Chapter Three

    It must be coded into our genetic plans that, upon entering the teenage years, all young men and women change from the adorable, happy children they've been for approximately a decade into the kind of heathens religious lunatics of old would go searching for with such a force and will that their deeds would render them equally unhinged in the cerebral department. Young Victor Frankenstein, having been through the domestic equivalent of a clown college for most of his academic life, was now of the age where driving was a reality and the opportunities of being picked up for sex by older, lonely women wasn't simply legal, it was encouraged.

    In the midst of the passion, the anger, and the emotional instability of these teenaged years, Roger Frankenstein dragged his son across the circus grounds with his wife bringing up the rear complete with a loaded pie in her hands. The row they had over his attire was a big one: all black, form fitting, plus a cape with red silk on the underside. Victor's indecision when it came to top hats and black walking sticks with silver points was obvious, as he was trying various poses in the funhouse mirror with them when the baggy, rainbow themed jumpsuit makeover came. Victor's continued protests were currently echoing out as he and his family kept nearing the rear entrance to the largest tent on the grounds.

    "How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not demeaning myself like this!
Clowns aren't evil! And I'm evil!"

    Roger Frankenstein stopped in his tracks, letting his son go. He turned to him and quivered, possibly on the edge of something resembling anger, but whatever it was it was serious because all notions of airborne desserts and fizzy drink weapons had been forgotten.

    "You're going do it, and you're damn well going to enjoy it!"

    "I won't! And you can't make me!"

    Becky Frankenstein put the safety on her loaded pie and aimed it towards the
ground. Patience, she felt, would likely be the best way to ensure her son's innate destiny
took its necessary course. "Look, whether or not you want to admit it, performance is in
your blood. You've always wanted to be the center of attention. You're always trying to
make an ass out of yourself, just to get people to look at you."

    "No offense mom, but that's bull."

    "Is it? Proclaiming your intentions of world domination? Cackling like a madman
at the night sky?"

    "I will rule the world!" he proclaimed, striking the traditional pose.

    "See, there you go again."

    "I will! I'm evil and I will rule over this planet with an iron fist!"

    Becky Frankenstein's patience was well forged and shimmered in the sunlight, but
sometimes even such things are in danger of breaking from pressure and wear. "You talk
to him, I'm going to see Sally." She turned and began to walk away.

    "You can't see Sally! She's invisible! And possibly evil!"

    "You don't know that, Victor."

    "If I was invisible, I'd be evil! Well, even more evil than I already am!"

    For a moment, Roger Frankenstein shared an unspoken thought with his wife, as
she looked at father and son, and resumed her path to see Sally, the Invisible Woman.
Roger, meanwhile, adopted his wife's less confrontational method to see if he'd have any
more success with it than she.

    "Son, look. Just try this once, and see if you like it."

    "And if I don't?"

    There are often moments where people talk about how time begins to slow. An
eternity passed in the seconds after Victor asked the ultimate question. What if he doesn't
enjoy it? Did Adolph Hitler's father have to face such a moment? That keen clown brain
in Roger Frankenstein's head began to consider things a happier man never had to
consider. Did Mr. Hitler encourage painting in his young son? Was there hope for a
normal, happy life and did it reside in the brushstrokes a young man who would one day
become Fuehrer? Victor was an extrovert, to be certain, just like his parents. But those he
sought to emulate weren't part of the Happy Fun Brigade -- he'd began watching Fox
News. He started to dress like Dracula and found the soulless kisses of  Ann Coulter's collective works to be maniacally exciting.

    Roger contemplated it all. Here the bet would be made. In his next few words,
Roger Frankenstein would shake and roll the dice. There would be no going back.

    "Tell you what, Victor, if you make the honest attempt, and make no
proclamations of world domination, mind you, and then if you still don't like it, we'll find
something else for you to do. Okay?"

    "You promise? No more juggling lessons? No more seltzers or banana peels?"

    "And no more balloon animals."

    "Not even naughty ones?" It might've just been his imagination, but Victor's dad
thought he detected the slightest molecule of disappointment in Victor's question. His son
was resolved to live his life his way...but, possibly, Victor himself knew that such a
happening would force to him to truly turn away from what was really giving him
pleasure: standing in the spotlight by means of rebellion.

    "Deal!"   

    Victor and his father shook hands, both hoping for the best. Little did they both
know their hopes had been planted in the same fertile ground.

    "Now, get in there. You're on in five."

* * * * *

    Igor's bedroom was, one might suspect, a beautiful testament to the madcap means
of decorating only brilliant, dedicated minds can achieve: it was an organized mess of technical papers and trade magazines  that revealed the innermost secrets of biology, geology, medicine, physics, quantum mechanics, and string theory.

    Predictably, Poppa Igor hated every inch of it. His influence could only be seen in an ever growing pile of baseball gloves that were ceremoniously forgotten behind his bedroom door. Spiders were the only thing keeping the sporting gloves company.

    Momma Igor had managed to have an impact on Igor's upstairs room: the sheets on his bed were satin, the towels in his personal bathroom were exceptionally plush, his clothes were damn near designer labels, and the exotic shampoos and body soaps were to keep Igor's often not entirely fresh skin reasonably moist to help prevent deterioration, as the skin grafts from Aunt Lou didn't always take properly to Igor's physiology.

    Given the soft, gentle influences Momma Igor had accomplished, and when you considered there were no posters featuring girls with big chest humps in various states of undress on his walls, it's easy to understand why Poppa Igor felt he was losing his son to those who swore allegiance to big, strong men with soft hands who, quite possibly, shared Igor's apparent lack of interest in girls with bouncy chest humps.

