Frankenfrankfurter

(pre-titled by Amber)

"IGOR," Mr. Mad, the Sane Scientist, called across the stained, shadow-infested lab (lab-BOR-atory, it should be called), " IGOR!!"

"Igor ... igor ... igor ..." echoed back to him.

"Did you feed the monster?" Mad continued, half hopefully, into the dust and dark. A funny expression crossed his face, a twitch from the Mad Scientist calisthenics he had done this morning. Starting with an hour staring at Escher drawings, he listened to another half-hour of scrapings from famous chalkboards, and ended with a lecture from his mother. Yes, it was true, he was still in training. He'd failed his Mad Scientist Board exam, yet again. And he was not happy about it. At all. Everything he tried to create came out disgustingly good. For Pete's sake, he thought, beginning to get worked up - I made a nice monster! It cleans up after itself, and never forgets to say please and thank U.

"I'll work even harder," he vowed to the cheery blue skies above - why was it always 'nice' out? How's a scientist supposed to go mad with all this sunshine and tweety birds everywhere? "IGOR," Mr Mad called out, though poor Igor stood at his feet, ever at his master's beck and call. "Bring me my rusty forceps," he commanded sternly.

"But master," said Igor in his melodious voice, (he had a night job as a singing waiter at the local Italian restaurant), "I just had them oiled, and the shop cleaned all your other tools as well," he added regretfully. "I dusted the other floors, and threw out all those bones, because I didn't want the exterminators to see them when they came to take care of the rats. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Mad's face twisted up as his hands went unconsciously to the sides of his head, yet no sound came out his open mouth.

"Master, you look just like the famous painting I saw at the Louvre last week. Which reminds me, I have tickets to the opera on Sunday - do you --"

As giggly as a little girl, Mr. Mad giggled softly, then giggled louder. He owed Igor big time! His servant was ... driving him mad. No longer mad in name only, no longer a slave to sanity and all that is good, he ran to begin a new project.

"IGOR," he croaked, "Bring me ... a hot dog!"

Igor raced off, overjoyed to be of use. Humming a medley from Annie Get Your Gun he slid into the sunny terra-cotta floored kitchen. He brought the hot dog back to Mad, who clamped on the jumper cables. He turned the dial of the supervomaximacracklothingameter up to ten and pushed "on." The wiener did a crazy St. Vitus' dance on the operating table, antlers springing out and wings sprouting forth.

Mad cackled gleefully and did his own little jig. Igor smiled hopefully as he looked on from the gallery overhead. "Live!" shouted Mad, "Live, my creature, live!" It was a bit much, he knew, but he couldn't resist. He bent over to check the heart monitors, and saw one begin to register. Then ... yes, over on the gurney, movement!

"IGOR," Dr. Mad whispered very loudly, "Bring me ... a bun!" Already having anticipated the need, his assistant scrambled to cover Frankenfurter's shame.

"Speak to me," Dr. Mad begged, moving closer.

Doctor and assistant looked down at it with baited breath.

The Thingameter was off the charts.

And then it breathed its first words.

"Thank you for giving me life. Thank you so much."

"NO. Not another one!"

Igor brought him some hot cocoa, patted his hand fondly, and sat with Dr. Mad while he cried.