The Little Monster

So, some of you know I'm a writer, some of you don't, and perhaps a large number would reply with, "I don't care... just gimme the meats!" And for that, I applaud you. However, I decided, I'd post some stuff here and see what y'all thought. And I warn you, it's nothing like you thought it would be... :)

This story will NOT: Educate you.

You will garner no knowledge of any importance from the material presented before you.

This story will NOT under any circumstance: Surprise you.  

You will be warned well in advance before any earth shattering, cataclysmic event takes place and you'll be glad you were.

This story will most certainly NOT: Elevate your status amongst friends.  

And for that I offer a heartfelt apology.

The young boy was a monster of a child. I don’t mean he was your average, run-of-the-mill kind of monster child, taking pleasure in tormenting his big sister or setting neighborhood cats on fire. He was an honest-to-goodness kind of monster; certified, and independently verified through the strictest of scientific methods.

He was born, and for the first two months of his life, lived, in the basement laboratory of one Reginald Frankenstein. Throughout his troubled and often turbulent life, he would be known by many names, but he began life, submerged in a vat of an ochre-colored, foul-smelling liquid, with the proper name of Eugene Frankenstein.

And let me say, from experience, that is just a wretched way to begin your existence.

Upon proper medical poking, prodding, probing, and thorough examination, one could assert that Eugene was indeed living. Upon placing your eyes in his general direction, however, a strong argument could be made to the contrary.

The very sight of the darling child in public had been known to cause dizziness, momentary blindness, stomach cramps, fits of laughter, bloating, and on at least one occasion involuntary bowel movements; he could be most sympathetically (though perhaps not most accurately) described as your average sized eight-year-old boy with a receding hairline, one lazy eye, and a mild aversion to fire.

Other descriptions had included but were not limited to:

“Frightful zombie-like creature.” – Esquire Magazine

“Bluish tinted, squat, and almost entirely inhuman.” – Vanity Fair Magazine

“Almost certainly not of this Earth.” – Wired Magazine

“A thought provoking and somewhat grotesque look at what science may have to offer.” – FOX News

“A work of the Devil and a sure sign of the end times.” – Reverend Patrick Beau Cannon

In an interview with CNN, Dr. Reginald Frankenstein, who would become known as his father, once said that – and I quote – “Eugene is a perfectly normal boy as if he had been born to biological parents.” Biological parents who had both been raised on a nuclear test site within the Nevada desert and subjected to a multitude of experiments dreamed of only by the most renegade of scientists perhaps.

Just to catch a glimpse of this marvel of modern day science was, needless to say, plenty, and we’ll finally leave it at that.

Eugene was dearly loved by his creator parent; loved as much as one could love a horrific monstrosity that had been pieced together in the basement laboratory of an otherwise unremarkable home. But, much to Dr. Frankenstein’s dismay, his monster’s mannerisms and intelligence weren’t quite what you would call – typical. He had in fact selected only the finest materials – whatever was available – to aid in the creation of Eugene.

The genius doctor had thought he would receive, per written instructions to the Greater New York Body Bank, and waited with great anticipation for: the brain of a child prodigy he had spent a large sum of monies to preserve. However, due to a most unfortunate shipping mishap, the much coveted intellectual brain was to instead be placed within the head of a two-year-old orangutan named Felix, who was last seen driving a stolen late model Ford Taurus, with his lovely orangutan girlfriend, Dora, in the passenger seat. She would later be found abandoned at a corner grocery with a handful of bananas and a newly acquired, pessimistic outlook on life.

As a result, Dr. Frankenstein, without foreknowledge, would receive the former cranial contents of one William Henry Stucker. While being a wonderfully entertaining and well-loved boy, Billy Stucker was perhaps best known for his unique ability to consume his own body weight in whatever leftover food items he had found lying about on the ground.

The list of unsavory consumables that had found their way into his mouth included, but by all means is not limited to: six M&M’s found under the cushion of his mother’s lime green IKEA sofa; one half of a Snickers bar left for an undetermined amount of time under the passenger side seat of his father’s 1985 Chevrolet Camaro; one half-eaten Burger Boy Double Decker with cheese found in that same location; five jelly beans extracted from the slot of a candy machine; twenty-three after-dinner mints discovered in the men’s room of a local eatery; an undisclosed number of lollipop leftovers rescued from various unsavory locations; twelve pieces of gum carefully pulled from underneath seven different tables; and exactly two bites of a hot dog left on a bus stop bench he had passed every day on his way home from school. One of which became lodged in his throat and ultimately bore the responsibility for his untimely demise.

Several years earlier, Dr. Frankenstein and his wife had been the parents of a bright, loving, well-mannered young boy. He had acquired sparkling blue eyes from his mother and a vast intellect from his father. Both the doctor and Veronica Frankenstein adored their child and spent every spare moment of time with him. The neighborhood children would line up at their door, anxiously waiting for Sylvester to become available for play. Sylvester was the child every parent dreams of—the perfect blend of childhood innocence and his parents’ wisdom.

