“Wait…wait…can we use that name?”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t it copyright infringement?”

“I don’t know. Mel Brooks did it.”

“I’m sure he got permission.”

“From who?”

“The Shelley estate?”

“They’re still around?”

“Well, I think they have grandkids or something. They hold the copyright.”

“Fine. I’ll be Iganov and you be Goldfrankenman.”

“Goldfrankenman? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Christ, you want Italian? Frankenetti. German? Frankendorf. Irish? McSteeny. American? Jackass. Take your pick!”

“Did someone not take their happy pills this morning?”

“Ran out two days ago. Haven’t been able to get to the pharmacy…”

“Shouldn’t that be a priority–”

“Shouldn’t you harvest your own organs?”

“Oh go take a Valium; second jar on your right.”

“I knew you were too mellow…and lacking proper bowel control…”

“Can we get back to the story, please? Thank you. Ok. It’s now The Tale of Goldfrankenman. Although I do like McSteeny and Frankenetti has a flavorful, ethnic ring to it…”

“You make me die on the inside. How about I just call you Stymied and we call it even?”

“I’m having your meds delivered. This is ridiculous.”

“So is your MD!”

“I don’t have an MD.”

“But…you’re a doctor…”

“Do you see a board certificate around here?”

“Well I was hoping that Gibbs was an acronym I didn’t know.”

“Hello? Mad scientist? Have I not been sewing body parts together to create the first non-flesh-eating zombie?”

“Yeah, and doing a piss-poor job of it. I’ve seen better stitch work at a Vietnamese sweat shop. Who taught you to sew? Martha Stewart’s evil twin?”

“You’re just jealous because the dungeon ruined your career.”

“You’re right. Because it has nothing to do with the fact that I look like Quasimodo’s inbred cousin or that I’m hanging around with Dr. Kevorkian’s breathing parallel universe. Yes, it’s jealousy and my inept inability to fashion a glittering Christmas tree out of paper towel rolls and salt.”

“Well there’s no need to get snotty.”

“Can we get on with it, please? Your monster’s getting restless. He’s already unhinged a hip.”

“I told you to get it from someone under 65.”

“Listen Frankenturd. You want specifics, you get them. Otherwise beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Now you’re just being cliche.”

“I hate you.”

“Oh go wallow somewhere else.”

“Your mom.”

“What about her?”

“No, no…it’s an insult…”

“What’s an insult? Your fragmented sentence?”

“No…it’s derogatory about your mother. It’s just a general insult, like go wallow your mom.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Why are you not getting it?”

“Wait…that’s a stone wall…that can’t be good for your head…”

“What the hell is that?”

“My guess? Blood oozing from the crack in your skull.”

“The noise, you moron! The noise! Why aren’t you the one with the hump?”

“Because I drink milk every day.”

“Look at my neck; is it turning red because I feel hypertensive.”

“That is a rather shrill noise, isn’t it?”

“Thanks for turning back, derailer of conversations.”

“It’s…almost like…screeching, squealing…”

“Your buddy’s awake.”

“Igbert, no! Your glue hasn’t dried yet!”

“Igbert? And you got on me about names?”

“Something’s scaring him. He’s breaking right through the chains!”

“I told you not to give him the “abnormal strength” gene, that it was going to come back to haunt you.”

“Is the ground shaking?”

“Unless your girlfriend dropped her Rabbit again, I do believe it’s the villagers. You had them penciled in. See?”

“So I did. Well, they’re 15 minutes late.”

“Those don’t sound like villagers.”

“They don’t, do they?”

“Igbert’s making a run for it.”

“Igbert, stop! I’ll protect you!”

“Urgh!”

“What a coincidence. I bought a patchwork human-to-English dictionary at Borders today.”

“We have a Borders? When did that happen?”

“Just opened last week. Anyway, looks like “urgh” means, well…”

“Means what?”

“Well, it means go fornicate yourself.”

“Nice, Igbert.”

“I’m stepping out of the way now.”

“Good god. Those aren’t villagers; they’re screaming fangirls!”

“Get out of the way, McSteeny!”

“But they’re tearing him apart!”

“He’s been dead once already. It’s not like he has anything to fear. Look, you’ve lost half your lab coat.”

“But I was only in the way a few seconds…”

“And it looks like they got a tuft of hair too. How did you not feel that?”

“What did they want with Igbert? They never gave him the time of day before.”

“Vlad told me he’s on strike. He can’t afford to keep replacing his clothes and he just can’t keep up with the sex. Says they get all clingy and want him to “turn” them, blah, blah, blah. He said he’d rather run naked on a California beach at mid-day than turn some emo twit that wears “I heart Vlad” on a t-shirt and writes poetry.”

“What’s emo?”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh would you look at that? All that’s left of poor Igbert is a couple of teeth and a thigh slab.”

“Maybe you should take this as a sign.”

“For what?”

“Find a new hobby.”

“You know what, you’re right. I’ve always wanted to enter Schmoodles in a dog show.”

“Your teacup Chihuahua?”

“Do you know another Schmoodles?”

“Christ, I hope not.”

“He could win. He just has to get over that nervous peeing.”

“He pees on my lap again I’ll slap him with a fly swatter.”

“I’ll need your help. And you can’t squeeze him. There’s no squeaky inside.”

“As long as you let the dead dog lie should he get hit by a car, I guess I’ll be your groomer. Just promise me you’ll stop resurrecting things. At least there aren’t any lightning rods at Westminster.”

“Unless you count the judges’ personalities. Hoo zaa!”

“My head hurts.”

Written under the pseudonym Kate Boddie.