    Poppa Igor kicked open the unlocked door to Igor's room and found him in the tastefully designed lighting scheme that was both posh and expensive to recreate and pushed the right amount of light in just the perfect way to illuminate the circuit board Igor was currently considering.

    "Put that down, boy! Got something for you!"

    Igor looked up from his work to see his dad carrying a large cardboard box into
his room.

    "What is it?" Poppa Igor sat the box down on Igor's exquisitely made bed and
turned it over, revealing its contents: girly magazines.

    "Playboys! Igor should be making whoopee with pretty girls, not building
doodads." Poppa Igor quickly handed his son an issue featuring the latest batch of
Hawaiian Tropic ladies and set about gathering up all the trade magazines and scientific
journals that littered the room.

    "But those Igor's technical manuals!"

    "These Igor's technical manuals now! Science books going to city dump!"

    "Those belong to Igor! Why can't Poppa leave Igor's stuff alone?"

    "Igor no study science while he live under my roof! What Igor going to do now,
cry like pansy? Ha! Cry like girl with chest humps, it do you no good!" Poppa Igor then
gathered the rest of Igor's beloved journals into the box and headed out the door, into the
hallway, and down the stairs where we was met by Momma Igor who, it must said, was not the picture of happiness that her husband was. It wasn't the sneer or the Go-To-Hell
look in her eyes, it was the fact that she was carrying the largest, not to mention the
heaviest, skillet that was available in the von Igor kitchen.

    "Put those back. They're Igor's."

    "Not anymore! Igor learn how to masturbate to pictures of pretty girls! Now he
give up science!"

    Although its design was the antithesis of anything aerodynamic, the skillet
perfectly angled its way upwards and across the back of Poppa Igor's head, with a
resulting CLLLAAAANNNGGGG that could only be caused by its impacting the steel plates holding Poppa Igor's skull intact after a disastrous night in his wild youth of playing chicken with a locomotive.*  

 *Oddly enough, said locomotive was stationary and out of service. Young men throughout history have found many curious, and painful, ways of filling their leisure hours with all manner of activities that invariably cause them some form of injury.


    To say such a blunt instrument would cause brain damage at the very least, and death at the very worst, was an understatement. And attempted murder in a family built on the long, proud tradition of organ trading and electrical regeneration was no more serious than, say stepping on a bag of cotton candy in the hopes of squishing all the life out of it. Poppa Igor fell forward into the box of technical manuals, but was picked up by his shirt collar and allowed to fall over backwards as Momma Igor took the box of Igor's magazines and hid them in a safe spot. When the time was right (say, when Poppa Igor's immobile form started attracting flies) she would hook him up to the Prius and, after a quick jump from the battery, Poppa Igor would resume life as if nothing had happened.

* * * * *   

    The big top of the circus was stuffed with all the things one might expect to see in such a tent based operation: great dancing bears that, somehow, had been trained by Victor's old science teacher, Dr. Dipsy, to do the Watusie and the occasional Old Soft Shoe. The grizzlies wore spats on their hind paws as they stood upright and tipped their top hats at the pretty ladies. Dipsy, obviously, was a force to be reckoned with in the entertainment industry.

    Off to the side sat a big blue and gold cannon, which was placed in such a trajectory as to shoot its human shaped ammunition towards the net at the far side of the tent on a nightly basis, plus members of Victor's extended clown family that performed aerial death defying acts on unicycles amongst the highest supports of the tent which often ended with a clown falling fast into a large bowl of pudding.

    How a young man could stay inconspicuous in this environment wasn't difficult to pull off, as he was just another collection of primary color splotches in an ever changing wash of streaks of rainbows and the shimmering lights of sequins and rhinestones that made up the wardrobe choices for most of those of the female entertainers. The bears finished their review, the girls finished up their routine with the elephants, and the novelty of the cannon was forgotten as the lights began to dim and spotlights swiveled around to shine upon the Ringleader as he stepped into the center ring with a microphone in his hand.

    "Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, give a great big welcome to our very own Victor, The Clown!"

    Those that were there talk of that day with great affection. Those that knew Victor and his parents best say, when the spotlights were shining down on Victor, all his intentions of world domination melted away like cotton candy dipped in water.

* * * * *

    Momma Igor stood outside the door to Igor's bedroom, and gently knocked upon the door. From the other side, Igor managed a distraught "Go away," but it wouldn't keep a devoted mother away.

    "Can momma come in, Igor?"

    "Igor guess."

    Momma Igor stepped inside, a basket of freshly cleaned clothes making up its
contents. She placed the basket down on Igor's bed as he sat down in the floor, leaning up
against it and continued to stare out the window, paying no attention to his mother's
actions.

    "Momma have your silk shirts cleaned. You want to try them on?"

    "Igor no care."

    "Igor like girls, right?"

    "Yes."

    "Well, girls like sharp dressed boys. If Igor snappy dresser, he get attention from
pretty girls."

    "Igor no care."

    "Well, Momma care. Be good boy and try them on. You will like them,
momma promise."

    "Fine."

    Igor got up and reluctantly turned his attention to the laundry basket. Momma Igor
gently kissed him on the head and out she went.

    "Igor good boy."

    As the door closed shut behind Momma Igor, Igor began digging through the
fresh shirts and found, to his surprise, a brand new issue of Popular Mechanics fell out onto his bed. Igor picked up the magazine, looked at the closed doorway his mother just
vacated, and smiled.

    "Igor love Momma." He then sat down upon his bed and quickly began thumbing
forward to the table of contents.

