to have a glass of wine with Eggor and himself, and Eggor apologised to Jack for nicking a bottle which was taken from Nelson’s flagship’s wine cabinet and was worth thousands of pounds. Jack just looked dark. Tina apologised and told Niko she was really sorry, but needed a real son and not a pig boy.

Niko had read the book One Hundred and One Ways to Lace Your Wine to Zonk People You Don’t Like, by S. Norré Loudleye. Soon, Jack and Tina were snoring loudly. When they awoke they were chained to a wall. It took an hour or two until they were hoarse with yelling. They couldn’t communicate directly with each other because Eggor had put a partition between them from the partitions room, just next to the welder’s bench. Niko wanted to kill them and feed them to the boars in the pig field while the boars were of pig consciousness.

The next thing was the conversion project from a human run village to a human-pig village. The problem was persuading Mother Nature, who is male remember, to knock up a storm, as the original idea had been acted on and it wasn’t so inspiring any more, even though there was now a shopping mall on the site (I’m joking). As luck would have it, Eggor had found a dusty old book in Jack’s library … How to induce a storm to have a great Pagan ceremony where people dance in the Nude, by P. Hagan.


Listen Mother Nature and Nature’s Goddesses

We’ve took the time to strip and dress in scanty leaf dresses

We have dead animals to induce with life energy by electric blue

Now we need a storm, that’s up to you


Thunder and lightning, and heavy rains

Enough to overflow local drains

We need romance to act with you

Lack of storm and, this ceremony will be poo


So, come on goddesses of Paganism

Let your Divine light shine through your crystal prism

Give us thunder and let us celebrate and dig

Our organic electricity produced, Hamkenstein pig(s)


The plan was this. The conversions would be done and the boars would be left until last, and they would be fed the captives before the boars were killed, changed, then brought back with the electric. This time, they, Niko and Eggor learnt from last time …

Because they would be using things around human houses, they opted to have human hands sewn on, as fingers make life so much easier (and the boys and men could then pick their noses and scratch their arses, which alone made being human great). This time the brains were disposed of instead of selling them to the government to give to farmers to use as VEGETARIAN cattle’s feed. How’s that for environmentally friendly?’

Some sows opted to have human arms and hands, some legs … different pigs had different choices, so enough parts were kept in the deep freezes; the rest of the meat and organs went to the butcher’s shop ‘Under New Management’.

The shop was well stocked from the freezers, and from tourists and visitors to the village. Head? Cheeks? T bone steaks, rump steaks, liver, kidneys, lungs … trotters (hands and feet, occasional treats usually harvested from visitors, after all the pig’s bodily needs were catered for). Sausages in real colon skins, eyes, for the youngsters to dissect at school (the pigs had litters … with good brains).

They had a clever system going. If say a lady (as they now liked to be called) pig wanted a human arm with fingers for operating her new computer or iPod, a storm would be called up with the chant, she would be anaesthetised (one of the people in the village had been a surgeon and had a lot of gear he sold on the side), and the organic life-giving electricity was used to power the instrumentation such as the lights above the operating table, the saw etc … they had gone up in the world.

Victor: ‘I have to agree with that bit about not feeding the brains to cattle, reader.’

Mary Shelly: ‘Me too. Amazing isn’t it reader, we’re in YOUR head now.’

Marty Feldman: “Well, that was fun mate … what’s next? I’ll just hang around and see what happens.’


So, after a bit of killing in the village, which would carry on when others visited etc., the freezers were opened and the lab became very cold, which kept the bodies fresh but was destined to deliver a really shit electricity bill.

The killings were surprisingly easy. All Eggor and Niko did, with a Mexican hat on and head bowed, was go around the houses pretending to be electricity meter readers … where did they get the jackets? Well, a few years before, Jack and Tina would play a sex game where they were both electricity meter readers … say no more, respect the dead reader! They would then ask separate members of the household to look closely at the meter, and … well, zap them.

They did the chant with such passion that Mother Nature, who has a soft spot for Pagans because they only sacrifice already dead animals … well; he kept the storm going for ages depending on the number of bodies each session. It was like a production line and soon there were pigs all over the place, chatting, laughing … enjoying being human; for that is the greatest most unappreciated gift ever i.e. the human body for the physical life craving soul … and pig.

When the job was done, the pigs took over the houses in the village, which they found most enjoyable after a life in a field as a pig.



Mrs Sowerby in her kitchen, appreciative of her new life. Happy as a human in money.


No one really noticed the people disappearing because they were leaving anyway, and, as you know, they took no notice of each other anyway. They soon got used to the household systems and, most enjoyed mealtimes … from the well stocked butcher’s shop. Apart from their eating habits, which did have a little to do with revenge, the pigs were lovely residents, not at all like Napoleon and his Elite henchmen in Orwell’s Animal Farm. Niko changed his mind and kept Tina and Jack alive, and locked them in Eggor’s old room, like Steve McQueen in Papillon. Being alive in such conditions beat being dead by a long shot. He wasn’t too vengeful; he fed and watered them once a day.



Human style love and romance? I’ll have a few kilos of that please. You lot don’t know how blessed you are with life.


But, it couldn’t last, let’s be sensible about this reader. An end would (must?) come to something so un-normal (obviously). The good news is, before that end came, Niko and Roger felt the inevitable in the ‘air vibe’ and sensibly left, Niko with his girl, Tina … named after a very nice ‘before’ (all she wanted was a son), but bitterly disappointed woman (who should be remembered?). They left rich, and formed their own company, as wine producers ‘somewhere’. Tina trod the grapes, but had good feet due to a rather popular cream which was created and produced by the ‘brothers’.


The end




PS: Niko eventually had a nose job. It stopped the oink, but he snores.


