Category Archives: Shlock mock horror

Seeing too many old movies means it’s time to have a stab at a gripping old ripping yarn.

Low Ebb.

Back in the bad old days, in Old London Town
A mist sprung up, a heavy fog rolled down,
As the good God-fearing Victorian folk slept
Into seedy Whitechapel that damned fog crept.

At the end of a dark dank Dockside alleyway
A lady of the night decided she’d call it a day,
It had been a profitable night for an enterprising maid;
But there’s no profit being alone in the dark, in her trade.

She headed for home with bone weary tread,
After a night on her back she longed for her bed,
But she was mistaken to think she was all alone,
In the fog muffled footsteps echoed her own.

In the confines of Bucks Close the fog thickened,
As those steps sped up her heart-beat quickened,
From her trembling lips her breath came wreathing,
Then, on her neck she felt a hot and heavy breathing.

For a girl who regularly walked the street
This was no man she had wished to meet,
He seized his lapels, opened his greatcoat wide
And the size of his weapon left her terrified…

No, this was no ordinary flasher,
Yes, this was the Docklands slasher!
In a flash her days (and nights) were done,
Then ’twas the Rippers time to cut and run.

Down towards the Thames he blindly ran,
Washing his hands of the crime being the plan,
But the infernal fog hid the embankment railing
And into the dirty old river the Ripper went sailing.

Weighed down by a voluminous greatcoat
Jack the Dipper struggled vainly to stay afloat,
He and his cries for assistance were lost in the mist,
And so the Ripper himself wound up last on his list.

Though the man(iac) in question has long gone
The myth and mystery of his identity lingers on,
The name of the Ripper no-one can provide
All known remains, lost to time, and to tide.

Shlock mock horror! A tribute to classic movies, in the tradition and vein of Mel Brooks ‘Young Frankenstein.’ Well… sort of.

A Dark Day.

What a great night the old Count had had,
There’s something awfully good about being bad,
On her side the poor pure pallid virgin lay,
Well… she had been unsullied yesterday.

How had she fallen for this old mountebank?
Had he spiked the drinks she drank?
That sly old dog had pulled out all the tricks
Once she’d removed purity ring and crucifix.

Towards well earned sleep he began to sink,
Daybreak came, revealing her in the pink ,
Then light disturbed his slumber and he awoke-
And the new day and his waters broke.

For it dawned on him, he had overslept
And from a deeply satisfied sleep he leapt,
He snatched frenziedly at the flimsy curtain-
Drac’s no morning person, that’s for certain.

For to be up and awake at daybreak
Could prove to be a grave mistake,
This was the finest sunrise Dracula had seen
Since contracting morning sickness back in 1517.

It’s a cruel cruel world every soul must learn
And Drac’s old poor pupils began to burn,
With mounting fear the Count was gripped,
Then mortal terror as the curtain ripped.

Clear and bright the sun was shining,
No black clouds, no silver lining,
How the old roue rued his dinner date
But Dracula’s last regret was- too late.

When Drac was ‘entertaining’ some fair maid
Ironically a ‘Do Not Enter’ sign was displayed,
Behind the door, snoring in sweet surrender
One lay, young and slender, neck slightly tender.

Now Igor, Count Dracula’s idiot servant
Was slow and simple but not unobservant,
Igor was charged with Castle Housekeeping
And assumed Drac was somewhere sleeping.

Dracula had long been bit of a rover,
Igor thought he must be sleeping over,
And Igor decided, while the bat’s away
He wouldn’t bust his hump today.

It was only as the dark shadows crept in
Igor returned and conscientiously swept in,
As usual, the Counts bier was a bloody mess,
No Count, only a comatose damsel in distress.

The Counts chamber left Igor disgusted,
Just last week he’d had it done and dusted,
Now he’d gone off, but left behind a filthy cleaner
Wondering if White Spirit might shift this patina?

Igor took a dark look around the room,
Then, teeth gritted, started pushing broom,
Last weeks hard work looked hardly worthwhile-
Though by the window he saw he’d missed a wee pile.

Since the dirty Count was beyond caring
He’d give the Castle a damned good airing,
Boy, that backwoods bumpkin went to town,
Igor even turned the belfry upside down.

He transformed a last resort for the unwary
Into a sun-drenched dream home, light and airy,
He made a cold creepy Castle into a keeper
Unless the prospective buyer dug a little deeper.

But since Drac has gone to his dark lord
His helping hand grows lonely and bored,
Now the sparkling Castle is oppressively still,
With no more Drac chat Iggy has time to kill.

Igor misses the old master’s companionship
So he drops into the village tavern for a nip,
In the darkest corner Igor will gloomily sit,
The villagers tend to shy away from him a bit.

Igor casts a sad, tragic and lonely figure,
He has just one friend, butt uglier and bigger,
He has a battered mug, he’s a bleedin’ nightmare,
When it comes to ghastly looks he’s had his share.

