Frankenstein’s Rant

Mrs. Frankenstein, like all women, doesn’t leave the old castle the way us regular men do. No, Mrs. Frankenstein, my darling Hildegard, has to get ready first. Let’s say we’re due at the Coplenopolis’s at 7 pm. Guess what time Mrs. Frankenstein saunters to the front door and announces “Okay, I’m ready?”

Go ahead, guess. If you said 7:05 pm, you’d be correct. Does she then proceed to the family SUV? Of course not. “Okay, I’m ready” translates into “Okay, it’s time to check to make sure I unplugged every plug in the house, turned off the stove, shut off the dryer, turned down the heat, put the trash out, fed the dog, made sure the cat is back in the house, and given written instructions to the babysitter for little Frankie and Franny.

At 7:25 pm, she slides into the passenger seat of the SUV. We need a big one because, if you saw the film, you noticed we are tall people. I think old Doctor Frankenstein added extra parts in us. I put the SUV in reverse and back out of the driveway while the missus yells at me for driving before she has a chance to buckle up and settle in.

When we finally arrive at the Coplenopolis’s, it’s 7:45 pm. But do the Coplenopolis’s see our scarred good looks at 7:45? Don’t be silly. You could stick four guys in a car and drive somewhere, I don’t care where, let’s say I haul my buddies the count, the werewolf and one of those mummy chaps to choir practice (strip joint). What do you think we do when we get there?  Exactly. We get out of the car. Four doors on the old SUV pop open at approximately the same time – immediately upon stoping.

Now, let’s consider Mrs. Frankenstein, who by the way, is like most women you know, if a bit uglier, well, I shouldn’t say “uglier.” It’s an ugly word. She’s just a little bit scar-challenged if you get my drift.

“Don’t worry,” says the missus. “Everyone always comes late.” She says this with a straight face while I’m checking out the 32 automobiles stuffed into the Coplenopolis’s driveway. I make the mistake of popping my door open. Big mistake. Wife says, “Where are you going?” Doesn’t she know?

Okay, the search for her purse begins. Then she asks if she should wear her sweater into the house. “Why’d you wear it, if you didn’t want to wear it?” I ask. This conversation is a repeat of the same stupid conversation we’ve had since 1889 so you’d think I’d learn a new line or two, but no, I’m Frankenstein’s monster. He didn’t exactly steal the high IQ brain for my head.  Anyway, the wife has removed the sweater and is now going through her purse. “Purse,” of course, means that giant tote bag she drags around with her so rummaging through it takes a while.

“Aren’t you ready yet, dear?” I ask repeating the century old script.

“In a moment, darling. I want to check my makeup.”

Let’s think about this, boys and girls, she wants to check her makeup. Mrs. Frankenstein wants to take a gander at her face. The mirror cracked the first time she peeked at her mug in this vehicle, and that was a long time ago so I don’t  know what’s she’s expecting to see. Did you ever try to check a face full of scars in a cracked mirror?

A few minutes go by. The face that could sink a thousand ships now has shiny red lips and some rosy colored rouge smeared on her scarred cheeks. The scars now stand out as deep rose lines against a pale-as-death complexion because the rouge settles in the deepest places.

“How do I look?” she asks.

By this time I remember the consequences of truth. “Beautiful, my darling.”

She gives me an angry look. “Why are you just sitting there? We’re late. Let’s go.”

Yes, finally, she exits the SUV and heads for the front door. I’m about to ring the doorbell when she says, “I’ve changed my mind.”

Where have I heard that before?

She smiles like there’s no reason in the world why I should be beside myself with Frankensteinian anger. She says, “I think I’ll take my sweater after all. Will you run to the car and get it for me?”

THE END

Deep inside many a monster is what used to be a troubled human. Dracula was once a medieval count with a propensity for scaring the delights out of his enemies, especially the invading Turks. The Werewolf of London was an English bloke who minded his own business until one day a dog bit him. Well, he thought it was a dog. Our friend Frankenstein was a pile of dead bodies without a care in this world when a crazy scientist began sewing bits and pieces of people together.

In my new novel, Steel Pennies, there’s a monster loose who doesn’t look like a vampire, werewolf or a hideous pile of spare parts sewn together, but my character is a human monster just the same. Your challenge is to figure out who the monster is before this character kills Tommy’s girlfriend. Tommy is the main character in this teenaged romance gone wild. Blending humor with horror is a fun challenge for me as an author. But the humor fades away before the shocking conclusion of Steel Pennies. Did you enjoy reading Frankenstein’s rant? If yes, you’ll love the fast paced action of Steel Pennies. Check it out on Amazon.