Title: Knorg’s Vampire Tarot
Category: Paranormal
Author Pen name:
Knorg
Email: paxgronk@hotmail.com
Description: These card stories use a variety of well-known and
popular as well as more obscure characters, from Marge Simpson to Elvis, from
Bloodrayne to Jon Arbuckle, as well as my own characters. Each story is around
1000 words.
Stories: Death/Rebirth by
Vampire, catfight, sex, girl-on-girl, and similar.
Song lyrics used without
permission.
Characters/places/trademarks
that aren’t mine are used for this parody without permission.
This story concept is a
parody of Fifteen Painted Cards from a Vampire Tarot by Neil Gaiman.
Marge Simpson felt a stab
of worry as she climbed out of her small red car, and eyed the clearly broken
down front of the large house, second only to Mr Burns in size, and on the next
estate along. The blue-haired matriarch of the Simpsons clan examined the
damage closely, and decided she should call the police.
“Mmmm. Oh my…” she laid a
hand on her chest as she stepped back and wavered in her resolution. Standing
in the shadow of the old house, she felt compelled to enter, to step into it’s
shadowy entrance-way. The chirpy birdsong of the bright sunny day seemed to cut
off instantly as Marge walked through the house. Though she’d never before been
inside, she found her way easily to another busted open door, looking down dark
steps that seemed to lead into the basement. She knew she wanted to go down
them.
“This is a nice house.
I’m sure the owners will contribute to the church fund if I ask nicely.”
Getting money out of anyone in Springfield was easier than the next challenge
on her list, Mr Burns. Resolved that she ought to go down, to see if anyone
needed help, Marge stepped down into ill-lit darkness.
‘Come to me…’ She stopped, straining to hear a voice on the edge
of hearing. The urge to walk deeper into the basement was over-powering;
Marge’s mind was not her own anymore and she didn’t even notice as the basement
took on the trappings of a Crypt. Marge reached the bottom of the steps and
crossed the floor, stopping before the deepest shadows.
‘Show yourself to me.’
Marge dropped her green
dress to the floor about her, and undid her bra. Then, slowly, she pushed her panties
down to her ankles. She stood naked before the darkness, her eyes adjusting.
‘Now… you must…’ But it wasn’t working anymore. Marge’s eyes had
taken on their night vision and she could see the grievously wounded man on the
floor before her, wounded in the chest. Her own natural… Margeness… was more
than capable of defeating any preternatural influence. Her brow nit in
momentary confusion as she realised she was naked, before she ran forward and
dropped by the bearly moving man.
In the gloom she saw he
was wearing old fashioned evening dress with under-stated but clearly expensive
jewellery. Whoever broke in and attacked him, they weren’t thieves.
“Oh, you poor dear! Quick!
Press the wound…” Marge had taken first aid courses, and had to deal with Homer’s
accidents many times. It seemed as if the man’s wound was over his heart. She
wondered that he was still alive – he was very cold.
‘No! too late for me!
Need you now…’
“You need Dr. Hibbert!”
A too cold hand closed
around Marge’s arm. She gasped as she was pulled down, her full bare breasts
brushing his bloody chest. She was about to protest when strong images assailed
her mind. The psychedelic wagon… the college kids with the dogs… the
p-p-p-p-puppy power…
Marge sat silently for a
moment, and then spoke sadly “They didn’t even give you a chance… You’ve been a
part of Springfield all these years, and these outsiders just came in and
killed you… Count Jebbediah.. Springfield’s head vampire.” The grip on her arm
relaxed, but the blue haired mother didn’t move. She knew that no power on
Earth could save him now. She knew that he had intended to force part of
himself into her, to make her his creature in death, his instrument of
vengeance.
“NO!” Marge was surprised
by her own forcefulness, “Not yet! I will see those kids brought to justice!
Give me your power!”
Marge pulled at his
damaged clothes with her fingers, and began to lap at his bloody chest, feeling
the power still sputtering within. Instantly, her senses became sharper – she
could hear the birds outside, see the bloody wooden stake rolled from the
corpse, taste the life of a hundred victims.
The count had no strength
to resist even this house-wife as she pushed down his pants with one hand as
she drank, and began rubbing his cock, skin the palest yellow. Marge felt
guilty as Homer’s face flitted across her mind, but she wasn’t cheating on him
– she just needed a full union to take the power, to become head vampire. The
knowledge sat in her mind, serving, not controlling.
The count hadn’t moved
since releasing her arm, but she felt his eyes on her now and looked him in the
eyes. Marge saw her bloody yellow face reflected in dying eyes.
Impaling herself in one easy
thrust, she was hunched on his body, drinking from his chest. Blue hair shaking
in time with her well preserved rack, Marge licked the blood around her mouth
and felt fangs starting to grow; the power change from the head vampire fast
and efficient. Humping faster, the last sweat of her life dripping down her
face, Marge lifted the Count close to her and tore into his throat. The blood
flow was sluggish, cooling. The count hung limply in her arms as she drained
the power, the knowledge, and the undead life from him.
Claws flicked from her
fingers, piecing the flesh she gripped, then disappeared back into yellow
flesh. Marge felt the fire building in her stomach, and rode harder, the rucked
clothing of the vampire count roughly stimulating her puffy sex.
“AARRRRHHHHH
YEEAAAAHHHHHH! HOMIE!” sweat damp blue hair hung about her face, and she called
out as she came, crushing the body to her even as it began to crumble to dust
in her arms, even the penis inside her. The cold crypt air felt humid about
Marge as she juiced on the stone floor, spasmodically massaging her right
breast with one hand, her pussy with the other, she completed her
transformation.
The hunger came with the
early October night, and Marge Simpson, Head vampire, cleaned herself in one of
the house’s many bathrooms. She hummed as she dressed, imagining raising an
army to go after those pesky kids.
“I’m sure Mr Burns would
love to contribute” she told herself, as she patted her hair, not regretting
her lost reflection for even the briefest moment.