He causes quite the stir down at the Shtup Inn,
Striding through the door and shambling in,
Before he begins one of his monstrous binges
He’s already blown the door off its hinges.

This poor creation has been badly built,
With more stitches than a patchwork quilt,
Any good Doc would stop, then start again,
Well… any decent Doctor with half a brain.

But just as long as the tab gets paid
They get a warm welcome from the barmaid,
For it’s with a prodigious thirst both are blessed;
It’s gonna get wetter and wilder than Oktoberfest.

Big Bertha became one busy busty fraulein
Taking the pilsner out to that ugly Stein,
But sadly the more good spirits they uplifted
The more downbeat the mood shifted.

The conversation Igor totally dominated,
His offsider couldn’t be less animated,
Frankly, all he could do was silently nod,
He’s lost his tongue, the poor sod.

It would take twenty thousand volts
To get a grunt out of that bag of bolts,
He’s strong, he’s silent, he’s big and dumb,
But give him 1.21 gigawatts and hear him hum!

Soon the gruesome twosome were knockin’ it back
Tossing out toasts in memory of dear old Drac,
For despite the dark life the Count had had to live
He always tried to turn A Negative into B Positive.

First comes far too many ‘Cheers’
Then come the maudlin tears,
Over this not-so-pretty pair
Settled a funereal air.

Now it’s Igor who silently sits
While his beer buddy falls to bits,
Is there any sight sadder than
A big blubbering Bitter man?

In the olden days those tears would invoke
Laughter and jeers from the towns volk,
And with pitchforks they’d be pointedly driven away,
Now this odd miss-matched couple are here to stay.

Thanks to the terms of Dracula’s will
Igor gets to keep his Castle on the hill,
The peasants long to burn it to the ground
But Igor owns all the farms for miles around.

So there won’t be any torches lit,
No rowdy unruly mob pitching a fit,
Any fiery outbursts, Frank will stomp ’em out,
Peasants, his presence means- no arson about.

Now in a room once cold dreary and eerie
Igor sits by a blazing fire, bright and cheery,
His serfs remember Dracula as vile and hateful;
When Igor stirs the ashes he remains truly grateful.

Shlock mock horror! All these movies about evil rising up and trying to chase down the brave survivors. Why can’t we see it from everyone’s point of view?

Lost In The Shuffle.

It’s no fun, waking in the shoes of the walking dead,
To see the living see then flee you with dawning dread,
One look at my shambling gammy gait and off they sped,
My food fast running out on me sure makes me see red.

There’s no spring in the step of the walking dead,
Perversely, we zombies are plagued by a ponderous tread,
Soon my quarry teased to a crawl, one tantalising step ahead.
And, oh, the frightful cutting biting stinging things they said!

With bellows blood-lusty enough to rouse the dead
The news of one slow and simple lost soul rabidly spread,
Soon even the old and lame returned from whence they had fled,
Now I wish I’d never raised my creepy head from my death bed.

I fear there’s no future in being a slow-witted dead
As it’s back up my own garden path I find I’ve been led,
Where choice pitch-forks and hatchets line my implements shed,
But I can’t help seeing that whacking big pick-axe, in my head.

 

Nothing like a word prompt to get a story started. Blame Brian at Bonnywood Manor for this light and dark offering.

Last Night.

Hugo approached the final room slowly,
His heartbeat flickering along with the one remaining candle he held aloft,
In the dark corridor his guts grumbled lowly,
His fruitless search for a hidden chamber would have flummoxed Lara Croft.

Perched high on a mist-shrouded mountain top
The old chateau had looked a delightfully romantic place to stay,
A memorable, if unplanned overnight stop,
Now within these walls ‘twould be sweet relief to see a new day.

The room he sought came to light,
Turning the dusty rusted key in the door, it groaned in its cobwebbed lock,
What should have been a welcome sight
Had the rank air of abandonment, Hugo saw with awwwww, then shock.

His nose wrinkled at the ancient stink,
The room filled him with disgust, but what made his hot blood run cold
Was in the cracked mirror above the sink;
A crazed sight no human being would- should- could wish to behold.

In his heart he felt the dread,
He held the candle to his face and felt his fine young face fill with misery,
His red-rimmed eyes, flat and dead
Strained deeply in the darkly reflected shadows, yet there was nothing to see.

His hand went to his tender throat,
He hoped to wake in the morn, put this down to a close shave,
He held to that hope, desperate, remote,
Till his hand came away, bloody and cold, cold as the bloody grave.

How he’d been welcomed by his host,
The Count had celebrated, feted his arrival like a long lost friend,
Hugo had stood for toast after toast,
He recalled swaying, and saying he hoped the night would never end.

But what kind of half-life is it to lurk
In the shadows, in the twilight till another endless day is done?
Hugo is no fan of night work
So he stands, face to the east, yearning, almost burning to see the sun.