Tina and Jack? They ended up being found, and after the authorities heard their story, they were placed in a mental health unit …





The Chizzel House of Horror Presents:

The Lord of the semi-undead



For Bram Stoker


Bucharest in Transylvania was the home of the fictional Vampire, who was based on the very real, Vlad the Impaler. You can take a tour in Bucharest that takes in the Dracula thing, which I guess would include the castle and the gift shop. I think there is a downside to the Vampire thing now. With being a Pentertainer and a self-publisher, I am privy to noticing the cloud of vampire genre writers that are out there. I said to someone the other day, ‘don’t you think the old Vampire ‘thing’ is tired?’ … Women though like to be carried off in their imagination by a romantic, moody ‘hot’ Vampire for some reason? However, I thought I would have a go at the genre, so here are the results of my Vampire tale. This is about as far away as I can/could get with the genre … anyway; blame my muse (imaginary friend, Stephen Cling).

It begins with a company which just seems to turn up here and there; I’ll call ‘Transfrack’. Some good geological reports came in and they decided to drill in Transylvania around Bucharest, much to the disgust of locals. Fracking is basically the opening up of pockets in the deep rock formation and getting out the gas.



Heidi Kleschner was found curled in the foetal position whimpering in her bed. The windows were open and the net curtains were billowing in like ghosts in the cool evening breeze. The doctor was called, who could find nothing wrong with her save for a love bite on her neck. There were also signs of a commotion in the kitchen; quite a lot of food seemed to be missing. The lock on her cellar door had also been broken, but there was no damage done in the room itself. The doctor told her that she was suffering from mild shock, but apart from that, she was free to get on with her day (the stress of work in the office with a hostile management and insane office politics would soon provide more stress than she had now; resulting in the doctor putting her on Bisoprolol Fumerate and her having to buy a blood pressure monitor from the chemist).

When the doctor had gone, the local policeman interviewed her and found that the intruder had come in through the window. He was tall, broad, with a very captivating hypnotic stare, and large fangs … but she didn’t think he was bloodsucking. The policeman automatically thought the worst, and when he left the house he went straight to the grocers and bought some garlic to hang on his door. In fact, it was so cheap in Transylvania because no one really bought it, with Dracula being a made-up story; and it made their breath stink. He bought two strings for very little money, which was rather fortunate for him, because it was soon to become popular again, which meant it would go up for the tourists.


Bram (Abraham) Stoker Facts.


Fact 1.

Bram had a cousin in Blackpool. Now reader, surely (surely to God?!) you’ve heard of people who have an over active sex gland and fall in love with things like cars, spoons, cakes, cats etc? Well, Bram’s cousin, called Hampton Stalker (a very unfortunate name) fell in love with a Blackpool Tram. Unfortunately, trams don’t have exhaust pipes, so Hampton (Ham for short) had to pretend in order to fulfil his fantasy of being married to a tram, and feeling horny all the time when with his chosen sexual partner. He would run up to the rear end when it was stopped to pick a passenger up, and make love to his love. He became known locally as Tram Poker, and the particular tram became known as Ham’s Tram-p. Whenever anyone mentioned Hampton to Bram, he denied it.





Fracula’s Coach and horse driver, Torty Harker, was Irish. He lived in the English Lake District. His hobby was fell running and his hero was the Lake District’s fell running champion and shepherd, Joss Naylor … see Frankie’s book, The Atomic Shepherd and look him up on you tube.

A Hammer House of Horrors fan, Torty came to Transylvania to find Dracula, and found Fracula on a boar hunt (story in a second or two). Torty wasn’t too bright, but he was a nice chap with good values. He couldn’t help it, but when he ate garlic, (which he did when he was depressed), usually because he couldn’t get women, as they had told him … ‘you smell dirty, Torty).

So, Torty would take this to heart and eat more garlic. This OTT garlic eating gave him bad flatulence which got worse when he ran up the hills and then back through the town to his humble hovel. He was nicknamed Farty Harker, because he would fart and then shout “Hark1 I hear a fart!” (He was better than Wordsworth and had a sense of humour) and to add to his troubles, he also had a bit of a bad spine and walked with a crouch. However, he was Fracula’s footman, coach driver, and general wine waiter.





Farty had got a job on the Bucharest boar hunt as flusher, which meant he caused the boars to take flight. The hunters had a toilet on pram wheels which Farty pulled around, just in case; he would flush that too; even boar hunters have to ‘go’. Boars are expert hiders, and hunters can easily walk past them, but when they found out about Farty, he became very popular, as a ‘hiding boar stinker outer’. When he walked past a good boar hiding place he would fart into the bushes, for instance. The boar would suddenly take off, eyes watering and lungs struggling (like breathing next to a smoker if you don’t smoke). Then it would get shot. One day, Farty was walking through the forest when he heard a “Psssst!”

Farty looked in the direction of the pssst and saw the boar, about six feet tall on its back legs, leaning against a tree. Instead of shitting himself at the sight of this terrifying creature, Farty let one rip instead. The boar didn’t flinch (a sign of a semi-undead!), even though Farty covered his nose with a handful of grass, a Ray Mears/Bear Grylls wilderness stink filter. Luckily, there was a breeze and the fart quickly cleared.


“Who are you?!” asked Farty, thinking it was a hunter in special camouflage gear. That’s a good suit; did you get it from the Bucharest Boar Hunter’s Monthly Magazine, The Bucharest Boar Hunter?”

“No, I’m a real boar.” said the boar. “I was subject to some inner earth toxic gases rising due to the Fracking company called Trans-Frack Plc who have set up locally … quite topical for Transylvania actually, gotta hand that to them. It affected me and now I’m a sort of vampire, which is quite normal for these parts, don’t you think? You see, my other usual boar fangs fell out and these two came out of my top jaw, which was really painful. I can now understand babies screeching and the popularity of teething rings … I had to use a branch, which tasted like crap. The best bit is, I’m a vampire boar, but I don’t like blood. I raid the houses of single women because they tend to cower and whimper, but still crave my hot steamy mysterious dark passion, and my unintentional Heathcliffe bad boy image. I’ve been calling myself Count Fracula, which is better than Count Boar, I’m sure you agree? Hmmm?”

