Noble Vampire? Nobel Vampire?

It was the penthouse- the top floor of an exclusive
Manhattan apartment building.

And Lev Tomi (who in his mortal life had been the Russian
Communist Leon Trotsky) was celebrating.

As head of the UN Secretariat on the Environment and
Climate Change, he was as pleased as punch (and the
punch was flowing heavily in the apartment as was the
champagne and smoked oysters) that Al Gore
and the UN IPCC (Intergovernmental Panel on
Climate Change) had been jointly awarded the Nobel
Peace Prize.

"So are you going to Oslo to accept the prize with Mr.
Gore?" the Aztec vampire princess Qonzilqointec sat
with her legs crossed in a lavender evening gown
showing her nicely shaped thighs and ankles through
sheer finesse black silk nylon and tapped the spiked
stiletto heel of one of her lavender coloured shoes on the
floor.

"Well, I'd like to but I've been told that IPCC Chairman
Rajendra Pachauri who lives in Delhi will probably
be going to Oslo to accept the award on behalf of
the IPCC and will be appearing with Mr. Gore," Lev Tomi
swallowed an oyster.

"You look disappointed," Qonzilqointec smiled.

"Well, I'd like to have gone and been made a big fuss over,"
Tomi nodded, "plus I'd like to have sampled some of that
Norwegian lutefisk -that salted white fish they serve over in
Norway."

"I've been told by a friend of mine that lutefisk can be
deadly," Qonzilqointec sipped from a glass of champagne,
"In a lutefisk eating competition in Kingman, Alberta, Canada
held a few years ago, a man died after eating 97 plates of
the stuff at one sitting. He won the contest but didn't live
to enjoy the prize."

"What was the prize?" Tomi asked as he reached for an
egg roll.

"A year's supply of lutefisk," Qonzilqointec held out her glass
to receive more champagne from the catering valet.

"I doubt whether I'd be eating that much lutefisk," Tomi salted
his sushi and took a bite.

"You'll be eating none at all if you don't go to Oslo," Qonzilqointec
lifted another toothpick of smoked oyster to her lips.

"That's true," Tomi looked as sad as an Australian cricket fan
in the recent Twenty/20 Cup semi-finals.

"If you want this friend of mine who warned me about the
lutefisk," Qonzilqointec started tapping her stiletto again, "he
knows someone in Delhi who has access to machine gun-toting
bikini babes. We could see that Mr. Pachauri wouldn't be able to
make the trip."

"That might be an idea," Tomi walked over to the samovar
to pour himself a cup of tea.

As he tasted the tea, he wondered to himself why the best tasting tea
out of samovars seemed to have been served in the Czarist era?
An era he had helped put an end to.

"Lemon?" Qonzilqointec held up a lemon for Comrade Tomi's
tea just as a commercial for the latest Chrysler product appeared
on television.

To be continued.