And as morning continued onwards, a very disoriented Victor Frankenstein was hovering between the unconscious realms and the conscious ones. It was hard to distinguish which was which, as the resulting pain from a brick laden purse was still dancing hard and ricocheting within his skull.
"Hey...clown boy...you dead?" Poppa Igor inquired.
"Mwha...?" was the best Victor could manage.
"Here, drink this."
In the blurry haze of morning shadows seen through his eyelids, Victor was finding himself more and more in the realm of consciousness. He tried to fight it, because the pain here was more persistent, not to mention obvious.
Opening his eyes, Victor first focused gently upon the offered drink, and after an attempt or two, managed to actually find it with both hands, took hold of it, and took a swig. Whatever the refreshment was, it certainly wasn't pleasant, and would've vomited it back out had it not been for Poppa Igor's quick thinking by placing a hand upon Victor's mouth and shoving his head backwards to ensure he did swallow the horrendous concoction.
"Don't be stupid, boy, it good for you. Besides, there's no telling what Momma would do to you if you ruin her new couch. Then we'd have to start all over. Now drink the rest. Understand?"
Victor nodded gently, and drank down another mouthful.
"Good. You'll feel better in one moment. Wait here, I'll be right back."
After a few stomach wrenching moments, Victor was discovering that his mind seemed to be clearing, and the pain was definitely lessening. Encouraged by these results, he drank the rest in one hearty go, just as Poppa Igor was coming back into the von Igor sitting room. He had an expectant look, and something in his hands.
"So, what's your name, clown boy?"
"Victor. Victor Frankenstein."
"So, Victor, you feel better now?"
"Oddly enough...I do."
"Good. You want to play catch with me?"
Victor looked at the man who apparently had been caring for him, his hopeful smile, and the two baseball mitts and required ball for such a sport.
"What the hell..."
* * * * *
Upstairs, Igor had slept peacefully while Momma Igor lovingly reassembled her beloved son. Having had a tiring, traumatic evening, Igor was starting to stir later than usual and heard the gentle humming of his mother reattaching the last bits of his extremities.
"Where Igor?"
"You're in bed, dear. Momma is putting you back together."
"Where Victor?"
"Oh, he's around here somewhere," Momma offered with a touch of grumpiness. She then pulled a final piece of stitching a little harder than was necessary, snipped it, and proclaimed "All done!"
Igor briefly examined his body as a whole to make sure everything was working properly, then cautiously rose up out of bed, and turned to face the eastern windows in his bedroom. Gently Igor experimented with the bonds holding his legs and feet together, then slipped his navy blue slippers onto his bare feet and went to the window.
"Victor playing catch with Poppa?"
"It would seem so. Now, what do you want for breakfast?"
"No breakfast. Igor want to see Victor."
* * * * *
Victor and Poppa Igor had been playing catch for nearly half an hour before the rest of the von Igor's revealed themselves. In the intervening time, Igor's dog Sparky had been trying to catch the ball when it slipped from someone's mitt, and although Victor couldn't exactly put his finger on it, he knew that there was something not quite right about Sparky. Sparky could bark like a dog, chase his tail, pursue a foul ball, and check the messages he left on the nearest fire hydrant for any responses, and still engage in more dog-like activities.*
*Sparky, Victor later discovered, was very accomplished at rolling over, and especially competent at playing dead.
And at the sight of Igor, Sparky barked and ran for the youngest von Igor, while Momma Igor eyed Victor's game with her husband viciously. Still uncertain of what was going on, Victor just smiled when Poppa Igor threw the ball to Victor, then caught it, and was then caught in a fatherly embrace from Poppa Igor.
"I have new son. One that will play catch with me. Igor, get out."
"Poppa..." Igor simply let the statement slide, while Momma growled at the growing kinship between her husband and the young man who was responsible for shooting her beloved son out of a cannon.
"Now don't snarl, Momma. That's no way to treat your new son. Right, my boy?"
"Uh...I guess?" Victor responded as Poppa Igor mussed up his hair in a proud manner.
"Humph!" Momma Igor snarled, went back inside, and slammed the door behind her.
"Poppa, can Igor have moment with Victor?"
"You're not going to play catch with him, are you?" Poppa Igor looked suspiciously upon his one offspring.
"No."
"Good. Come by any time, Victor."
Poppa Igor then took the baseball mitt from Victor, turned towards the house, and stepped inside whistling. It stopped short after the door closed, and a soft CLAAANNGGG! was heard through the early morning stillness.
For a moment, there was a general sense of cautious hesitation between Victor and Igor as, from the house, a muffled argument erupted between Momma Igor's insistence on Victor being responsible for the sorry state of her baby boy, and Poppa Igor's ongoing demands about how Momma Igor was being unreasonable, and that she should reattach his head to its aimlessly wandering body that kept crashing into the sitting room furniture. Finally, Igor broke the silence.
"So, Victor want to go get pizza?"
"Sounds great. Let's go."
And together stepped they into a blossoming friendship.
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