Chapter Three

Father Bartholomew Kitzler stood ramrod straight at the head of the coffin, his spine an architectural marvel of rectitude, rigid with divine purpose.

He was a man of unbending morals. Unyielding devotion. An inflexible jawline sharpened by decades of pious disapproval. One could have balanced a communion wafer on his shoulders without fear of it falling—though none had dared try since the unpleasantness at the Bishop’s Breakfast.

He was the last truly erect man in a valley rife with vipers and sinners.

Which made it all the more galling that the churchyard—his churchyard, carefully maintained and bordered with appropriately modest hedges—was currently swarming with women dressed like they were attending a gothic burlesque.

They came from everywhere. Swooping in like vultures wearing slinky black dresses with plunging necklines and soaring side slits that exposed entirely too much flesh. Grandmothers sported studded leather collars. Wives in translucent widow-veil halter necks. Daughters dabbing scented hankies to mascara-streaked cheeks, recounting fond remembrances that no upright man should have to overhear.

Even the local strumpets from Madame Zucht’s had come, dressed in something loosely approximating mourning if Kitzler tilted his head and squinted. Their damnedably short hemlines flashed hints of panties the colour of temptation.

And they wept—wept!—as if the Archangel Gabriel himself had shuffled off this mortal coil rather than a shameless Lothario.

“Oh, Rodrigo!” Sobbed a particularly well-upholstered spinster, grasping the edge of the coffin as though its resident might leap up and ravish her one last time. “Those magic hands! That tongue! That... that throbbing generosity!”

Father Kitzler flinched as though someone had goosed him. He stiffened his spine, clearing his throat with enough **** to scour a fresco off a chapel ceiling.

“Let us pray.”

“Remember the time he fixed my fence?” Sniffled a young maiden in elbow-length gloves. Her evening gown was engaged in a life-or-**** struggle against her bombastic bust. “Was there nothing that man couldn't hammer?”

“Amen!” Came a chorus of breathy agreement.

Kitzler’s eye twitched. This was not how funerals were supposed to go. Funerals were solemn. Grim. Backs straight, spirits humble, bosoms appropriately restrained.

Instead, the churchyard teemed with midnight lace, heaving chests, and an unvarnished admiration for a dead man’s nether regions.

“Don’t forget his sonorous voice and silver tongue.” Bubbled an elderly dame, supported by her two equally bereft daughters. “The kind things he said and… and the lingual acrobatics.”

That sparked a fresh wave of grief-stricken wailing.

“Oh, the loss!”

“Gone before his time.”

“Whose going to unclog my pipes now?”

Father Kitzler’s ears burned like pyres. Had the departed infected every woman in his parish with impure thoughts and sinful deeds? What manner of devil were they burying in his hallowed ground?

Even his own child, Charity—sweet, mild-mannered, Sunday School-leading Charity—was crying into her embroidered handkerchief with the sort of melodramatic sobs usually reserved for opera or inconvenient pregnancies.

“Daughter,” Kitzler hissed, pulling her aside. “Did you ever fraternize with this man?”

Charity sniffled. “Only once, Father. He helped me feed the hens. Then he looked at me like I was a hen and he a mighty cock.”

Kitzler turned a slightly unnatural shade of purple. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a nerve quietly snapped and slithered off to find a drink.

Just then, as if summoned by the collective libido of the valley, a black coach rattled into the graveyard, drawn by four Fresian stallions and a singular sense of dramatic timing.

It stopped, the door slamming open.

The Baroness von Hühnerbusen of the neighbouring province—renowned for her vineyards, a momentous décolletage, and her refusal to wear undergarments—stormed forward like a battleship made of silk brocade and prominent sideboob.

“I demand to see him,” She declared, voice low, husky, and soaked in cognac. “One last time. One last ride.”

“You mean... a viewing?” Asked Kitzler, horrified.

“No,” she stated emphatically. “I don’t.”

There were a few stifled gasps. Several knowing sighs—a lone “Yesss, queen!” from the back.

Kitzler couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How had he overlooked the wanton nature of his congregation? The lusty vixens! He looked skyward as if hoping God would smite him on the spot—no such luck. Thunder rumbled, but it sounded suspiciously like a sultry growl.

He motioned to the gravedigger, a hunchbacked unfortunate with surprisingly burly arms, swaddled in a dark cloak.

The coffin lid creaked and then—

A collective gasp.

