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rayasoIdol Week 9
It was hunting season, the moon was full, and the Glass Cliff Lodge was busy, which meant the bar was crowded with camouflage-wearing guests, each lying about their biggest kills. The jukebox was playing Blood Harmony’s old hit “The Transylvania Twist” and the crowd was rowdy. Newcomers were being taunted into drinking a duck milkshake, which was made with ice cream, beer, and a real duck, all run through a blender. If you could finish it without throwing up, you got to drink for free the rest of the night. Most people didn’t even try once they saw the feathers, duck bill, and eyes on top, which cost them a round of drinks for the house.
The old lodge was named after a geological formation at the head of the valley. The Glass Cliff was spectacular, its sheer vertical walls rising nearly 4,000 feet above the floor, taller than Yosemite’s El Capitan, but made of crystal-clear ice.
Visitors came from around the world to stare into its depths. Tourists weren’t allowed too close because huge slabs of ice would peel off from time to time, forming a large pile of crushed, diamond-like ice at its base. The view was best under strong moonlight, which lit up the cliff with shifting multi-colored sparkles deep within it. Local children called it the kaleidoscope cliff and no one came away unmoved.
This time of year the Lodge held Monsterfest and catered to werewolves, vampires, and other literary horrors. Cthulu, zombies, and the occasional killer clown were frequent guests, while Frankenstein and Dracula often dropped by to unwind when their agents could spare them from book signings, endorsements, and the various MonsterCons.
Cthulu always had trouble fitting into his camouflage hunting gear, but it was required of all guests, with no exceptions. Once the Lodge found a man-skin big enough for him to wear, he didn’t roar as much. The only other rule was one kill per night, first come, first served; humans tended to get skittish about losing more. Halloween was the last night of Monsterfest and it was a free-for-all without the camo and no limits.
The local Chamber of Commerce had been trying to stop Monsterfest for years, but since creatures were allowed only in October and they never ate locals, there wasn’t enough support. Even Sherriff Rogers had said “live and let live.” It was well-known that the area depended on the outside dollars from the monsters, who were always big spenders.
But this year, attendance was down. It had been declining for a while, but everyone assumed the other monsters were just busy; after all, there was always a big demand for horror, unless you were a victim.
The older crowd blamed the current horror writers. The copyrights had expired on the classic monsters long ago and they had become subject to the whims of lesser writers. It had taken years for Frankenstein to recover from The Munsters. Now vampires merely sparkled in the sunlight and were the subject of teenage crushes.
Abraham Van Helsing VII knew it wasn’t the writers – he was the cause and he was proud of it. Seven was a direct descendant of Prof. Abraham Van Helsing (“One”) of Frankenstein fame and he was finally following the family tradition of hunting evil.
“They need to have someone do to them what they’ve done to us,” his father, Six, had told him on his 18th birthday. “Never let them get away with it.” Unfortunately, Six had passed away shortly afterward, the first Van Helsing to die of natural causes. It would have embarrassed him.
Monsters were very familiar with the Van Helsings and they had been trying to destroy them for generations. They knew they were out there somewhere, even though there had been no sightings since Six had passed on. Everyone hoped that Six had been too ornery to reproduce.
Seven had been the result of an illicit union between Six and Rose Stoker, a direct descendant of Bram Stoker, creator of Dracula. The baby had been given to Six to raise after Rose had dramatically passed away following a suitably Romantic illness.
But Seven had apparently never taken up the family calling. He lived quietly as a professor of Computer Science at a local university, with a wife and a son, Robert. “Time to stop this numbers nonsense,” he told his wife, much to Lisa’s relief.
But Seven had not given up. Monsters still existed and someone had to fight them; he was just trying to bring it into the 21st century.
Seven had inherited the Van Helsing armory, which he kept in a large shed, along with a desk and computer. He spent what little time he could spare from his family developing new weapons to combat the increasing horde of literary and movie creatures. Swords, crossbows, fire, and pitchforks simply made modern monsters laugh.