* * * * * 

    Victor's act was, it must be said, an unpolished mess that was comprised of Victor
singing his interpretation of the Beach Boy's rendition of the classic tune "Sloop John B," while launching himself off of see saws, into the vats of pudding, and even an impromptu dance with one of the overly sequined girls. When he reached the end of the song, he grabbed a large, yellow accordion from a props table and started up a sing along of famous fast food jingles with the audience.

    And, at the edge of the tent, Roger Frankenstein was wiping away large crocodile
tears of joy with his hanky. Becky Frankenstein, having heard the swell of laughter and
applause from across the circus grounds, came running to see what was the cause of such
caterwauling. She arrived just in time to find her husband grinning ear to ear as she asked
"What's going on in there?"

    "It's Victor."

    Momentarily stunned, she leaned in to see for herself. Victor was finishing up a
pseudo serious rendition of "Send In The Clowns" that was constantly being destroyed by
the antics of his clown brothers and sisters behind him.

    "That's Victor?"

    "Amazing, isn't it?"

    "Hey, hey, let's all give Victor a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen!"

    The applause was deafening, and Victor found himself lost in a moment of
eternity which threatened to shatter his face from the strain of smiling too hard for the
very first time in years. To become lost in the thrill of this moment was a serious one, but
hearing the adulation from his parents coming from behind him shook him back to reality. 
After a quick a grandiose bow before the amassed peoples, Victor offered a farewell wave
and returned to the arms of his joyous parents.

    "That's my boy!"

    "I'm so proud of you Victor!"

    And, for possibly the first time in Victor's life, he felt as if he both affirmed himself, and attained the appreciation of his parents.

* * * * *

    The falling of the sun had been met with smiles shared all around the circus
grounds, while Dr. Dipsy shared a cold brew with Victor's dad. Sally, of course, was
shamelessly praising her son over tea in Sally the Invisible Woman's tent, and Victor
himself was laying out in the fields just beyond the circus grounds staring up at the full
moon. It was the perfect end to a good day at the circus.

* * * * *

    Miles away in suburbia, however, the falling of the sun had been met with 50,000
jolts of life sustaining electricity to Poppa Igor via the family hybrid. Once shocked back
into the mortal coil, Momma Igor kicked the alligator clamps off Poppa Igor's shoulders.

    "What happened?"

    Momma Igor's only reply was a cold, "I'm going to bed." She headed back inside
leaving her confused husband on the driveway silently rubbing the back of his head.
    "What did I do wrong this time?"

    The door slammed in the style that only a woman can make it. As an answer to his
question, the sensation of "You Know What You Did" dripped off the reverberating wooden noise like honey. Poppa Igor's mind, being a one way cerebral street, didn't catch on to the subtleties of a door slamming shut.

    Though it was arguably his bed time, Igor was still awake in bed. He had pulled
the sheets over his head and a soft light came from underneath the sheets to reveal a
blurry silhouetted figure who was obviously reading something under the covers. The
sounds of the occasional page turning was muffled by the sheets, but light couldn't be so
easily restrained. As Poppa Igor walked the darkened hall that lead to his bedroom, the
light streaming out from under Igor's door cut the darkness away. Poppa Igor shuffled to
the door and listened intently for the sounds of science, but heard none. He then gently
touched the handle, turned it ever so softly, and pushed it open with all the force he could
muster, sending it into the wall behind it and damn near shaking the hinges free.

    The silhouette of Igor under the sheets shuffled quickly and the flashlight went
dead. "What are you still doing up?"

    "Nothing, Poppa."


    "I'll see about that." And he rushed over to the bed wear his shaken son sat, and
pulled back the covers to reveal one of the girly magazines he'd given Igor earlier that
day.

    "Igor reading Playboys?"

    "Yes, Poppa."

    "Let me see."

    Igor handed his dad the magazine, which was open to the centerfold spread of a sexy young woman whose only ambition in life was to serve as a living pillow to an entire
football team. Poppa Igor beamed, and handed the magazine back as it was to Igor.

    "Poppa was right, huh? Girls more fun than circuit diagrams?"

    "Igor guess."

    "Igor guess? Girls will want to rub Igor's hump! Circuit diagrams can't rub Igor's
hump! You do want girls to rub Igor's hump, right?"

    "Igor thought Igor should wait for marriage."

    "Marriage? Igor been listening to those Mormons next door again. Stay away from
them. They crazy. And you keep reading Playboys. Be sure to masturbate, too. You do know how to masturbate, right?"

    Igor, shocked at the stern intensity of his dad's questioning, remained immobile in horrified silence. Poppa Igor frowned, shook his head, and began to unzip his blue jeans.

    "Why is it I have to do everything around here?" Poppa asked as he started undressing, which managed to bring Igor's voice back.

    "Igor know how to masturbate!"

    "You'd better. Your Grandpa Igor knew how to masturbate. He was world class chicken choker! That's why when he died you got his hands! Now do your Grandpa's hands an honor and whack away, instead of dirtying them by building doodads!" 

     Poppa Igor then got up and left Igor's bedroom, with a faint "Good night" that came from behind him and went unanswered. When the bedroom door to closed shut, Igor returned to his bed sheets, flashlight, and girly magazine that was actually stapled to the center of the Popular Mechanics magazine his mother had placed in his laundry.

Chapter Two

    The trials of youth are not simply for burgeoning mad scientists whose family tree has roots reaching into the proud firmament of trapeze acts and one man confectionary attack squads. No, there are others who are subjected to the horrors of a perfectly normal life, which, of course, they fit into like a duck fits into a combination lock.

