In the Blood


In England things had progressed rather quickly for Miss Honeycake; once she had recovered from the attempted strangulation by Lola, her armed guard had transferred her into the custody of the local police. Under the interrogation she had given the police a few code words and told them to contact MI5 and refused to say another word.

The code words went through the thin blue line’s hierarchy like a rat up a drain pipe and swiftly reached the ears of Simeon Smarmy, one of the top bananas in the Home Office and alarm bells literally went off; the purple beret was legendary in certain circles and Simeon sped off in an unmarked ministry car to get to the chicken that had come to roost before it escaped and flew south for the winter with the quick brown fox and the lazy dog.

Simeon decided that he had been too long in the job and really must stop thinking like that or maybe make a career change.

He opened his briefcase and looked at the slightly dated picture of Miss Honeycake.

“My she’s ravishing!” he thought, “The Mata Hari of MI5, the best quadruple agent in the business!”

Miss Honeycake hoped that her plan would work; she had been in the mother country behind the Iron Curtain for so long that now that the cold war had replaced the other war she had information that would be extremely valuable to the government. She also had enough evidence to bring the Home Office to it’s knees, and threaten national security if she chose to.

She hadn’t yet decided if Lola and Bunty’s secret powers would be part of the negotiation process.

Although “Charles Darwin” was an arch sceptic, he had seen evidence that Transylvestite was home to those who belonged to an ancient cult which drank blood as part of its rituals, and possibly engaged in human sacrifice and even cannibalism.

If “Dr Foster” really was of the royal line of that country, then he was in real danger; the Dr was clearly suffering from psychotic delusions which were probably inherited from his undoubted ancestors the Blood Countess, the Countess of Barthory, and the model for Dracula himself-Vlad the Impaler.

Professor Dorking decided to make a gamble;

“The game is over Dr, I know who you really are. Don’t worry, I have no intention of revealing your identity, or turning you over to the authorities. I am not your enemy, in fact I believe that we have a shared agenda.”

“Continue.” said an intrigued Lictor, for that is who Dr Foster really was.

“If I am right,” said Dorking, “you are in the perverse position, where you are in love with your first cousin Miss Lola Gefiltre, but at the same time wish to attain the throne of a country which has been absorbed by the Soviet Union that she is the titular Queen of?”

“That may be so,” said Lictor, “but how can you possibly help me resolve this dilemma?”

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