It wasn’t a matter of more firepower; blow the wrong monster apart and the remnants simply re-assembled, madder than ever. Werewolves could be killed with a silver bullet, but that was expensive. Vampires had a less expensive weakness, but wood stakes required close combat and they had those sharp fangs. No Van Helsing had ever been turned, and Seven didn’t want to be the first.
“I’m going to find something that will destroy them all,” Seven had promised his father on his deathbed, but he had little to show for his efforts until the horror genre fully embraced the computer age. All the works from Frankenstein, The Mummy!, The Invisible Man, Dracula, and even the script for the movie The Wolf Man had finally been digitalized, including Poe, Lovecraft, and all the authors responsible for the horde of evil creatures preying on mankind.
“They’re all vulnerable to the computer,” thought Seven one day, after spending hours online researching the roots of his opponents’ creations. “The solution isn’t in the past, it’s in the future. Destroy their computer code and I’ll destroy them!”
After years of developing a special program, Seven was finally ready for a test. He had created an unstoppable virus which would scour the world’s data systems and eliminate all traces of a monster.
“Let’s start with zombeavers,” he thought. “They’re recent so they haven’t spread too far. The world won’t miss a beaver crossed with a zombie.”
While Seven admired their work with slow-moving, over-sexed teenagers, zombeavers were not the only creatures feeding on them. With the push of a button, zombeavers began to disappear from all digital media everywhere, and as a result they were eliminated from the real world.
Almost.
The virus could not attack film stock or printed books, so a few zombeavers survived, confined to these obsolete media, but they were gone from the modern, computer-influenced human imagination. Idyllic ponds and streams were once again safe from the scourge of the zombeaver.
Seven was disappointed by the limit to his virus, but he realized that nearly all the zombeavers were gone and he’d done it while sitting at his desk. No other Van Helsing had done so much with one finger.
“If I can’t get rid of them all,” he thought, “at least I can thin the herd a little.”
It took a while, but the Bodysnatchers no longer snatched, the Fly no longer flew, and the Blob no longer blobbed. And because of the program’s AutoDie feature, he was able to spend more time with his family.
The loss of these creatures did not bother the regulars at the Glass Cliff Lodge. After all, the Fifty Foot Woman never really fit in. But thanks to Seven, the modern incarnations of vampires, zombies, and other classics were missing.
This October the problem finally got the attention of the crowd at the Glass Cliff Lodge.
“When was the last time anyone saw one of those young vampires sparkle in the daylight?” said Count Dracula, from his table in the darkest corner of the lounge.
“Or one of those pretty izombies from Seattle?” asked one of the living dead, which caused his rotting jaw to break off and fall to the floor.
“And what about Mothra?” said Godzilla from the beer garden outside, where the giant monsters congregated.
“It can only be a Van Helsing,” said Count Dracula.
After a great deal of talking, moaning, and roaring, it was Frankenstein who had the best idea, as usual.
The next day, an ad appeared in the National Enquirer, the tabloid of record for the supernatural world: “Truce. Meet us in two weeks at the Glass Cliff at midnight.” The monsters knew that Van Helsings always read the Enquirer to keep up on imaginative news, such as Hilary Clinton’s satanic inner circle.
“No monster has ever asked for a truce,” thought Seven after reading the ad. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he knew he had to check it out. Twelve days later, he packed his gear into his truck, kissed his family goodbye, and started the two-day drive.
At midnight on the appointed day, Count Dracula, Frankenstein, and the Zombie waited at the foot of the Glass Cliff. They could see someone approaching.
“Only a Van Helsing would have the courage to come here,” said Frankenstein.
Seven’s angular face and prematurely white hair marked him as Six’s son.
“I’ve come a long way,” said Seven. “What do you want?”