    As Victor silently battles the two distinct, but not all together separate, halves of his life, the sun shines down upon the baseball field of Transylvania High, where jocks of the highest caliber are allowed to demonstrate their prowess on the field while the other, less coordinated individuals, duck and cover with such astonishing speed that, should it be properly harnessed, would give such an individual a mastery of running away from said incoming objects. A fast, intelligent brain that can calculate air\speed ratios of objects in flight in proportion to gravity at certain distances can be exceptionally beneficial in, say, today's sport of dishonor: baseball. Take that same, perceptive gray matter and lock it into the body of a klutz, and you'll see why neurons, firing in such an elegant manner that would cause the envy of certain Las Vegas water based choreography, can't make up for the fact said dance is lead by a young man with all the grace of a panda missing one leg and a stick of bamboo stuck in its ass.

    Through the clear, still air an organist pounded her keys to fill the time as Igor von Igor was ushered from the dugout by his constantly bewildered, yet hopeful, athletic instructor who was hell bent on capturing the raw potential that was in the hunchback's head. Up in the stands, behind the chain link fence that formed a perimeter around the infield, sat Igor's parents, Momma and Poppa Igor. She looked as beautiful as a train derailment in slow motion with her elegant, powder blue dress and matching hand bag that looked, should it be wielded properly, to be an exceptionally deadly weapon. Poppa Igor, though, wore an average white t-shirt and well worn blue jeans. All the von Igor's, of course, had somewhat sickly blue flesh that was curiously lumpy with arms, nose, ears and such that just didn't seem to properly fit their body structure. It was almost as if they were a hodgepodge of similarly themed pieces and appendages which more or less hid the fact that there had to have been some modern day equivalent of being organ donors while said organs were passed down from generation to generation as one would an old pair of pants or the odd liver that Grandpa Igor didn't need any more as he was now long since past any hopes of further reanimation or, worse yet, quickly becoming devoid of any useful parts. It is safe to say the von Igor's believed in a form of reincarnation, and that a bit of them remained in the hearts and minds (not to mention the chest cavity) of succeeding generations.*

**Think of it as a type of inbreeding, only without the creepy, Oedipal bits. The standard creepiness of organ harvesting will suffice.

    Young Igor von Igor stepped and dragged his way to the pitcher's mound. A soft moan of knowing anguish escaped his not entirely red lips as his coach called out "Strike him out, Igor!"

    "Igor should be home. Igor got new science journal and what Igor doing? Igor playing baseball. Humph."   Igor continued to grumble to himself  in the third person as he quickly calculated the distance from him to the batter and the absolute likelihood that his swing of the bat would send the ball back to the pitcher's mound and would certainly connect with Igor's skull and quickly drop him, hard, down to the ground. Throwing himself to the ground and covering his melon were the only options Igor had as, let's face it, running away just wasn't a viable option. Not when you've got two left feet and the one on the right was fractured and reshaped into the position of a right foot with almost absolutely no drawbacks after such procedure.

    From the dugout of the opposing team a voice cried out "Pitcher's got no game!
Pitcher's got no game!" in an effort to further destroy Igor's attitude. Igor's coach chimed in as well with  a well rehearsed "Don't let them rattle you, son!"

    Yeah, that kind of motivation helps every time. To prove it Igor looked to where
the sounds of positive reinforcement came from and sincerely asked "Can Igor go home?"

    "Later, Igor, later! Just pitch the ball!"

    "Okay."

    Watch carefully, because once its all over, you'll be able to tell your friends you saw it live and in person, which is much, much more interesting than buying the DVD from a television commercial and watching it repeatedly.

    The windup was disastrous, as it shifted young Igor's center of gravity to his hump, and caused him to fall over backwards. The second baseman was kind enough to run out to Igor's assistance, and helped him back up. Then Igor's second windup came, an odd sideways sort of motion, and the ball was set loose upon its trajectory into the aluminum bat of a young man with an exceptional swing that sent the ball hurtling back towards him and beaned Igor straight between the eyes and sent the hunchback rolling head over hump. Charlie Brown himself had never experienced such a public display of humiliation.

    Up in the stands, the worried maternal cry of "My baby! He hit my baby!" was met with parting crowds as, it seemed, getting in the way of this woman was tantamount of having a kick in the groin by a racehorse. The motherly figure in powder blue attire had already grasped the straps of her handbag in such a way that indicated someone was about to receive it upside the head. Poppa Igor simply followed behind Momma as she parted the crowds and headed for the field.

    The coach called "Time!" and headed out to the pitchers mound hoping that medical attention would not be required because, let's face it, rumors of sickly procedures can get around when whispered in the locker rooms and, lifetime jock or not, some guys just have low tolerance levels for icky things. He reached the fallen form that had ended up face down and hurriedly asked "Son, are you okay?"

    "Igor guess so. Can Igor go home now?"

    "Here, let's get you...oh god." The coach quickly dropped Igor when he realized that a set of eyes had rolled along the ground. There's only one place they could've come from. "We need a doctor here!"

    "Give me sewing kit, Momma. Igor lose eyes again." She opened her handbag and tossed it to Poppa Igor as he made a direct line for the Igor and his coach. Momma Igor, confident the situation would be handled properly, had other things to attend to, and it was becoming apparent the young man with the baseball bat would soon be forced to apologize to Momma Igor's baby boy, whether he wanted to or not.

    "Well, what have you got to say for yourself?"
 
  Somewhat uncertain of this, the young man with the bat could only respond with a
timid "I'm sorry?"

    "You better be!"

    With surprising reflexes, Momma Igor grabbed the young man in a headlock and
started beating him with her purse. Not willing to let such an injustice go unmet, the
dugout for the entire opposing team emptied and several fit young men freed their friend
and the entire team encircled the manic woman. Knuckles were cracked, faces glared, and
amidst all the unspoken threats, Momma Igor laughed.