“Oh yes, that’s very good.”

“Good. I like to take the women’s black pudding from the cool cellars after a rampage of gluttony in their kitchen, after I’ve given them a good sucky love bite they will never forget. They have to hide the pudding because the towns Lord Mayor, Vlad the Inhaler” … (hang on reader, just let me intro him) …


Badass Lord Mayor, Vladimir Palkovsky, nicknamed Vlad the Inhaler runs the town and has asthma and has to use an inhaler, but also has a company making and selling them. He also hunts duck most weekends in the season. He has been watching Duck Dynasty, and has made an Inhaler and Reverse Duck call in one. If a large juicy Transylvanian mallard is flying by and Vlad is short of breath, he breathes in some antihistamine from the Reverse Duck Call Inhaler and a large quack is heard. It is the same technique as a suck-mouth organ. Apparently, he’s made a fortune from asthmatic duck hunters everywhere.


Cont ……

(Vlad the Inhaler) “loves black pudding so much he confiscates it as extra tax, called the Black Blood Tax, the same colour as his heart. Because of this, the people tend to hide it in their cellars, because they love it too, (Transylvanian black pudding must have mouth-watering MSG in it). Vlad was going to kill anyone who evaded the tax, but when he realised he might have a pile of bodies in the town square which he would have to pay to have disposed of in secret, one midnight; he went a bit lenient. Now, if he doesn’t get his Black Blood tax on time each month, on or around the 28th, he devises a terrible punishment for ten citizens, guilty or not, in front of everybody.”

“That’s horrible!”

“I know. Rumour also has it that his henchmen are going to get ‘you’ this week sometime, put you in the Council House crypts and feed you garlic until your heart is content. And force feed you when you’re full up, using the duck liver paté technique.”

“That sounds brill. Something is wrong though? What is it?”

“Well. He’s going to shove an enema tube a few inches up your ass, and have a pipe running to a big jar, then he’s going to compress your farts and use the resultant liquid in an aerosol … or, in your case, an arseolesol … the difference in spelling is subtle, but it holds a terrible message nonetheless. He is then going to have the arseolesol fitted to the side of a gas mask instead of a filter, and then make the victims wear it one at a time. One of his henchmen will press the spray button. Can you imagine it? The poor peasants will be begging for death. We must stop him, because the bastard isn’t getting that black pudding, it’s mine, all mine! Are you going to be my footman and general right-hand man and help me bring down this tyrant?”

“Yeah, ok … actually, I don’t really fancy the tube bit (the liar). Isn’t this supposed to be the other way around? In Dracula, don’t they get Dr Van Helsing to come and sort you out?”

“Yes, that’s correct and you’re right; here, Dr Van Leasing is the vampire hunter. He has a business hiring out vans to boar hunters and groups of tourists, and does vampire hunting in his spare time. He is also the town’s Doctor. You can see him on the Dracula tour sometimes with his doctor’s bag containing his holy water, (‘whisky’), crucifix, stakes and hammer. Van Leasing is also a boar hunter, which complicates matters. But, never mind them, how about we sort somewhere to live? How about Castle Dracula, which is now a hotel?”

“Yeah, but won’t the people in there be a bit pissed off when we tell them we’re taking over?”

Farty thought about this. Hmmmm? It was easy, a simple matter of Fracula frightening the people in the castle so they evacuated, or, him farting them out through the letterbox; just like smoking rabbits from their burrows. He mentioned these two things to the Count, and it was a great choice to agonise over. Of course, the Count could always de-blood them by actually tearing their throats out (yeah, I know, that’s Werewolf territory; but so bloody what? It sounds like fun).

“Well Farty”, responded the Count, “as I hate the thought of the blood, especially with it getting into my mouth as I tear their throats out … ugh! The fart method sounds better if they don’t run after I scare them, and the only inconvenience for us is that we have to open the windows after they have scarpered. So, I vote for that. You ok with that?”

“That’s fine by me; I’ll have a load of garlic tonight.”

“Ok good! You do that and meet me here same time tomorrow, then we’ll wait until it’s dark and make our way towards the castle. Have you a car?”

“Yes, a Citroen 2CV. I’ll pop into the Cape shop: Count Geoff’ the Vampire’s Tourist Capes, and get you a cape so you look like the Stoker Count.”

“Much appreciated, I’ll see you tomorrow then” and he disappeared into the trees with a triumphant squeal. The hunters got four boars, paid Farty, and went home.




Bram Stoker Facts, No 1:

Bram had a cousin in Cornwall called Eugene Clorridge. Eugene made the best porridge anyone had ever tasted, and would come from a circle of five hundred yards just for the privilege of tasting it. In the pub where he hung out, one of the guys wanted to see Eugene do well financially, and so, mentioned that he might want to sell his porridge further afield? He said he had the perfect name to do that. Eugene thought and thought, but couldn’t work it out. However, he was all for that, so he went home to write an advert, which he did, and put it into The Daily Transylvanian, which reached far and wide. Nothing much happened though; which was very mysterious.

“What did you say in your National advert Eugene?” asked his curious friend.

“Eugene Clorridge, porridge maker.’

“Yeah, real catchy Eugene.”

Eugene, now inspired, decided to have another go at big business. He bought some diving gear and became a Stroker of Clams, or a Clam Stroker as he advertised himself this time. His idea was to stroke clams on their erogenous zones on the bed of a Transylvanian loch. He would stroke them in a certain place known only by Transylvanian oyster eating halibut i.e. a clam’s outer shell erogenous zone and, persuade them to open in ecstasy and lay bare their beautiful inner oyster’s rather inviting soft wet bit. Eugene would then collect the pearls and make expensive necklaces. Bram Stoker always denied the existence of his silly, multi-millionaire cousin, Clam Stroker; although he did tap him for a few bob every now and then.