“We know what you’ve been doing,” said Dracula. “We don’t know how, but it has to stop. It's genrecide, but you can never destroy us all; we come from too deep in the human imagination. We’ll always be here no matter what you do.”
Before Seven could answer, the monsters began to close in on him, forcing him up against the Glass Cliff.
“You called a truce!” said Van Helsing. “Back up.”
“Never trust us,” said Frankenstein “Six didn’t -- we’re evil.”
At that point, the Zombie’s arm fell off, signaling Godzilla, who had been hiding in a nearby grove of trees. Godzilla emerged and before Seven could react, he blasted his blue atomic breath at the Glass Cliff, causing a cascade of ice to fall down, entombing Seven at its base in a huge pile of scree.
Scientists would later attribute the ice collapse to global warming and posted educational warnings nearby. These were ignored by the tourists who climbed on the ice boulders, never realizing it was the frozen grave of Abraham Van Helsing VII.
Dracula, Frankenstein, the Zombie, and Godzilla returned to the Lodge to celebrate and prepare for the Halloween feeding frenzy.
Lisa was heartbroken when Seven never returned, but she had accepted that this might happen. She knew what it meant to be a Van Helsing and to the future of their son.
She also knew what it meant to the future of monsters. Forty-eight hours after Seven’s death, his computer executed AutoDie when he was not there to stop it. The thinning of the monster herd would continue without him.
The Glass Cliff Lodge eventually stopped its October Monsterfest, but some things never die. The lounge continues to serve duck milkshakes to the brave.
* * * * * *
In researching bad horror/sci fi movies, I came across this, which I wish I could have used. “Creature with the Atom Brain (1955). An ex-Nazi mad scientist uses radio-controlled atomic-powered zombies in his quest to help an exiled American gangster return to power.” Madness or genius? It has it all: Nazis, mad scientist, the atomic bomb, zombies, and gangsters. Throw in a commie plot, and it pretty much sums up 1955.
THE GLASS CLIFF LODGE
It was hunting season, the moon was full, and the Glass Cliff Lodge was busy, which meant the bar was crowded with camouflage-wearing guests, each lying about their biggest kills. The jukebox was playing Blood Harmony’s old hit “The Transylvania Twist” and the crowd was rowdy. Newcomers were being taunted into drinking a duck milkshake, which was made with ice cream, beer, and a real duck, all run through a blender. If you could finish it without throwing up, you got to drink for free the rest of the night. Most people didn’t even try once they saw the feathers, duck bill, and eyes on top, which cost them a round of drinks for the house.
The old lodge was named after a geological formation at the head of the valley. The Glass Cliff was spectacular, its sheer vertical walls rising nearly 4,000 feet above the floor, taller than Yosemite’s El Capitan, but made of crystal-clear ice.
Visitors came from around the world to stare into its depths. Tourists weren’t allowed too close because huge slabs of ice would peel off from time to time, forming a large pile of crushed, diamond-like ice at its base. The view was best under strong moonlight, which lit up the cliff with shifting multi-colored sparkles deep within it. Local children called it the kaleidoscope cliff and no one came away unmoved.
This time of year the Lodge held Monsterfest and catered to werewolves, vampires, and other literary horrors. Cthulu, zombies, and the occasional killer clown were frequent guests, while Frankenstein and Dracula often dropped by to unwind when their agents could spare them from book signings, endorsements, and the various MonsterCons.
Cthulu always had trouble fitting into his camouflage hunting gear, but it was required of all guests, with no exceptions. Once the Lodge found a man-skin big enough for him to wear, he didn’t roar as much. The only other rule was one kill per night, first come, first served; humans tended to get skittish about losing more. Halloween was the last night of Monsterfest and it was a free-for-all without the camo and no limits.
The local Chamber of Commerce had been trying to stop Monsterfest for years, but since creatures were allowed only in October and they never ate locals, there wasn’t enough support. Even Sherriff Rogers had said “live and let live.” It was well-known that the area depended on the outside dollars from the monsters, who were always big spenders.