There was a corpse, yes. A smartly attired one, face powdered, hair coiffed, chin dashing. But there were two notable absences… Namely, his tongue and a specific something below the belt.

Someone had robbed the dearly departed of his two most infamous endowments.

The women shrieked. The Baroness fainted onto a particularly broad-shouldered prostitute, who caught her in a dancer’s dip that could have graced the cover of a romance novel.

“Desecration!” Kitzler bellowed, standing straight and tall as an avenging angel. “Defilement! Disgrace! Who dares tamper with the dead?! Repent, repent ye sinners!”

There was much rending of scanty clothing and gnashing of teeth as the underdressed congregation wailed in despair. Swooning and collapsing in fits of grief.

He repressed a swell of virtuous satisfaction. The collection plate would be heavier come Sunday. Nothing puts bums in pews like the fear of god and eternal damnation.

A hand tugged at his cassock.

He glared down at the bent figure of the gravedigger, leering through crooked teeth.

“What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy proselytizing?”

“Sure, sure. Nice sermon by the way. Very inspiring.” The twisted wretch said in an unexpectedly deep, resonant voice. “All that fire and brimstone. And your stately bearing–has nobody ever complimented your posture, Father? I doubt there is a more upstanding man in this entire valley.”

Kitzler frowned at the unexpected praise, then nodded indulgently, feeling vindicated at the misshapen creature’s honeyed words.

Not that he was a proud man.

Oh no, never him.

“Thank you, my child.” He replied, graciously ignoring the uproar surrounding them. “Will you join me in confession later to unburden your immortal soul?”

“Certainly, Father.” The cripple sniggered, surreptitiously adjusting a heavy lump in his sackcloth pants. “I cannot wait to divest a lifetime of sin upon those level shoulders and your strong back.”

Father Bartholomew Kitzler somehow managed to straighten even further, his self-righteousness knowing no bounds.

“Almighty God hath called me into the service of my brothers and sisters, so that I might bear that heavy load. Fear not, this back will not bend or break beneath the weight of your transgressions.”

Truly, he was an instrument of heaven, bringing deliverance to the unwashed masses of Varnholt Valley.

“Good, good.” The hunchback’s smooth tone had a mesmerizing quality to it, like a cello in the hands of an expert musician. Kitzler leaned in closer to hear him over the crowd's howling lamentations. “For the Lord came to me in a prophetic dream, commanding me to yoke the wild spirits of these malfeasant wenches…”

He listened, absolutely enthralled.

The creature weaved an intriguing tale of divine visitation that, judging by the utter sincerity in his captivating tone, contained not a single untruth.

“Hallelujah, brother! Saints be praised!”

The priest spun to face the crucifix hanging behind him, hands clasped in prayer, giving thanks to the Almighty, totally unaware of the gravedigger’s avaricious gaze drilling into his back.

Doctor Johann Doofenshmirtz, the menace of Varnholt Valley, surgical savant extraordinaire, and tamer of lightning, seethed with frustration and the early signs of a stomach ulcer.

He glowered out the window like a man scorned by nature and Newtonian law.

Wind howled through the castle’s draftiest turrets. Rain lashed against stonework. Somewhere up above, thunder peeled with theatrical flair, followed by a chorus of feminine moans so indecent they made the gargoyles blush.

“They're doing it again,” Johann muttered, teeth clenched, fingers twitching at his lab coat, the sign of a man **** to throttle something but denied the satisfaction on account of being too civilized and too married.

He tugged the curtains shut with a huff, though that did little to muffle the sound of ecstatic laughter and ecstatic-er screeching drifting down from the roof.

His wife and daughter were stormbathing again.

High atop the castle's tallest tower, sprawled like gothic swimsuit models upon sun beds bolted to the lightning rod, Magdela and Liselotte Doofenshmirtz lay in poses of hedonistic abandon. They wore what could only technically be called bikinis…

French bikinis, the lewdest and most degenerate swimwear on the continent.

Their skin glowed with a suspiciously healthy luminescence. Their hair floated with a static charge that made small birds drop dead mid-flight. And each time lightning struck the tower’s tip with an earsplitting CRACK, the pair squealed with glee, as if Thor himself were giving them a foot massage.

“Wheeee!” Liselotte giggled. “Do it again, Mama!”

“I’m not doing anything, dearest. That’s the storm.”

“Oh!” she paused. “Then who do we beg for a second helping of cummies?”