Farty met the Count as promised the next afternoon and presented him with the cape, which he liked i.e. black with red silk lining. He was however disappointed with the lack of two elasticated hoops he could slip a finger of his trotters through and lift the cape up like a bat would open its wings, for effect.

“Hang on, all is not lost. I might have the stuff in my bag, I always carry a sewing kit and some thin knicker type elastic, just in case of emergencies” … he looked in the bag and there was all he needed!

“Do you have to use white cotton?” asked the Count, “we’re working with a background of red silk in a black cap; not very designer, is it.”

“Sorry, I don’t have any black as I wear white underwear” replied Farty.

“Oh, it’s ok; I may just look a bit silly that’s all. The Lord of the Semi-Undead, the most powerful living thing in Transylvania with ‘stand out’ white cotton against a red background? Oh dear. And, what if ‘you’ get knocked down? Surely white underwear could be embarrassing for your mother?”

“You sound like Gok Wan and my mother would cherish the publicity as it would make her a star in her ‘Mothers Who Care Deeply for Their Own Reputation’ club” said Farty, as he handed Fracula the cape.

He tried it on and raised his arms. “What do you think?” he asked Farty.

“Great! Look, no one will notice the white cotton and I bit it off right by the knots so there are no messy trailing pieces; it’s a good ‘looks like scissors were used’ finish for someone with tooth crowns. Honestly, you really look the part. Look raise your hands and say ‘Bow in my presence! I am Count Fracula, Lord of the Semi-Undead! … Which is nearly true. Then just stare.”

Fracula looked at him … “Look Farty, this is serious, not a Halloween stunt. I have to terrify people, that’s the tradition, nick a serious amount of black pudding, piss off Vlad and Van Leasing, suck some single women’s necks and leave a trail of choice love bites.”

“How are you going to get into their bedrooms? According to Mary Shelley, Dracula turned into a bat and flew in after the virgins opened the windows under hypnosis. Try that.”


Mary Shelley: “I was high, OK.”

Bram Stoker: “Hoi! Would you bugger off, you limelight sucking bitch!? I wrote Dracula! You wrote Franken-freaking-stein! Remember?! You’ve had your go! Now Piss off!”

Mary Shelley: “Sorry Bram, I’m high. Goodbye …” (and her spirit speeds off into the ether).

Bram Stoker: “Bloody women. Never happy, never satisfied. My wife was just the same, had her mother’s genes and she was a slate short of a roof.” (Or the other way around? … I was going to be boring and change it, but thought it sounded okay … it’s my bloody story, so fuck off).

Mrs Balcombe (Florence’s Mother): “Hey Stoker! I’m well aware of what you just said! You’re not too dead for a slap you know!”


Florence Balcombe


Florence Balcombe was the wife and literary executor of Bram Stoker. She is remembered for her legal dispute with the makers of Nosferatu, an unauthorised film based on her husband’s novel Dracula. God only knows what she would have done about this story.




Florence Balcombe: “It’s great! I’m loving it! Christ! Don’t I look a right miserable wench in that picture! I’d just had sex for the first time and my husband said to me straight afterwards, ‘this is as good as it gets my dear; just call me ‘Bram Stoker, the mega poker’. My friends started to call me ‘Oh no, Flo’ after I told them and burst into floods of tears.”


“Have those lot finished now?”

“I think so, yes, the bloody exhibitionists. They’re like amateur operatic people; sell their soul for a line.”

“Ok. You asked me how I was going to get in their bedrooms? Well, I’ve found that I can scale walls easily, like a squirrel.”


“Yes. Watch this.”

There was a large tree with no branches for a good way up its trunk. The Count went up to it, then began to run up it, thirty feet up, then down, headfirst.”

“Hey man! Screw the women and the black pudding, let’s join a circus. I could dress in a sparkly leotard and present you.”

“Boar-ing! Come on, we have our fulfilment to think about. Have you got a strong feminine side or what?”

They set off for the castle in the pimped 2CV.




Bram stoker facts, No 2

Bram had an estranged brother in Manchester, called Tremayne Foolhardy, who changed his name to Elvis Presley. This is because he was such a fan of Elvis that he got his name changed by deed poll. Actually, not a lot of people know this but ust before the deed poll chap could finish off the official form, he died, and everyone else had just resigned, so there was no one to do it, and he couldn’t wait. There was a rule, an old rule, in the sub-section, sub-section’s, sub-section … you know the kind. It said that if the registrar died and everyone else had resigned leaving no one to do it, it was legal to do it in a church, by marrying the person to the chosen name. So, the name Tremayne Foolhardy was married to the name Elvis Presley, and then the name Tremayne Foolhardy was pronounced dead before consummation and therefore was no more; therefore (2); only Elvis therefore (3), remained.

Then Elvis decided to marry his girlfriend Pam, who was one of them women who didn’t want to marry a bloke with a stupid name, especially that one; even if he changed the name of his bedsit to Gracelands and wore an Elvis rhinestone onezie instead of pyjamas. So, even though she was going out with him because she thought that this was it i.e. as good as it gets’ she couldn’t marry that name. Therefore 4 (fore!), every time he asked her she said no. He eventually started to sing the proposals out on the karaoke in the local, every single Wednesday evening and she still refused. He earned himself the nickname, Pam Karaoker and Bram used to completely deny his existence.







This was too simple for words really. It was now dark as they pulled up to the castle. The Count walked into the middle of the front garden, and Farty knocked on the window. When the occupants looked out, the Count raised his arms and he looked like a bat. To Farty’s credit, not one of them questioned the white cotton. Fracula then said, loudly:

“I am Count Fracula! Puny humans kneel before me in fear! Leave this castle or I will suck your blood from your jugular veinsssss!”

