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Chapter 2
Bistritz — Did NOT sleep well. My dreams usually involve Halle Berry and Mina wrestling in a pile of drug money stolen from The Evil League Of Elvii. Last night was not that awesome. The one I remember involves Christopher Walken dressed as Wonder Woman on the set of Inside The Actor’s Studio. I was James Lipton. For what felt like eternity, we talked about Blast From The Past.
I blame the dog. There was a St. Bernard howling all night under my window. He was probably on his way to rip up a church’s lawn and decided to stop for a spell. Amazingly, out of the hundred windows available, Satan’s little helper chose mine.
In addition to my mangy annoyance, every time I started to doze someone would knock on my door to wake me up. I would call out, “What do you want?” but no one would answer. I complained to the manager, but he threatened me with his new blade-rimmed hat. Based on his enthusiasm, I did not test him. Instead, I did the only thing I could think of: I took a dump in the lobby and ran, holding up my pants as I escaped.
After I made it a safe distance from Casino Royale, I dropped my drawers and entered the local Fancy Schmancy Coffee. Pants around my ankles, I waddled to the counter and ordered by grunting, grabbing four iced coffees and pointing to the dish in their display window.
Fancy Schmancy Coffee serves one other thing besides Paprika Hendl and that’s an egg-plant stuffed with horse meat. They call it “Sea Biscuit”.
The bus to Transylvania was supposed to leave before eight. It didn’t. After rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit on a park bench for several hours, wondering how long it would take the Casino Royale’s diminutive manager to find me.
It seems the further east you go, the more unpunctual the transportation. All day the bus dawdled through a country full of Flavor Flav-ugly. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the top of steep hills, burning, causing the sky to look a faint red. Sometimes we ran by rivers littered with military trash created by Russia and their nautical mishaps. They may have nukes, but Russia’s navy is the Washington Generals of the seafaring world.
As we approached the outskirts of Transylvania, another wretched site came into view. At every bus station there were troups of clowns in all manner of undress. There are some things in life you just can’t “unsee”. A hairy, naked, overweight clown with a baby penis is one of them. I felt bad for the man, both for his God-forsaken endowment and because of his ratty clown attire. One woman on the bus snapped a picture, adding to his humiliation.
The women looked pretty enough … until you got near them. More Nicole Eggert today than Nicole Eggert during Baywatch.
But the strangest figures I saw were the Slovaks. They were more Ultimate Warrior-like than the most rabid WWF fans. Each Slovak male could pass for the Warrior or at the very least, The Renegade. Thankfully, unlike the actual Ultimate Warrior, the Slovaks are harmless and crave constant reassurance. My kind of people.
It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz. Being practically on the frontier–the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina–Bistritz has had a very stormy existence, and always looks like the Gulf Coast after Hurricane season. At the beginning of the seventeenth century Bistritz underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the body count being assisted by famine, disease, and music by Jesse McCartney.
When I entered the Golden Krone I faced a cheery-looking elderly woman in the traditional Romanian clown dress–white undergarment with a long double apron, front, and back, of colored stuff fitting almost too tight for modesty, with white face paint, a bright red nose, and an obnoxiously large flower. When I came close enough to breath in the propylene glycol, she squirted me with her novelty flower. Before I could respond, she squeezed my nose and said in a garbled English, “Harker John?”
“John Harker.” I said. “I hate clowns”.
She smiled, not understanding my hostile choice of words, and gave some message to an elderly man in obscenely tight pants and Warrior face paint. He went behind the desk to retrieve something and immediately returned with a classy looking letter and a bottle of Ambien.
“This for you” the man said. “Open. Open. My Pet Zombie returns to air in three moments”.
I’ve heard that show is good, but I can’t imagine it being entertaining while dubbed. The only way to watch an American show is in English, otherwise it’s like watching a dubbed Japanese anime. The results are never pretty.
The envelope featured Kay’s Kitten Kaboodle’s corporate mascot, Benevolent Bender, on the cover. Dracula’s employee pool seems to be made up of clowns and professional wrestlers. I don’t have any confidence in their ability to communicate effectively. This envelope must be from the Count.
“Welcome to the Carpathians! Home to Eastern Europe’s top source for vintage Victorian pornography! I am anxiously expecting you. Take these pills to get your rest. At three tomorrow your hummer limo will start for Bukovina. At the Borgo Pass my executive sedan will await and will bring you to me. I trust your journey from New York has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my adorably ugly land. — Your BFF, Dracula!!!”
The Count used three exclamation points. I never got that. Is he shouting at me three times as loud?
- John
FYI: Motorized wheel chairs should have license plates