    "You want piece of Mrs. Igor? Huh? Well come get a dish of momma's home
cooking!" The circle of guys grew tighter around Momma Igor, and the purse took flight.

    Having more important things to deal with, the coach attempted to reason with
Poppa Igor, insisting they call an ambulance, but Poppa Igor refused.

    "Ambulance not necessary. Igor just pansy. Pick up your eyes, boy."

    "Yes, poppa." Igor knelt to the ground, felt around the grass for a moment, and
found both ocular organs. He then proceeded to wipe them off on his uniform and slowly
stuck each one back into their empty sockets.

    "Good Igor. Now hold still."

    "Yes, poppa."

    Having taken a sideways glance at Momma Igor's handling of the opposing team,
the coach turned back just in time to see Poppa Igor open up the sewing kit complete with
surgical needles and medical stitching.

    "Sir, what are you...oh god..."

    The precision of Poppa Igor's hand was well practiced and laser accurate, but
ultimately stomach wrenching and in his brief time as a witness to this procedure the
coach doubled over and muttered "Oh god in heaven..." before passing out completely.

    Poppa Igor took one look at the crumpled authority figure and reasoned "Coach
pansy too. Me should known. Grown men playing with bats only interested in other bats."

The echoing thuds of bodies falling against each other, along with a few more kicks to the
shins filled the brief silence as Poppa Igor finished restitching Igor's eyes into his head.

    "Done! Let's go home, Momma. Momma?"

    He and Igor turned on the spot to see Momma Igor, breathless and smiling, headed
their way as she leaves the circle of destruction involving the entire opposing team now
bleeding and sobbing, some on all fours and another in the fetal position,  around what
remained of third base.

    "Oh hell."

    "That teach them hurt my baby."

    And with that, the von Igor's departed.

* * * * *

    The brief ride home was a quiet one. Poppa Igor's shining Prius turning into their suburban driveway and up to the garage of their picture perfect example of affordable modern living as Igor just silently stared outside the rear passenger side window. Sparky, his mutt dog, ran up to the car as it came to a stop while Igor stepped and dragged his way out of the automobile. A brief "Good game, son," came from Poppa Igor as the youth continued to focus all his concentration on anything but baseball.

    "Whatever," was Igor's only reply. Unknown to him, Momma Igor gave her husband a good whack on the back of the head with her purse as Igor stepped and dragged away with Sparky leading the way.

    "What was that for, woman? Stitching might come loose!"

    "Humph! Poppa, you only care for yourself! He doesn't want to play baseball! You made him and now he's embarrassed!"

    "Embarrassed? von Igor's do not become embarrassed! Igor just stupid!"

    WHACK!

    "That no way to talk about your son!"

    "What that for?"

    "You'll get another if you don't figure it out! Leave Igor alone! He doesn't have your notions of fun!"

    "He should! Science not fun!"

    The next resounding WHACK! was met with a dull THUMP! as the stitching in  Poppa Igor's neck finally broke apart, sending his head tumbling into his lap. "Now you've done it, woman. Sew my head back on!"

    "Maybe I should, if only to make sure you've got it on straight!"

    "What's that supposed to mean? Huh?"   

    As continued the tradition of Momma Igor being constantly frustrated with her inept husband, she kicked open the door, got out, and slammed it shut with her husband in two pieces behind the steering wheel.

* * * * *

    In the sitting room of the von Igor residence is a fireplace. It's mostly for show, and only used in the odd special occasion, but its main purpose is to serve as a place to hold up the many family photographs and the large mirror that is centered above it. The mirror has recently served as a means for Poppa Igor to make sure his head was centered perfectly upon his neck, and that all loose stitches were replaced while the bonds holding the two pieces together were being applied. This unusual sort of medical procedure is among the first in which a laser level has ever been used, though the manufacturers of such a device would rather not be made aware this particular instance of use.

    As the final bonds were set, Poppa Igor found himself looking at the many photographs detailing his family over the last twenty some odd years. The ones of Igor in his little league uniform were the hardest to look at, and sentimental thoughts of yesteryear threatened to bring tears that would threaten to dissolve all the stitches at shoulder level and above.
    "Where did I go wrong?"

    Momma Igor, who'd been silently watching from an adjacent hallway, stepped into the room. "You've done nothing wrong. You just act like every other father who ever had a son: you take the hopes, dreams, and failures of your life and place them on poor Igor's. You want him to pick up the mantle and live the life you never found. Igor good boy, just like you are a good man, albeit thick headed at times."

    "I like baseball. Igor used to like baseball.

    "You're not Igor, just like Igor's not you."

    "I failed him."

    Momma Igor, upon hearing this, took her husband's hand in hers. "You haven't failed him, you just think you've failed at guiding him. And neither is true." 

    For a brief moment, Momma Igor's hopes of finally getting through to her numbskull husband lit up like a match on a cold night, and one of two things were now going to happen. Either, A), said flaming matchstick would ignite the pleasing light and warmth of reason in Poppa Igor's head or, B) the winds that prevented change would sneak in and snuff the flames out before they spread.

    For even amateur observers, it wouldn't be difficult to see which would happen.

Chapter One

    There's no punishment man or beast can inflict upon a child quite like that the one that resides in the public education system. To be at the top of this proverbial heap means you have to submit yourself to the changing ways and means of stupidity, which is, of course, beneath a blossoming evil genius.