Ten seconds later, the front door burst open, and all the occupants ran out screaming and cleared off. Farty was stood there in the shadows, pants around his ankles and some quarter inch polythene tubing shoved up his ass waiting to shove it through the letterbox in case the occupants had decided to make a stand (rumour has it that after this story is finished, Farty goes to a polythene hose fetish club).

As he was full of gas through eating all the garlic, he did a massive release anyway and the relief was incredible because for the last fifteen minutes he had been holding it in (maybe the fracking company could employ him somehow?). He had cast the tube aside and it unravelled and the end fell into the bushy undergrowth. There was then some panicky sounding rustling in the undergrowth, as some ‘children of the night’ made off rapidly in search of fresh air.

PS: Children of the night were wolves in the Dracula films.


Dracula (Bela Lugosi): “Ahhhhh de children of the night … what sweet music dey make!”








The Count and Farty made a chill-out hot chocolate and then sat down in the living room.

“I’ll get a coffin tomorrow and fill it with soil.” Said Farty

“What for?” asked the Count.

“You’re supposed to be undead, and you sleep in a coffin in the cellar which has in it a layer of your home soil.”

“Really? Sod that for a lark, I’m getting in a bed with a decent mattress; one of those which Venus Williams swears by; stands by her bed and swears apparently. I’m sick of living like a boar, I’m doing it human.”

“Ah well, I suppose it would have been hard work cleaning the soil and making sure all of the ten million wee beasties were dead, so just as well. I’ll put one down in the cellar anyway and fill it with soil and if Van Leasing comes with Vlad and finds you, that will be brill. It won’t be so convincing if they find you flat out on an expensive, lush mattress. Hey, that’s a point, you aren’t supposed to like daylight because it’s good and you’re evil. In fact, you’re supposed to burn in the Sun. That’s how Peter Cushing finished off Dracula in one of the Hammer films. He jumped off the table, grabbed the curtains, and they came down, and hey presto. Dracula turned to dust.”

“Well, I don’t mind going on permanent nights, I do most of the time anyway. There aren’t a lot of single women in bed in the daytime; they’re all up singing away to themselves very, very happily doing household chores. The song is usually ‘whistle while you work, which they have all changed to, ‘whistle while you’re enjoying yourself’. But burn? Naa.

“What about the crucifix?”

“What’s a crucifix? I was a boar not so long back; we boars poked our noses through the earth and crapped a lot; human stuff wasn’t top priority.”

“It’s a religious thing … oh never mind, it’s complicated. Erm, Holy Water? Forget it. Erm garlic?”

“Ugh naaa, burns my mouth, and if I smelled like you … no ta.”

“So, none of the usual vampire deterrents bother you then? Ah, what about having a stake knocked through your heart.”

“Well, let’s face it, it wouldn’t tickle would it.”

“There is one thing” said the Count. “Although I have to rest ‘traditionally’ during the daytime as I work permanent nights, I need to pop back occasionally during the daytime so I can keep the female’s serviced, and try and watch out for the killer hunters while my boarlets play, although my son Grunter is taking over from me very well. Up to now it’s been a bit of a trek into the town from the surrounding country, so could you possibly give me a lift, and sort of taxi me to work each evening? In other words, fancy being my driver?”

Farty thought about it … “Hmmmm, what a great honour, Count Fracula’s driver. Nothing but a dark coach and black horses are good enough for the Lord of the semi-Undead. “That sounds great and I consider it a great honour to work with someone so civil, and harmless, even if you’re semi undead. I’m taking the fracking released toxic earth gas into account there, because, like a caterpillar, you had to die first before you woke up again as the Count Fracula. I think they have a black coach and black horses in the stables, which will be okay if the stable boys are there, otherwise I’m bollocksed if I’m looking after the horses ‘and’ driving the coach.”

“I am deeply honoured you think like that Farty my friend.”

They then finished their hot chocolates, and retired to their bedrooms … it was the first time the boar had slept in a human bed, and he loved it … he could fart and no sow whinged (mind you, they had never lived with Farty, that would give them something to ‘really’ moan about). As it turned out, the stable hands had scarpered and took the horses with them, they were un-liveried.


However, the next morning, Farty had a look at the 2CV and he had a brainwave as it didn’t really look the part; lack of character. He rooted out some paint, brushes, and some large sheets of plywood from the garage. He then drew on one oblong sheet the side of a coach with the windows darkened. This had a piece of foot wide by two-foot-long ply nailed to the front of the cab painting with a dummy that was the same size of him, in a black hooded top, wielding a whip. He then nailed a two-inch plank from the front of the coach, so it went ten feet in front of the coach. He then made and painted a balsa wood horse, for lightness. He did one as if he was looking from the other side. He then fitted them to the sides of the 2CV … he and the Count would have to get in via the boot. The final gizmo, which he fit to the front of the 2CV like an ice cream van speaker, was actually a speaker he got from the local house clearance shop, and wired that to a CD player and inserted a BBC sound effects disc which contained Horror Special Effects … Dracula’s Coach and Horses it said was one of the tracks, yes! Farty would put it on a loop.

Have a look at the expertly drawn picture and admire the non-Uni-boy talent. The car was now pimped to a very high standard. If Kit had of been there, it would have been jealous (Knight Rider’s talking car … the Hoff).




The picture was drawn by the author after completing, with honours, a six-week correspondence course with the Michaelangelo school of art, based in Nuneaton. Someone commented ‘is that a reindeer pulling Fracula’s coach?’ … erm, No! The antlers are bloody ‘ostrich feather plumes!’

In Michelangelo’s God and Adam, God is trying to touch fingertips with Adam in order to pass on a sticky piece of snot (handy to know facts).


God: “A bit closer Adam, come on man, stretch!”