Down below, Johann clutched a teacup hard enough to leave fingerprints in the porcelain. He was a man of science. He was brilliance personified. He had five degrees, two working kidneys, and one frankly underappreciated handlebar moustache.

And yet here he was—consigned to the role of cabana boy. Sextoy technician. Husband/unpaid intern.

“‘Johann, more wattage,’” he mimicked, stomping around the laboratory. “‘Johann, re-align the conductors.’ ‘Johann, build me a vibrating saddle that doubles as a portable dynamo.’ Nobody asks how Johann is feeling, noooo. Nobody says, ‘Oh, Johann, thank you for converting the tower into a weather-powered pleasure parlour.’”

He turned toward the workbench, where a telegraph from Nikola Tesla sat. The young Serbian-American futurist might not possess a mustache as grand or curly as Johann’s, still, he had some interesting theorems on the subject of rotating magnetic fields and alternating electrical current.

The frustrated Doctor had reached out to his peer in a moment of teeth-grinding desperation, and the help he’d received was questionable at best.

Beneath the kind, if slightly patronizing, message was a blueprint so suggestive, it was banned in several countries for offending both church and scientific establishment.

Johann sighed. He picked up the schematics and stared at the cylindrical-shaped coil with all the enthusiasm of a man rejected by his own creations.

“Hand-held. More compact,” he read aloud. “Increased charge capacity. Can be inserted—nope! No, that simply isn’t right.”

He’d built the damnable device anyway and was presently searching about for it while another orgasmic squeal rattled the chandeliers.

“God dammit, where did I leave that fucking thing?!”

He marched to the ladder leading to the roof, eye twitching, lip quivering. Donning a rubber-insulated raincoat and bucket hat, Johann climbed the rungs, emerging into the heart of the tempest.

Wind and rain lashed the tower like an ocean squall. The iron weathercock was a charred, smoldering lump on the lead tiles.

Thoroughly unbothered, looking hot enough to halt airships in flight, his gorgeous wife and daughter lounged like two visions of Venus, their spectacular feminine forms glistening wetly.

He wanted to weep at the showstopping sight of their supple contours and perfected physiques. Somehow, repeated applications of his alchemical solutions and giga-watts of giggle-inducing voltage had elevated the girls’ rhapsodic resplendence to a nearly ethereal level of sensual enticement.

He could have chewed off his tongue, watching them squirm and shudder so prettily with every bolt striking the lightning rod–his lightning rod–witnessing them buck and convulse in spine-bowing bliss, squirting juices that mingled with the rain drenching their powerful thighs.

Most of all, Doctor Johann Doofenshmirtz wanted to scream–his go-to move during times of great stress or jubilation–observing the bouncing of their inflated breasts and tightening tummy muscles in those teensy tiny French bikinis.

The scurrilous swimwear resembled three postage stamps fastened in place over their pebbled nipples and engorged snatches by dental floss.

His throbbing boner demanded action.

“Was that... was that six million volts, do you think?” Magdela panted, lashes fluttering.

“Try this one, Mama!” Cried Liselotte, her pupils sparking like overloaded breakers. The insolent imp pressed Nikola’s compact Tesla ray against the electrode jutting from her mother’s neck and pulled the trigger. “It’s got, like, a bazillion panty-creaming volts!”

“Mmmmmwoah~!” Magdela jittered through a battery-charged orgasm, arcing bolts ran along her voluminous blonde and red tresses like a Jacob’s ladder. “Heavens, that is invigorating. What a fine toy you’ve found. Here, let me do you next.”

“Yes, yes! Do me, Mama. Do me!”

An angry vein pulsed fit to rupture on Johann’s temple. He fought the battering winds and rain, trying to maintain his footing. The smell of burned ozone saturated his nostrils.

They were passing his Tesla gun back and forth like an opium pipe, getting each other off in an incestuous pantomime of mother/daughter bonding. The furious Doctor’s manhood was harder than adamantine, staring at their soaked, writhing bodies, illuminated by every flash of lightning.

“Oh, you want volts?” He growled. “I’ll give you volts. You’ll be positively charged, you ungrateful–”

Thunder boomed, dangerously close.

The roof crackled.

The castle groaned.

Somewhere above, an owl burst into a cloud of singed feathers..

Johann let out a girlish screech, crouching and covering his ears.

“Oh, it’s him again.” His daughter’s sour grimace could’ve withered a lemon. “The toad lusting after us swans. Get rid of him, Mama. He’s so… icky.”