But this year, attendance was down. It had been declining for a while, but everyone assumed the other monsters were just busy; after all, there was always a big demand for horror, unless you were a victim.
The older crowd blamed the current horror writers. The copyrights had expired on the classic monsters long ago and they had become subject to the whims of lesser writers. It had taken years for Frankenstein to recover from The Munsters. Now vampires merely sparkled in the sunlight and were the subject of teenage crushes.
Abraham Van Helsing VII knew it wasn’t the writers – he was the cause and he was proud of it. Seven was a direct descendant of Prof. Abraham Van Helsing (“One”) of Frankenstein fame and he was finally following the family tradition of hunting evil.
“They need to have someone do to them what they’ve done to us,” his father, Six, had told him on his 18th birthday. “Never let them get away with it.” Unfortunately, Six had passed away shortly afterward, the first Van Helsing to die of natural causes. It would have embarrassed him.
Monsters were very familiar with the Van Helsings and they had been trying to destroy them for generations. They knew they were out there somewhere, even though there had been no sightings since Six had passed on. Everyone hoped that Six had been too ornery to reproduce.
Seven had been the result of an illicit union between Six and Rose Stoker, a direct descendant of Bram Stoker, creator of Dracula. The baby had been given to Six to raise after Rose had dramatically passed away following a suitably Romantic illness.
But Seven had apparently never taken up the family calling. He lived quietly as a professor of Computer Science at a local university, with a wife and a son, Robert. “Time to stop this numbers nonsense,” he told his wife, much to Lisa’s relief.
But Seven had not given up. Monsters still existed and someone had to fight them; he was just trying to bring it into the 21st century.
Seven had inherited the Van Helsing armory, which he kept in a large shed, along with a desk and computer. He spent what little time he could spare from his family developing new weapons to combat the increasing horde of literary and movie creatures. Swords, crossbows, fire, and pitchforks simply made modern monsters laugh.
It wasn’t a matter of more firepower; blow the wrong monster apart and the remnants simply re-assembled, madder than ever. Werewolves could be killed with a silver bullet, but that was expensive. Vampires had a less expensive weakness, but wood stakes required close combat and they had those sharp fangs. No Van Helsing had ever been turned, and Seven didn’t want to be the first.
“I’m going to find something that will destroy them all,” Seven had promised his father on his deathbed, but he had little to show for his efforts until the horror genre fully embraced the computer age. All the works from Frankenstein, The Mummy!, The Invisible Man, Dracula, and even the script for the movie The Wolf Man had finally been digitalized, including Poe, Lovecraft, and all the authors responsible for the horde of evil creatures preying on mankind.
“They’re all vulnerable to the computer,” thought Seven one day, after spending hours online researching the roots of his opponents’ creations. “The solution isn’t in the past, it’s in the future. Destroy their computer code and I’ll destroy them!”
After years of developing a special program, Seven was finally ready for a test. He had created an unstoppable virus which would scour the world’s data systems and eliminate all traces of a monster.
“Let’s start with zombeavers,” he thought. “They’re recent so they haven’t spread too far. The world won’t miss a beaver crossed with a zombie.”
While Seven admired their work with slow-moving, over-sexed teenagers, zombeavers were not the only creatures feeding on them. With the push of a button, zombeavers began to disappear from all digital media everywhere, and as a result they were eliminated from the real world.
Almost.
The virus could not attack film stock or printed books, so a few zombeavers survived, confined to these obsolete media, but they were gone from the modern, computer-influenced human imagination. Idyllic ponds and streams were once again safe from the scourge of the zombeaver.
Seven was disappointed by the limit to his virus, but he realized that nearly all the zombeavers were gone and he’d done it while sitting at his desk. No other Van Helsing had done so much with one finger.
“If I can’t get rid of them all,” he thought, “at least I can thin the herd a little.”