A little rework of the Lizzie (Bloody Berserk) Borden axeident-waiting-to-happen story. Not a family friendly story, Lizzie.

Whack Job.

Lizzie Borden took an axe to her dear old Dad,
His constant cutting her down drove her mad,
Yet even as he fell victim to foul patricide
He felt for his wild child a slice of paternal pride;
She’d proved she came from hard-working Irish stock,
With a chip on her shoulder, a real chip off the old block.

Maw was not best pleased with what she saw,
She stood, in bits and pieces, looking over Paw,
Stepmum looked appealingly at step-daughter
Hoping Lizzie would settle for manslaughter,
She hoped to survive and to head off any scandal
‘Cause Liz and the axe had both flown off the handle.

But Lizzie produced from under her pinafore a hatchet-
Lizzie had her plan and she planned to despatch it,
She did not hear her stepmums pleas of ‘Stop! Stop!’
Lizzie was keen to get stuck in, chop chop.
What a pity dear old Dad, so recently laid to rest
Didn’t see Liz working away like a woman possessed.

But since the trial our Lizzie is doing well,
No longer constrained in her padded cell
She’s free to glumly walk the guarded grounds,
She dourly nods at the Doc doing his rounds,
That tragic face rarely bears an authentic smile,
But sometimes, as she lingers by the wood pile…

Late at night, trawling through the channels and I fell upon this tender offering from the past. So serious, so silly, so… If any fans feel distraught about this all I can offer is, ‘sorry- grow up.’

The Vampire Diatribes.

First Entry.

The full moon shone down, bright and clear
As she left the pub full of cider and good cheer,
When from out of the shadows ol’ Dracula did appear
She gave out a cry as down her thigh ran a…frisson of fear.

This sure put a dampener on the nights atmosphere.

The Count slid towards her with a lecherous leer,
She feared this was her dying day as he drew near,
As his fangs grazed her neck she whispered in his ear
Bitter words no salivating vampire ever desires to hear.

Immodest confessions no fair Catholic maid could volunteer.

She has developed quite the reputation round here,
Has an accommodating nature that’s sure to endear,
Her maidenhood hadn’t withstood her sixteenth year,
She’d long laid her honor to rest, and not shed one tear.

So while she’s lying safely abed, Drac’s crying in his bier.

An Athletic Weirdo In London. A story that keeps on coming back to haunt me, you might say. (A bit of a companion piece to ‘Waking up in the morning with that dawning feeling.’)

Everybody Hates Lycra.

Most of the month I’m a good company drone,
Working assiduously away, like a dog with a bone,
But I’ve been cooped up in my little box too long,
The need to get out on a run was growing strong.

The spring sun was sinking like a bloody big ball,
But you’ve time yet to safely run before nightfall,
And tonight heralds the new moon, so big and bold
With its promise of gilding these grey streets in gold.

How mind and body yearned to be out of this cubicle,
To run free, unconfined ‘neath a moon bright and full,
It’s unsettling and primordial, this feeling, passing strange,
I loosened my tie, I went to the rest room, began to change.

Down the stairs, access the door-
The security keypad is such a  chore-
Then the feel of the wind in my hair
As I lope along without worry or care.

Bounding easily along I enter the misty park,
I run without fear of being accosted in the dark,
I might meet the odd ner’do’well, up to no good
But there’s few fleeter than I in this neighborhood.

Soon the park and the streetlights are put behind me;
If I lost my way in these woods who could ever find me?
I thanked my lucky stars for the bright enlightening moon;
I’d met others in the dark past who’d met with… misfortune.

Then I spied someone who looks well off track,
Someone for whom things were looking black,
A lycraed cyclist, the personification of despair,
Astride his cycle, wearing a most deflated air.

He cursed his expensive cycle, he cursed his wretched luck,
He cursed the stupid tyre in which a stupid brad had stuck,
His little backwoods trail had proved to be a bit of a trial,
And I’ll admit I viewed his predicament with a wolfish smile.

I lurked in the shadow, but thanks to a stray moonbeam
I was seen, and the cyclist let loose a hair-raising scream,
He bounded off into the brush, and I followed that sound-
The man seemed to think he was being chased by a Hellhound.

Perhaps he saw the mean hungry look in my lean hungry face,
He led me a merry chase, and I felt compelled to up the pace,
He fairly flew up a creeks rocky bank with reckless abandon,
One ping of a hamstring, he won’t have a leg to stand on.

But he crested the ridge safely, and I then heard a splash,
I leapt in in pursuit but my chase rapidly turned slap dash,
It’s no fun for a werewolf watching his prey skedaddling-
Left up the creek, reduced to whining and dog paddling.

A month later and I shrug off work;
By a certain forest trail I bide and lurk,
And once again the trusty moon reveals
The athlete I think of as meals on wheels.

…………………………………………………………..

If you feel, some moonlit night
To wander out for a late nite bite
Don’t chase and wolf down a triathlete,
They’re sinewy, tough, and bound to repeat.