Tuesday, July 18, 2006

STORYISM: The Great Vampire vs. Human War

By no time Hugo Award nominee William T. Farah Fawcett.

Fear constricted my throat like a muscly fingered strangler, as I watched the Vampire army march towards us. I ran my hands across my battle attire. Already I was regretting my decision to wear loose white slacks and Jesus sandals. When faced with death or an undead eternity of misery, keeping the fresh air circulating around ones fungal infected toes suddenly feels like an insignificant triviality.

I turned and gazed upon the small gang of vampire hunters I had gathered together and shook my head. There were twelve of us altogether. My eyes went from one to the next as I considered what each would bring to the table in the bloody chaos to come.

Again, I questioned my own judgment. Recruiting Old Mister Meisner the butcher had felt right at the time. His droll sarcasm and bushy beard had once seemed like ideal tools for killing vampires. Now these skills seemed like nothing more than a big bunch of smelly arse in an airtight bag.

Then there was Henry Knee. I had recruited him because he could fart the first six notes of Yankee Doodle Dandy. As I watched the evil bastard hordes pour across the horizon, I realized that my theory that humorous farting could annihilate vampires had little to no scientific basis.

There was Jenny Shore. I had recruited her because she was sassy and smelled of bees. Donald Rafferty I had recruited because he agreed with me that the general derision towards Harrison Ford vehicle, K-19 The Widowmaker, was ever so slightly on the harsh side. Only now was it dawning on me that no matter how eloquently Donald put forward his argument, it just wasn't going to fuck up or explode any vampires. There was Angela Corrie. I had recruited her for the simple fact that she had big boobs. Hadn't actually considered the vampires to be honest. Just the boobs.

I went over my plan in my head. I knew that the vampire generals would expect us to use traditional methods in our attempts to slaughter them; garlic, holy water, crucifixes, wooden stakes. I thought I would confound those expectations. Instead of garlic, we would use bits of lettuce. Instead of holy water, we would use apple and mango juice drink with no added sugar. Instead of crucifixes we would use replicas of Burt Reynolds moustache. Instead of driving wooden stakes into their hearts, we would shove Austrian smoked cheese right into their bottoms. As we stood there holding our lettuce, cheese and moustachii something told me that this plan was a mass of nincompoopery. I expected us to be slaughtered in the blink of an eye.

I couldn't have known that the vampire generals would get it so spectacularly wrong. Their tactics were similar to mine in that they decided to confound our expectations. Instead of ripping us to pieces, feeding on us or forcing us to become one of the undead. They decided instead to tickle our bottoms with fur-lined yoghurt pots and to dress up as little posh boys and quote lines from the Robin Williams vehicle, Dead Poet's Society. They tried to sell us chin straps, tried to persuade us to fund a sequel to Ishtar, tried to persuade us to shrink Earth, Wind and Fire and let them live inside our arses. None of it worked. Gradually, bit by bit, getting hit with little pieces of lettuce and having cheese rammed up them started to get to them and they couldn't take it any more. They retreated. We had won.

We stood whopping in the cowboy style but as I looked around I realized we were short of a body. I thought we'd all made it through alive, but Angela Corrie was gone. I was about to cry when a voice told me that she wasn't dead. Someone had told her that I'd only hired her for the size of her jugs and she'd got a taxi home. Oh well, you can't win them all, eh readers? Onwaaaaaaaaaaaaard!


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