It took a while, but the Bodysnatchers no longer snatched, the Fly no longer flew, and the Blob no longer blobbed. And because of the program’s AutoDie feature, he was able to spend more time with his family.
The loss of these creatures did not bother the regulars at the Glass Cliff Lodge. After all, the Fifty Foot Woman never really fit in. But thanks to Seven, the modern incarnations of vampires, zombies, and other classics were missing.
This October the problem finally got the attention of the crowd at the Glass Cliff Lodge.
“When was the last time anyone saw one of those young vampires sparkle in the daylight?” said Count Dracula, from his table in the darkest corner of the lounge.
“Or one of those pretty izombies from Seattle?” asked one of the living dead, which caused his rotting jaw to break off and fall to the floor.
“And what about Mothra?” said Godzilla from the beer garden outside, where the giant monsters congregated.
“It can only be a Van Helsing,” said Count Dracula.
After a great deal of talking, moaning, and roaring, it was Frankenstein who had the best idea, as usual.
The next day, an ad appeared in the National Enquirer, the tabloid of record for the supernatural world: “Truce. Meet us in two weeks at the Glass Cliff at midnight.” The monsters knew that Van Helsings always read the Enquirer to keep up on imaginative news, such as Hilary Clinton’s satanic inner circle.
“No monster has ever asked for a truce,” thought Seven after reading the ad. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he knew he had to check it out. Twelve days later, he packed his gear into his truck, kissed his family goodbye, and started the two-day drive.
At midnight on the appointed day, Count Dracula, Frankenstein, and the Zombie waited at the foot of the Glass Cliff. They could see someone approaching.
“Only a Van Helsing would have the courage to come here,” said Frankenstein.
Seven’s angular face and prematurely white hair marked him as Six’s son.
“I’ve come a long way,” said Seven. “What do you want?”
“We know what you’ve been doing,” said Dracula. “We don’t know how, but it has to stop. It's genrecide, but you can never destroy us all; we come from too deep in the human imagination. We’ll always be here no matter what you do.”
Before Seven could answer, the monsters began to close in on him, forcing him up against the Glass Cliff.
“You called a truce!” said Van Helsing. “Back up.”
“Never trust us,” said Frankenstein “Six didn’t -- we’re evil.”
At that point, the Zombie’s arm fell off, signaling Godzilla, who had been hiding in a nearby grove of trees. Godzilla emerged and before Seven could react, he blasted his blue atomic breath at the Glass Cliff, causing a cascade of ice to fall down, entombing Seven at its base in a huge pile of scree.
Scientists would later attribute the ice collapse to global warming and posted educational warnings nearby. These were ignored by the tourists who climbed on the ice boulders, never realizing it was the frozen grave of Abraham Van Helsing VII.
Dracula, Frankenstein, the Zombie, and Godzilla returned to the Lodge to celebrate and prepare for the Halloween feeding frenzy.
Lisa was heartbroken when Seven never returned, but she had accepted that this might happen. She knew what it meant to be a Van Helsing and to the future of their son.
She also knew what it meant to the future of monsters. Forty-eight hours after Seven’s death, his computer executed AutoDie when he was not there to stop it. The thinning of the monster herd would continue without him.
The Glass Cliff Lodge eventually stopped its October Monsterfest, but some things never die. The lounge continues to serve duck milkshakes to the brave.
* * * * * *
In researching bad horror/sci fi movies, I came across this, which I wish I could have used. “Creature with the Atom Brain (1955). An ex-Nazi mad scientist uses radio-controlled atomic-powered zombies in his quest to help an exiled American gangster return to power.” Madness or genius? It has it all: Nazis, mad scientist, the atomic bomb, zombies, and gangsters. Throw in a commie plot, and it pretty much sums up 1955.
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no subject
Date: 2019-12-19 11:51 pm (UTC)Nice one, G. :-)
no subject
Date: 2019-12-20 01:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-20 01:56 am (UTC)