The reign of terror continued. It wasn’t so much the terror caused by the Count, it was the terror felt by the poor single women, who, although they each supported a magnificent love bite from a very dark, handsome (it was dark) and bad boy man, and went into a little ecstasy trip when his hot breath hit her neck (a couple of women actually thought it was David Beckham in the almost darkness … and when he said, “I am Count Fracula, Lord of the semi-undead, you are under my spell!” and then stared them into semi-hypnosis… they could see his eyes now as their eyes had got used to the lousy lighting … no! You see reader; the terror happened the next morning when they discovered the black pudding had gone, stolen by Fracula, the black blood Vampire. It didn’t even matter their food had been gorged in the kitchen; they now could not pay the black pudding tax to the evil Lord Mayor, Vlad the Inhaler. Vlad took to breathing in big breaths through his Inhaler Reverse Duck Call over a big loudspeaker every time he heard another bowl of pudding had gone. The duck quack caused terror to run through the hearts of the townsfolk … Dracula had risen again, this time under the name of Fracula … and this time it really was bad news, increasing numbers of women couldn’t pay the extra tax, which in reality paid for Vlad to be nice.

As soon as it got dark, Farty, who had been pissing around in the evil looking castle all day busy doing nothing; now refused to go boar hunting … he would get into the pimped 2CV and set off with a mighty rumble and clip clop to the countryside and pick up the Count at a set secret place (I have no idea where it is). They would then go into town, where Fracula would get out of the 2CV through the boot, and then go scale (expertly) a few walls, emotionally satisfy some single women, and come back full up and with several pots of black pudding which he carried in the game pouch Farty had sewn into the inside of his cape. He would leave a bowl with Marty, who would drive him back and drop him off. The good news was, Farty had since got some different coloured cottons.


Mayor Vlad had had enough, and he called Dr Van Leasing, and told him, “Van! I want rid of Fracula! I’m not getting enough black pudding tax!”

Van: “Ok, he could get to be good for local tourism, but, if I do it … how much will you pay me?”

“I’ll pay you twenty thousand groats!” Said Vlad

Van Leasing (who was a bit hard of hearing): “Can I have the beasts up front? That’s an awful lot though; I have nowhere to put them.”

Vlad: “Sorry?”

Van: “Twenty thousand go … forget it reader, it was crap.

Backtrack a little:

Van Leasing: “Can I have the money up front?”

“Oh, sorry; I don’t have it on me. Tell you what, do the job, then I’ll get the council to sign the cheque, and then you’ll be minted.”

Van Leasing thought he knew where the money was secretly kept by the council; in the ex-castle Dracula hotel dungeons, now Castle Fracula, and he thought that if he killed Fracula by knocking a stake through his heart when he was laying asleep in his coffin, he could then run off with the money and blame that stupid assistant which the Count had hired, what was his name … Farty, cos he stank …


Bram Stoker facts, No 3

Harris Flipcoin was an organist from Barnstaple. He had a big thick book of songs called Rest Home Favourites. There were great songs from Vera Lynn, Bud Flanagan, and Gloria Gaynor for inducing a party mood. Harris was so nice that the management asked him to play some solemn music from his book, Songs to Croak By, gathered from tapes which were sold to Chapels of Rest. So nice was Harris, and so good was his playing with two fingers, that he could actually persuade the croaker to tell him where the money was hidden (it was never in a bank) just as the last breath was being taken … it was always whispered into Harry’s ear e.g. “I don’t want them bastards getting their paws on it” referring to the family stood and sat around the bed, some eagerly reading kitchen brochures and some eagerly reading holiday brochures … and some reading both at the same time.

Harris and the management would then go to the address while the family were fighting over the will in the rest home (even before it was read) … and take the stash. He was nicknamed Charm Croaker, and now lives in a huge house … actually, he’s dead now. Bram always denied his existence. I feel his name would have been better as Croak Charmer, but there you go … it would never have fitted in with the story.



Van Leasing called the Castle a couple of days later. Farty answered:


“Hello and a very good day to you. This is Dr Van Leasing. I would like to pop round and see the Count as he is not on my list, and give him a preliminary check-up. Blood pressure, reflexes and prescribe him some compulsory Simvastatin to lower his cholesterol and wreck his joints. When would be convenient please? Tomorrow morning around ten would be best for me.”

“Yes doctor, that sounds fine, I’ll make sure he’s in (Farty thought fast) … I may be out, but I’ll leave the front door open for you.”

Farty then got onto the internet and downloaded some data from a site he had found. Farty then found the Count and asked him to do him a favour, just an experiment …


10 a.m. the next morning.

The doctor, his bag in hand, knocked at the door, but there was no reply. He then noticed the notice on the door (which is why notices are called notices) … Hello Doctor, please go in. The Count is taking a nap but should be getting up for a wee soon.

‘Yes, we all know where you’re napping don’t we, Fracula!’ thought the doctor. He immediately made his way to the cellar door in the eerily quiet house. He went down the stairs into the cool cellar, although it was quite dark, the light from the stairs gave it a small squirt of luminescence (that was very artistic, I’ve just had a hot flush … like a loo that’s been plumbed by a University trained know-it-all plumber).

The doctor opened his bag, pulled out a crucifix and put it around his neck for protection. He then picked up and unscrewed his hip flask and took a swig. He balked; it was full of lukewarm holy water; who the hell had nicked his plonk and re-filled it?! He then picked out his candle and lit it with the gas oven lighter. He then pulled out the ‘shoulder candle holder with hair guard’ he’d invented for such occasions, and placed the candle in it. The walk wasn’t long as it was a short corridor, which didn’t take him long to complete and, he then strolled trepidatiously into the room at the end. Inside, on an oak table was a coffin, the lid was at about bollock height for someone with 29’’ inside leg, which the doctor was. The lid wasn’t nailed on, and the doctor placed the candle down, lifted said lid and placed it against the opposite side of the coffin. Inside was Fracula, snoozing on his own soil.

“Ah! Count Fracula! Nice to meet you!” said the doctor. “Only you lie between me and two fortunes, if the Mayor and the town Council committee decide to pay me; I wouldn’t trust the bastards as far as I could throw them. But now, it is your time to fall into the peaceful arms of death.”