    Transylvania Elementary is an elementary school like most others, except one child can see his future house from here. Out here in the barren wastes of Utah sits a castle which could serve as, say, a mansion for an insanely rich individual who just convinced the entire nation that Air Guitar was so 1980's, and that they should be playing the very same instrument by means of an overpriced gaming system that completely fails to mimic actual mastery of a musical instrument. Such individual could, theoretically, hold parties involving lots of sparkling alcoholic drinks and many of the female race that need both a good meal and an interest of actually wearing clothing in the presence of others.

    That's one possibility at least. Another involves conducting bizarre experiments utilizing electricity and various examples of human tissue in equally varying states of decay. This, of course, is of lesser possibility and, given the curious nature of Fate, is an absolutely feasible possibility.

    Young Victor Frankenstein turned away from the tumbledown castle up on the hill and waved to his unnaturally jolly circus clown parents and followed the rest of the young academic sheep on their way to a third grade classroom complete with its very own  sweet old lady in glasses who offers instruction daily in the wonders of the world.

    Mrs. Simmons, whose birth year was estimated to be in the vicinity of the Cretaceous Era, softly clapped her old wrinkled hands together and smiled  as she sat behind her desk in front of the classroom as the children, young Victor included, fought off the morning drudgery of prepubescent life and settled into their respective chairs.

    "Good morning, class."


    The response to Mrs. Simmons' greeting was less than audible, as expected, but Mrs. Simmons paid no attention to this lack of enthusiasm as she took up a black marker and walked to the white dry erase board that would envision the prospects for today. She began to write: "What I Want To Be When I Grow Up."

    "Today, children, we'll be discussing what you want to be when you grow up. I look forward to hearing what all your beautiful young minds are dreaming of becoming some day."  Mrs. Simmons' put down the marker and turned to face the small crowd of faces, some of whose were actually starting to glow because, let's face it, if there's one thing children are fond of talking about, it's themselves.

    "Now, I want you all to put your books away and think on this for a moment. Think real hard of something you'd like to be, because one day you'll have the opportunity to be such a thing. At ten after we'll hear what you have to say, okay class?"

    "Mmkay."

    "Good!"

* * * * *

    For ten minutes the sun shone through the eastern windows. Victor spent most of that time looking at the castle, but was occasionally interrupted by the boy in the seat adjacent to him as he said "What do you want to be, Vicky? A girl?"

    "Leave me alone," Victor proclaimed as he sank into his chair to avoid the other boy's taunting.

    "Maybe he could be a clown like his mommy and daddy," one girl chimed in.

    "Yeah," said the first boy, "he's used to people laughing at him. Being a freak suits him, he might as well do it for the rest of his life."

    "Okay, I see by Mr. Clock it's time to tell me all your fabulous dreams children! Who wants to go first? Beth, how about you?" 

    Beth, a prim and proper tiny figure walked her overly laced and soft pink dressed body on up to the front of the classroom and, in her tiny, snotty manner stated "When I grow up, I want to be president." Beth then curtseyed and strutted back to her seat in the front row.

    "Oh, very nice Beth, very nice!" Mrs. Simmons' was on the verge of tears, taking pride in her best pupil's ambitions. "Okay, let's see now...Joseph? Do you want to go next?"

    A little boy off to the far right of the classroom got up out of his desk and stumbled to the front. He asked for a tissue from his teacher, as his nose was a constant source of moisture and, after clearing the rivers of mucus from his face, he smiled his missing tooth smile and stated his dreams.

    "When I gwow up I wanna be...I wanna be, uh, a space man! Yeah! I'm gonna meet awiens and we gonna pway video games! Awiens wike video games! That's what I wanna be when I gwow up!"

    Mrs. Simmons', her heart all a flutter with joy, smiled and handed a small package of tissue to Joseph as he stumbled back to his chair and continued his ongoing battle against his everlasting allergies.

    "Oh, it does my heart good to hear plans like these children! Now, who wants to go next? Anyone?" Mrs. Simmons looked around at the impossibly bright and eager faces and, doing his very best to hide behind the child sitting in front of him, pretending to be an empty chair as best as he possibly could, but the moody gray steam that was Victor's attitude was as obvious to Mrs. Simmons' as a neon sign is to a Vegas pedestrian.

    Victor Frankenstein -- her greatest failure. Encouragement was her tool of choice in this young reclusive figure who obviously had a certain ability to stand out in a crowd, never mind the fact he had no desire to. The unspoken charisma was there, even if it was misdirected. Surely this exercise would help release the self imposed grip of solitude young Victor had brought upon himself.

    "Victor, would you like to go next?"

    Thirty pairs of eyes immediately turned to face the moody little boy which, of course, only resulted in Victor attempting to hide even more so from the unwanted attention  he was now receiving.

    "No."

    "Come on Victor, tell the class what you want to be when you grow up. Everyone's waiting to hear."

    "I'm not doing it."

    "Yes, now come on Victor."

    "They'll laugh at me."

    "No one is going to laugh at you, Victor. Now, please, tell us what you want to be."

    "Fine."

    Victor stepped into the aisle, and avoided most of the legs that suddenly leaped out in his way in an effort to trip him up, and only slightly stumbled when the taunting figure kicked his own foot out from under Victor as he made his way to the front of the class.

    Victor stared at the words written upon the marker board. He then thought of those that made fun of him. He thought of the unhappy life he had at home, one filled with seltzers, whoopie cushions, and rubber chicken duels. If there was one thing he wanted, it was this:

    "When I grow up, there's only thing in the world that I would like to be. When I grow up," he stated, his voice rising as he spoke, "I will be evil!" There was a brief pause for effect, and a dramatic pose was undertaken as he continued.

