The last instalment for this academic year of our ‘Writer of the Week’ series is from Chris C. in S1.
The Caravan Park….from Hell!! A Gothic Comedy by Chris C.
“All done,” smiled Vladimir Apricotus, his white face beaming. He hit ‘send’ on the email confirming his reservation at the ‘Bat Castle Luxury Caravan Resort’ in Helensburgh.
It was winter.
The weeks flew by like gargoyles in the sky. Then at last the day had come. Vlad dressed in his black Metallica T-shirt and his Pokémon watch and, carrying his coffin shaped backpack, he swaggered to the bus stop, his chains jangling.
He stopped dead at the sight of her. She was the most beautiful specimen he had ever seen: a white bowl cut adorned her head, four moles danced on her chin and her teeth were sharp and yellow. “What fabulous gnashers,” Vlad said to himself silently. He glanced downwards and his heart soared to see Crocs on her large feet. They had a fire print design on them and matched the baggy blue jeans perfectly.
Vladimir could not contain himself and despite having one leg shorter than the other he hirpled over at breakneck speed. Not easy to do in knee length PVC boots with six-inch soles, I can tell you.
His opening line was magical. “Awrite doll,” he gurgled through the saliva foaming at his mouth. He waited to hear the sweet reply. But only gibberish erupted from her purple lipsticked mouth.
“MehR 3OBYT NapneH Parlene 9n3 Poccnn!”
Vlad thought to himself that she was his dream girl. Russian, sartorially challenged, biceps the size of grapefruits. This was his lucky day.
So then the Maryhill bus rolled up. But Vlad, already smitten, saw it as the chariot of love. He didn’t even giggle as Pauline’s Croc made a farty sound as it squelched in the mud. That’s how serious he was.
The driver pulled his black cloak over his face and shoulders and cracked his whip.The coal black horse sped off with a clatter of hooves. Vladimir waited for a break in the thunder to approach Parlene. He was dying to know if she was going to the same place as him. If so, it would be truly a holiday to remember. “Da,” she grunted when he asked. Holiday romance was on, on, on! Vlad was so excited he slapped her thigh, and got a right hook in return. Could he love this girl any more?
Vlad rubbed his long, slender white hands with glee as he spied the rusty gates, high walls and spikes of the caravan park entrance. “Just perfect,” he thought as he gingerly walked over the graves leading up to the oak door, which was studded with needles and bullets. He rang the skull shaped doorbell and the sounds of One Direction came from within.
‘Pure hell,’ Vlad thought. ‘ I love it here.’
And right there, standing in front of him was…a dwarf! The shortest, plumpest man Vlad had ever seen. He had knee-high leather boots on, a green pointy hat (like a dunce hat) and a vest drenched in egg yolk and blood.
Or was it ketchup?
Mr Dwarf shouted Vladimir to his caravan – number 666. Sorry 667, after unpacking the coffin backpack and laying out his candles and putting nails on the bed, Vlad decided to search for Parlene. He spied her and walked over briskly to apologise for his earlier freshness. They made up. As they kissed, Vladimir smelled a strange aroma.
Was it BO? No, it was…burning! He and Parlene ran over (well, as fast as a limping man in platforms can). Parlene’s Croc fell off so he did the manly thing and carried her. It was a fire!! Was it stake for dinner he wondered? But then came the screams! Something was badly wrong!
As they got nearer and nearer, Vlad and Parlene peered through the high cornfields. A crowd had gathered. But it was the wrong sort of crowd. Their eyes were bloodshot and glazed, their arms were outstretched and they were chanting Latin or something. A young girl was being slowly seared in the flames with an apple in her mouth. Parlene bellowed, “Stop!” in her manly Russian voice. The crowd went wild and their heads circled 420 degrees. They raised their scythes, pitchforks and Molotov corn-tails (did you get it? Remember they were in a corn field?) and stumbled towards our heroes.
“It’s a 2v8,” Parlene grunted.
“Wait, you can speak English?” Vlad said, surprised.
“Only if there’s a ritualistic Satanic burning,” said Parlene, but clearly that wasn’t the main priority.
“Let’s do some mincing,” said Vlad, grabbing his ball and chain while Parlene seized a pair of sheep shears (her weapon of choice) and our two angels of hell strode off to rescue the hostage.
Parlene got the first one by snipping their belly open and letting their guts flow out like a red waterfall. Three of them were coming at her from behind so Vlad, being the fearless man that he is, limped over and took them all out with one blow. They were now back-to-back and were circled by the four that were left. He quickly glanced to the side and saw who must be the leader, as his red eyes were glowing and he was muttering some kind of incantation under his breath. So, he swung his ball and chain with all his might and hurled the biggest spike towards the undead maniac. It hit him square in the napper right between the eyes. His followers scattered like skittles and it was over.
Safe to say Vlad and Parlene ‘enjoyed’ the remainder of their stay.
“So how was it?” asked the dwarf as they checked out the next week.
“Life changing,” smiled Vlad as he slapped Parlene’s thigh again. This time she didn’t hit him.
Harmony was restored at the Bat Castle Caravan Park. But, to this day, if you listen carefully enough you can still hear Parlene’s Croc squelching in the mud…
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