The doctor opened his bag and made a quick check got a sharp stake and his heavy mallet, which he usually used for knocking in the tent pegs when he went on weekend breaks boar hunting. He placed the point of the stake above the heart of Fracula, and raised the hammer. Without warning, Fracula sat up rather quickly, knocked the stake and hammer from the doctor’s hands and in the same movement grabbed the doctor’s lapels. He looked at the doctor’s fear filled face, went ‘gaaaargh!’ and tore out the doctor’s throat and jugular vein. The blood tasted like good gravy. He drank for a while and then threw the doctors body aside; it crumpled to the floor and finished off dying. Fracula then took the lid, and as he laid back down, he put the lid back on (he had good night vision) … he yawned, wiped his mouth and then fell back asleep.

Ten minutes later Farty walked into the room with night vision specs on. He saw the doctor dead on the floor and smiled. The recording had worked! He had downloaded it and burnt it onto a CD. It was called ‘I can make you, a semi-vampire, into a full blood loving vampire crossed with a throat tearing werewolf’, by a guy called Mystic Albert Trancer, a mysterious online hypnotist who made bespoke downloads to order. It had worked a treat. He took off the lid, noticed with glee the blood on his employer’s chin and once again carefully placed the phones over Fracula’s ears and pressed the play button of: We can turn you back into a blood hating semi-vampire; from the bespoke three, two, one, wake up series … by the same guy. When the recording had finished, he took the phones off the stirring Count and ran back upstairs to watch the exciting last part of Tipping Point.

After a while, the Count came running into the room, panic adorned his face … he told Farty how he’d woken up and found the body … although he did remember going to sleep in the coffin, which wasn’t bad. Farty told him the tale, and suggested they take the body out into the country and let the boars of his group eat the doctor. Which is exactly what they did, and once again the 2CV coach roared into life.


Bram Stoker fact 4

Bram had a second cousin who lived in Lytham St Annes called Simpson Flabgoll. Simpson was a stand- up comic and a very good one at that. People in Simpson’s audiences would be regularly carried out through damage caused to muscles and lungs due to laughing too hard. People caught onto this, and on occasion where someone’s ‘horrible, controlling’ mother had gotten ill in bed with flu or something, they would ask Simpson to go round and cheer her up. The coroner was calling a short while later .. . cause of death? Laughing? Simpson became known as the Mam Joker, and Bram always denied the murderer’s association with him.



The next morning, a letter which had been delivered by hand was found on the welcome mat by the front door by Farty. It was addressed to ‘whoever it may concern’. As Fracula was still in bed, he opened it and began to read:


Dear occupier

Local rumour has it that the evil Vlad the Inhaler has taken delivery of the necessary kit with which to contain Farty’s farts so they can be administered to the victims smell sensors via a gasmask.

He will therefore soon, due to the dreadful situation with the black pudding tax, be sending henchmen out to get Farty in order to fill his ‘main torture’ compressed fart gas bottle. He will then start to torture handpicked victims to cause pain and discomfort that will hit like a cattle prod into the human ‘good nature’ side of the Count, causing him to give himself up and stop nicking the black pudding. Vlad will then publicly put a stake through his heart and end the reign of, erm, ‘terror’ (his spin doctors will sort that one out).

If that isn’t enough, the single women who the Count chooses as love bite victims who, more importantly have loads of grub in the kitchen which he can run his snout through in a truffling manner, and even better, jars, bowls, strings of black pudding in their cellars … well, they are starting to go to the local pubs, the ‘Holy Water and Garlic’ and the ‘Hammer and Stake’; both free houses and, then from them to the nightclub; FANGS, on the pull. They are all getting fixed up with big burly, boar hunter men who will promise to sort the Count out and return the pudding to these women.

You should be told that these men all play rugby league for Transylvania and swallow raw eggs.


Good luck anyway

A well-wisher.


Farty ran to the Count and read it to him. The Count thought for a sec, and then looked at Farty and said “Time to sort the Count, Farty. Here is a plan, feel free to add amendments or modifications if you like.”

Here’s what happened, then I’ll tell you the plan. Farty took the Count in the 2CV to the place of residence of Vlad (I can’t give you the address for security reasons). The Count scaled the wall effortlessly and entered the Mayor’s room through the ajar window which wasn’t on a catch … is the Mayor mad?!

The Mayor stirred in his bed and saw Fracula stood on his windowsill … he reached for the alarm bell. But, if you reader, have seen True Blood, you will know that Vampires fly upright and can move at incredible speeds when running (if they could run in the daylight, maybe one would ‘whup’ Usain Bolt?).

Fracula shot to the bed before the Mayor could grab the alarm. He looked into the Mayor’s terrified eyes and hypnotised him a little (Mystic Albert Trancer bespoke download … How to Hypnotise People a Little and Drink Their Blood When You Don’t Actually like it and Leave Them Undead) … he then sank just the ends of his fangs into the Mayors jugular, and drank some blood. The Mayor fainted, knowing what it was like for a woman falling for a moody, evil Vampire … it was awful, like having a needle shoved in your neck when going through the process of having your blood tested, crossed with having your neck kissed … hmmmm? The downside? Becoming undead

The next day, Fracula and Farty had a chat.


Before I tell you what they said in the chat, here was how they got Vlad in an economy boosting attack. The Count suggested that he go to coffin-bed in the daylight the next morning after taking one and a half sleeping pills. When he was in dreamland indicated by his snoring (boars are terrible snorers), Farty quietly opened the lid and put the headphones on and played him the Mystic Albert download, and then carefully removed the phones. When he got up as the real Vampire, as he was leaving the room there was a notice on the door which said … Vlad is the target tonight, tips of fangs only. His brain was that of a bloodsucking creature of the night, but, luckily, he understood, and set off for Vlad’s place. He bit the Mayor with the ends of his teeth because if he’d used the full boar fang effect he would probably have lost it and tore out Vlad’s throat despite the trance state and the game would have been over.