    "Yes, I will be evil! And rule over all your pathetic little lives! I will be the most feared person alive! Even more so than...than...drag queens! Or Christopher Columbus*! I will be evil like the Salvation Army! And, ultimately, I shall be evil like you, Mrs. Simmons! What do you say to that?"

*There's a special punishment in the fiery underworld for men who refuse to stop and ask for directions, and Chris had assured his place therein the eternal pit of damnation.


    If the silence that followed this diatribe was loud, the laughter that followed was simply deafening. Mrs. Simmons', horrified by Victor's proclamation, grabbed him by the hand and dragged him away.

    "What did I do wrong?"

    "You know what you did! I swear Victor, you're going to be the death of me! I give you all the love and guidance I can, and for all my hard work you say you want such a thing?"

    "But you said..."

    "I know what I said! I'm going to have to have a talk with your parents!"

* * * * *

    Waiting outside the principal's office, Victor reflected on all that had transpired. Yes, his parents were dorks, there was no way around that. And, yes, his friends (not that he had any) were constantly making fun of him, his name, and, of course, his parents. Geez, his parents. They'll be here soon. They'll be here in that stupid clown car with its goofy laughing horn and tires made up to look like lemon meringue pies.

    He once thought his parents were cool...

    He once, silently, nurtured the idea of...fun. Eternal fun.

    To Mr. and Mrs. Frankenstein, life was a great big banana peel you slipped on, not because their lives were difficult or hard, but to take great pleasure in an existence that was filled with interminable joy. There were no troubles a pie to the face couldn't shake loose. There are no pains a spinning bow tie can't relieve. The joys these things brought to noisy crowds daily were only the icing on the cake, as Mr. and Mrs. Frankenstein did them, first and foremost, to laugh at the dark specters Life tried to throw at them but couldn't make stick.

    The joy buzzer at Uncle Phil's funeral, they would admit later, was a bit much though. The Reverend Slappy Trousers had advised Victor's dad against it, but seeing as Uncle Phil was a sport all through life he felt Phil wouldn't mind this one last jolt as a fond farewell. Given the fact that the open coffin and ceremony was caught out in a sudden downpour when Victor's dad reached in and gave Uncle Phil the ultimate electric sendoff, it stimulated the arm and caused the torso to sway about in a way that was quite unnatural, especially with the electric current arcing from one wet dead hand to another which caused the upper torso to simulate the wave at his own funeral which sent the congregation running for their flowery compact cars and unicycles.

    Sigh.

    Hidden underneath his moody behavior, Victor would sometimes allow himself a quick internal smile at the thought of living out a life causing a public stir, for better or worse, just so long as he was the center of attention and having a tremendous amount of fun doing it. Maracas would be involved, and possibly even spotlights. Yeah, spotlights would be great. He might even try to recreate the joy buzzer incident at the next funeral he attended.

* * * * *

    Ten minutes into their conversation with Mrs. Simmons and Mr. Richardson, Victor's principal, the Frankenstein's had managed to take the concerns of a worried old teacher and turn them into the giggling hysterics of a asthmatic woman near death. Mr. Frankenstein, bedecked in a baggy jumpsuit covered completely in yellow, green and blue stripes with red buttons the size of apples, had made a spectacular entrance by doing backward summersaults into the main office, landing gracefully upside down upon Richardson's desk, then accomplished a 180 degree spin and pushed himself into the totally stunned arms of Richardson himself, causing Richardson to surrender his steaming mug of coffee to gravity's will, which resulted in quite a minor spectacular mess.

    Mrs. Frankenstein, however, had managed to come in a somewhat somber mood, even if she was dressed in a yellow and orange polka dotted dress complete with matching high heeled shoes. She carried a serious look upon her face, up until she looked at the disaster her husband had caused in the form of coffee spillage and the fact Mr. Frankenstein was now giving a great big kiss on the cheek to Richardson.

    "Sir, may I ask you identify yourself?"

    "Roger Frankenstein, Joker Extraordinaire at your service." He looked to his wife, and calmed a bit at her muted appearance.

    "Now, Roger, what have I told you about these theatrics?"

    "There's a time and place for them..."

    "And is this one of those times?"

    "YES!"

    Roger Frankenstein's left hand went deep into a pocket and pulled out a seltzer bottle, and sprayed it across the coffee stained floor and faculty members. As the contents were emptied, he placed the bottle on the desk, got down on all fours, and began to clean up the coffee and the foaming liquid with his head, the bushy purple wig he wore serving as the mop of choice. Mrs. Simmons approached Mrs. Frankenstein as her husband scooted about cleaning the floor.

    "Ma'am, I would like to talk to you about your son, if you have a moment."

    "Oh really, what about?"

    Mr. Richardson, who was now having his clothing attended to by Mr. Frankenstein's squeegee bow tie, stepped up to Victor's mom. "I'm afraid your son has been declaring his intentions on ruling the world again."

    "Is this true, son?"


    All turned to face Victor, who had been watching the madness unfold through the main office windows, who silently nodded yes from the other side of the glass. Victor's mom motioned for him to come inside, and as he rounded the corner and came through the door, she asked him to explain himself.

    "Well, Mrs. Simmons says we can be anything we want if we put our minds to it. And I want to be evil and rule the world!" Victor, either unaware of his actions or his need for dramatics in crowds, leaped up onto a chair and struck a pose similar to the one he assumed in front of his class, and proclaimed "My world will be an evil one! One of malevolent laughing, worshipping me, and the incessant, electronic horrors of John Cage's "HPSCHD!" What do you think about that? Huh?"