“What do you want now, dear?” Magdela invested the endearment with a lifetime of disappointment. “Shouldn’t you be working on one of your silly gizmos or terrorizing the valley? Go shake your tiny pecker at some stupid villagers, that’ll scare them. We are preoccupied.”

Rising shakily, Johann dashed water from his goggles.

Tiny pecker? He’d show them. When that useless failure of a boy finally delivered his shopping list of parts, he’d design an electric codpiece and take his ****!

“Yeah, send us a real man while you’re at it. A totally hunky and hung uber-stud to satisfy USSSSSSSS!!” Liselotte’s derisive tone reached a climactic pitch when a sky-rending strike hit the lightning rod.

Mother and daughter jerked and spasmed, eyes rolling in their sockets. Tongues lolling from their plump lips, firm hips humping the turbulent air as though fucking their dream man.

Johann leapt upon the momentary diversion like a starving hyena.

“And what qualities, precisely, would such a stud possess?” He asked loudly, producing a pocket book and pencil, which were immediately whisked away by the gale. “Gods fucking dammit!”

“Hmm? Well, a tall, musclebound body, of course. Not like your puny form.” Magdela offered dryly, coming down from her orgasmic high with dick-wilting swiftness.

“A square chin, stout shoulders, strong arms, like… ah, everything you’re not?” Liselotte added in an equally dehydrated tone. Nobody would have guessed the mouthy brat had cum her brains out seconds earlier. “Um, and a massive cock. I’m talking huge. Like, a life-changing, earth-shaking gash smasher!”

The mad master of Varnholt Valley sagged, utterly crushed as they started counting his shortcomings on their manicured fingers.

“A broader chest than yours.” His wife noted.

“A deep, commanding tone worthy of a true Daddy!” His daughter chirped.

“Thick, dark hair, unlike your scraggly white mop. Something I can sink my hands into.”

“Abs that could knap flint!”

“A heroic smile full of straight, gleaming TEEEEETH!” Magdela thrashed rapturously when another bolt struck, before quickly returning to her scathing critique. “Close your mouth, husband. Your yellowed stumps are off-putting. Why, oh why, did I marry a man with the gummy leer of a British dockworker?”

Johann rose to his full, unimpressive height, clutching the parapet, horribly conscious of the perilous drop a short step away. Lightning flashed, silhouetting the mad genius against the boiling sky in what he was certain would have been a portrait-worthy sight if anyone had bothered to look.

“Listen to me, you treacherous floozies!” He bellowed over the wind. “You sit there, smirking and sparking like deranged stormchasers, but history will vindicate me! Oh yes, the name Johann Adele Doofenshmirtz will be etched into the annals of science! In gold leaf! On a bronze plaque! Mounted in a museum that charges admission!

“You think I am some tinkerer, some—some backyard bodger of flesh and wire! But no! I am a visionary! An architect of forces man was never meant to harness! The laws of physics are my playthings! The very sky is my—shit, hang on—” He ducked as a chunk of flaming wing landed nearby, then straightened with the much diminished dignity of a man dodging chargrilled avian appendages.

“I will not be mocked by… by oversexed hussies! When my grand design is complete—yes, mock if you must—empires will tremble! Heads of state will kneel! And you—yes, both of you—will have to admit that Johann Adele Doofenshmirtz is no mere man! I will be—”

A poorly timed gust of wind whipped his words away in a spiraling shriek and replaced them with the far less impressive sound of him **** on rainwater, gagging like a cat with a hairball.

But he rallied valiantly, pounding a fist against his rebellious sternum. “—I will be the tyrannical ruler of all Europe! And then—then you’ll regret dismissing me as some… some…”

The crazed Doctor devolved into a coughing fit, hacking up bile. Once done, he simply stood there, deflated, rain running down his nose in rivulets, waiting for some kind of reaction.

Liselotte turned to glance back from where she was attempting to melt her mother into a big-tittied, hard-bodied puddle of bliss with the Tesla ray. One of her shoulder straps had snapped at some point during his rant, exposing a fat, perfectly ripe melon topped by a stiff raspberry teet.

“Your middle name is Adele?” She asked incredulously, ignoring the fashion faux pas. “That’s, like, totally hilarious. Even your name is lamer than a three-legged mule!”

She erupted in peels of mocking laughter, only a fraction louder than Magdela’s gratuitous groans and whorish gurgles.

“AAAAAURGH!!”

Johann shook his fists in impotent outrage before fleeing back to the relative safety of his lab.

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