The fangs of a Vampire are like syringes, meaning they have hollow tube-like centres where the blood passes up, so he got his fill. It was a bit bitter and nowhere near as good as a tender virgin’s; most probably? But, he had a job to do. Vlad was then doomed to be a vampire himself, and as Van Leasing had gone, there was no one to throw holy water on the wound and put a red-hot poker on it.

Fracula came back, took three sleeping pills plus had a glass of hot milk which Farty had made for him, then went to sleep. Farty, who was hiding and had placed a microphone in the coffin and could hear, waited until the Count started snoring (even as a Vampire he still snored) and then put the other disc on and turned him back to semi-undead black blood Vampire. Job done.

He then had another chat with Farty when he woke up

“Farty my friend, thanks for what you’ve done for me. My family will be getting old and dying soon as well as falling victim to the Bucharest Boar Hunters. I won’t age that quickly but I have a lot of years left being semi-undead. I can’t get as much black pudding and food as easily as all the women are getting men. Vlad isn’t so keen on it now I’ll bet, being a real Vampire, so he will drop that tax and just go for the women, who aren’t virgins anymore. So, he will probably either fade away, or someone will get him. Actually, now that a real vampire is back, the tourist industry will pick up. Anyway, I think my reign is over, so, I would like you my friend to strap me into my coffin, sleeping pill me up, put the tape on … and when I wake up as a real Vampire, stake me through the heart … finish me? Please?”

Farty looked at him … “Are you serious?”

“Extremely. Tomorrow morning. We’ll have a knees-up tonight and then that’s it … how about it? A few bevvies tonight as a final farewell?”


They had a good laugh and a knees-up. The Count told Farty of his females and piglets and how crazy they all were and how he loved them all, and Farty told of his dreams and aspirations. At 1 am, the Count wished him a good night’s sleep and retired to his last night as a half human boar.

Outside, there was a scream and then some commotion somewhere in the town.




One last look at his friend’s face, which did look troubled as the tape hit 35 mins then stopped. He placed one of Van Leasing’s stakes over the Counts heart, and then said “Bye bye my friend” and hit the stake with the heavy hammer, and again, and again … it went into the Counts heart and the blood began to fill a moat around it. Fracula’s bloodshot eyes opened, he looked with hate at Farty, and showed his fangs and snarled, and snarled … and then as he tried to release himself, his body tried to arch … he shook a little, and then slowly relaxed. Peace came back to his eyes. He took one last look at Farty, smiled … then departed. Farty cried. Why shouldn’t your best friend ever be a wild boar?

The used body began to collapse. The jacket started to ‘sink’ like the witch’s cloak in the Wizard of Oz. Eventually all that was left of the Count was dust in the coffin (no evidence of a Vampire for Post Mortem). Farty gathered it into a large jar with some of the soil (he couldn’t separate the elements). As he left the castle with the remains of his friend and enough money to see him well, he looked back at the building … it had been a lot of fun. He took all the plywood panelling off the 2CV, and left for the countryside. He scattered the Count’s dust in the forest where he had spent most of his life … as he did so, a wolf howled; how crazy. Farty went back to his car, and left Transylvania.



The local economy got healthy when the news got out. Transylvania the home of the ‘legend’ of Welshman Bram Stoker’s creation Dracula now had a real-life Vampire of its own. Sales of garlic went up, as did crucifixes and there was a demand at the church to have them blessed, parties broke out on the streets. People partied like Scottish people during the Blackpool fortnight.

Vlad took his redundancy and continued to run his business although the local ducks were given a reprieve as he was too busy looking for blood to be shooting them … and I’m stuffed if I’m going to start writing a ‘novel’ on a worn-out genre, there are too many would be authors at that particular topic (mostly love starved women with sensitive necks … it hurts!). I’ll stick to fooling around with the fun of the improbable.

I do though find it funny that Transylvania’s brand-new resident Vampire has asthma, or does the joy of his new role burn that out through the good feeling of alignment with inner self?

Rumour has it that sales of 2CVs has gone up.




I’ll tell you one thing that pissed me off during the vast research I did for this book (you’d be surprised by how many dusty Vampire research books there are in pubs).


I watched a You Tube video concerning Bucharest boar hunters. These men, about five of them, had managed to flush a large boar, into the open. They had about ten dogs attacking this beast which was extremely distressed. Disgusting. I’d like to, no, I’d LOVE to see the original Vlad the Impaler get them, shove the stakes up their asses, stick them up in the air, and sit there drinking wine and toasting them as they die in great pain and distress … the cruel, ignorant, scum sucking bastards.




Thanks Bram, that was fun, X

The Chizzel House of Horror Presents: Good Old Norman Part 1

John Smith and his wife Tina are wealthy pig farmers and live in a gothic castle overlooking the village of Crackledale; their products are very popular, hence their wealth. They though, have a problem, they have no son to inherit the wealth and take over the business (then sell up and spend half his wealth on women, alcohol and fast cars; and waste the rest). John is a fan of Mary Shelley and loves her novel, Frankenstein; which he likes to re-read; makes a change from Lord of the Rings anyway. John has a man-cave lab in his castle just like the one which Victor Frankenstein had. The rest is too horrible to tell you. Dracula is a legend, based on Vlad the Impaler. Not so long ago there was another stealer of blood in Bucharest, Transylvania (you won’t have heard of him). This annoyed Vlad the Mayor so much, he persuades the local Doctor. A Mr Van Leasing, Vampire hunter to go and sort out the evil Count with a stake a hammer, some holy water and, a very special vampire hunter’s candle holder.

  • ISBN: 9781370275854
  • Author: Frankie Lassut
  • Published: 2017-10-03 23:20:51
  • Words: 19698
The Chizzel House of Horror Presents: Good Old Norman Part 1 The Chizzel House of Horror Presents: Good Old Norman Part 1