    "You tell 'em, son!" Mr. Frankenstein was now taking rubbing Mr. Richardson's balding head with an apple in an effort to shine one, the other, or possible even both. Richardson grabbed Frankenstein's arm and knocked the apple out of his hand.

    "That's mine, and I'd thank you to not put it in my hair like that."

    "Why, got lice have you? And I see no real evidence of hair either. Here, I've got just the thing for you." Victor's dad reached a hand into another pocket and pulled out an overgrown spider shaped wig and placed it flat on Richardson's head. Mrs. Simmons, already near the edge, was pushed over and fell to the floor when the spider wig began to spin in place and accidentally took advantage of its momentum and went flying towards her face, clocking her in mid spin and down she went. Her hip replacements were never in proper alignment again after that morning.

* * * * *

    The Laws of Newtonian physics, when demonstrated in the hands of stable, competent science instructors can be effective learning tools when it comes to illuminating the bored and dirt encrusted minds of kids who'd rather be hacking the Parental Controls on the cable box in an effort to see two Brazilian girls make out on the beach of some unknown island under the Southern Cross while Tiki Torches flared in the background.

    Sounds nice, doesn't it?

    The point is as follows: the proper age for allowing information into the brain is the same age you reach where the Science Channel is cool and the History Channel is no longer boring -- namely, when you've reached the age of Social Security checks and senior discounts at the local gaming establishment. In more extreme cases, it's also the period in your life when you hit thirty, realize all the new video games are too difficult for your mind to comprehend, and you begin watching Golden Girls reruns and silently bemoan the fact that, just a short ten years ago, you were making fun of people that had turned out like that. It's the groan that follows that seals your fate as you realize you are now one of Them.

    In the late years of  elementary and high school levels of education, the only thing children want to learn is why their parents hid their "World of Warcraft" game and threw the nearest gaming systems into the Koi pond when they were supposed to be doing something like, you know, involving that paper thingy on that dude who wrote "The Raven," or "The Crow," or whatever the hell it was that is due tomorrow.

    But the current lesson facing Victor involved the basic laws of physics, and Victor's dad had hired Dr. Dipsy Fluteblower, the circus' foremost authority on Falling From Great Heights And Not Dying, to teach him the active sciences. Demonstrations involving the rate at which two acrobats of differing size fall at precisely the same speed into large pools of banana pudding were informative, not to mention messy, but they got the point across.

    Home schooling, for the average child, is intended to protect them from the evils of real school, which involve interacting with their peers, learning about how Darwin had it right all along, and that sex was everywhere, and these rubbery instruments called "condoms" were created to help prevent the transfer of both genetic material and certain diseases which could easily kill you. Potentially normal children, who were unfortunate enough to not have normal parents, were subjected to home schooling to teach them that the world was flat as  paper, God hates people who aren't white, and you should dress like they did in the good old days when Mormons were forced to eat each other**, which of course led to polygamy as a means of having both many wives to provide sexual release, many children to control and purify of their inherent wickedness and, of course, to keep a readily available supply of human veal on stock should winter come again and you can't send for take out.




**Ricky Nelson, before he passed away, had revised his classic tune "Garden Party," to illustrate the Mormon's culinary past. He then re-christened it "Donner Party."  Some of the lyrics from this unreleased performance are as follows:

well, it's all right now
I ate my Uncle Mel
you see there's not enough to go around
so you'll just have to eat yourself

Victor Frankenstein was not a normal child, and neither were his parents. And home schooling was their effort to brighten the dark mood and the unreasonably needs to control the world and all who resided upon it, even if it wasn't flat. If one was to pay close enough attention, they would realize said effects of a non standard government based educational system is just as demented as the parents the who inflict it upon their offspring.
 

Prologue

    Every story, they say, has a beginning -- a time once unknown to the populous as the chronicler of said story wasn't around then to hear about it, let alone commit it either to memory or word processor.

    This is one of those stories.

    Given the nature of this particular story, one might expect it to begin with a phrase that reads something like Once Upon A Lightning Strike, or the equally laughable On A Dark And Not Particularly Stormy Night, and though it is roughly true, such introductions to the main text would be somewhat appropriate, they too only begin in the middle and leave the genesis of it all hidden away.

    Not this time, though. Oh no, this time we're going back to explain it all away.

    Our subject matter consists of two bright eyed, hopeful youths. Both endure humiliation and the traditional parental tradition of stomping upon dreams. As separate entities, they are unfulfilled beings searching out for their unknown missing halves which will bring their dreams to the forefront of their lives, and together they will unite in a powerful force that will, hopefully, rule the world.

    But, for now, they'll have to find peace in their younger days.

    Let this be a lesson to all those whom dream big, yet are forced to deal with the humiliating mendacity of every day life: your time will come too. If it appears that Fate only seems to slap you around now, and you learn to slap it back, it'll provide you all you need, because that's when the foundations for dreams are laid.

Questing For The Philosopher's Stone

It's been a few years since I've messed with these blogs.

Once upon a time I'd had the variations of earlier incarnations of Igor posted upon here, and given the permutations of life, those incarnations have come and gone from public knowledge.

And now I'm returning...again.

After many attempts at making Igor into a Hollywood film, then a comic book, and back again I finally sat down and tried my hand at a novel length adventure. And here it is:

Okay, well not yet, but it's coming.

In 2014, I'll be suffering the ten year anniversary of Igor's first inception, when it was just a lowly short film script that went nowhere. And since I've put a mind wrecking amount of time into pushing the material into the public domain, not to mention the revisions, I've decided I'm not going to let the material go to waste.

So get ready to walk with Igor once again, friends and Maniacs.

Sincerely,

Starlight