Life for Sylvester, however, would end too soon.

Dr. Frankenstein tried in vain to console his grieving wife. They tried repeatedly to have another child; to fill the void created by the loss of their first child.

It was in fact a comment by Dr. Frankenstein’s wife, Veronica, that had initially prompted the idea for Eugene’s creation – that and the relatively lax government regulations concerning the creation of new life. After yet another unsuccessful attempt at coupling with his less-than-enthusiastic spouse, his increasingly awkward advances were finally met with her posing the question, “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could conceive without actually having to touch one another?”

Most human beings would have recognized that moment as an undeniable turning point in a failed relationship and miserable existence; but not Reginald Frankenstein. The good doctor was known neither for his ability to communicate with nor even remotely understand the opposite sex. He was, in fact, quite ignorant of anything regarding womanhood.

He didn’t know what women wanted out of life – or him for that matter – and that included his wife.

Had his marriage not been arranged by his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Eugene Frankenstein of Newark, NJ, he would have, and perhaps rightfully so, died ignorant and alone. His father, however, an intelligent man and well-versed in the ways of womankind, had arranged a meeting for young Reggie with the daughter of his very best childhood friend.

Dr. Frankenstein, a distant relative of the renowned mad scientist, and a promising young neuroscientist at the time, had very little if anything to do with Veronica’s attraction to him. The only child of a prominent Jewish doctor, Reginald possessed a solid work ethic that kept him at the lab very late; a quality that Veronica very much appreciated as it afforded very little opportunity for him to interrupt her busy social calendar.

Genetics and experimental techniques discovered by his fifth cousin – twice removed – had given Reginald the means with which to create a child whose appearance was very similar to their own. Being no sort of cosmetic surgeon, however, he could not hide the many scars of repeated surgeries, and the bluish tint of the boy’s flesh was a side effect of the chemical bath in which the boy was placed prior to animation.

It could be surmised that Dr. Frankenstein had predicted a more loving and perhaps even nurturing acceptance of Eugene by both his wife and the community at large, but when the good doctor first introduced the newly created child to his still mourning wife, her reaction was, shall we say, absolutely horrifying. Once he revived her with an ample supply of smelling salts – and then supplied her with a mild sedative – her spirits were much relieved. It took her several months to become accustomed to the squat, bluish-tinted boy.

Regular outings at nearby parks, planned in vain to bring mother and child closer together, were doomed. At first, the mothers of neighboring children would simply retreat, their perfectly normal offspring stuffed hastily underarm, like loaves of fresh bread, as they made way to their respective homes.

Then, they organized.

Veronica Frankenstein, once an endearing socialite – loved far and wide for her lavish brunches and delectable tea cakes – had become an outcast; her memberships to the knitting circle and book clubs revoked; her credit cards declined; her garden gnomes vandalized.

There were to be no play dates for Eugene. He would spend the majority of his time alone.Attempts to teach Eugene proper English turned into frightful fits of tears. Veronica Frankenstein simply could not understand how such a simple construct as ‘Good afternoon, Sir.’ could be transformed by the child into utter nonsense.

Although he was capable of innumerable noises and nonsensical mutterings made with a variety of body parts, his entire vocabulary seemed to contain a grand total of ten actual English words: Momma, Daddy, See, Later, Stop, Naw, Hell, Shit, Ass, Hot and Damn – the last two usually uttered consecutively.

Private tutors were brought in from far reaches of the country, each with their own thoroughly unique way to instruct Eugene.

Miss Grace Honeywell brought with her the idea of unschooling, an attempt at instructing young Eugene through life experience. The thought of a textbook would cause the young woman to swoon and the idea of a structured classroom would incite a tirade about the fall of modern society and the failings of the public school system. After a particularly disastrous attempt to instruct Eugene in the field of Entomology; one in which the tiny blue boy ingested several of her much prized butterfly examples of the papilio genus, she fled into the night.

Dr. Thomas Fletcher entered the home with a PhD from Columbia Theological Seminary and a small trunk of texts both religious and secular. The good Dr. Frankenstein came home one afternoon to find Dr. Fletcher, surrounded by a flock of supportive teaching aides, performing an exorcism upon young Eugene, who sat in his bed quite unmoved by the experience, if not somewhat entertained.

And so it continued for several months. Each new instructor claiming to hold the key to unlocking Eugene’s young mind. And with each promise, a new found excitement for Dr. Frankenstein, that young Eugene would indeed blossom.

Eventually however, each tutor’s method would prove ineffective and each would leave, usually in great haste, explaining that they simply could not tolerate working with such a heathen of a child.

Shortly after Eugene’s eighth birthday, having reached both their emotional and financial limits, Reginald and Veronica Frankenstein enrolled their makeshift son into the local public school, Colburne Elementary, hoping that an education through immersion would benefit the young boy.

Throughout the first week of school, Reginald and Veronica Frankenstein would prepare Eugene in the morning, provide him with his breakfast of oatmeal and toast, which he would of course consume in the most grotesque manner conceivable. Afterward, he would be dressed in appropriate attire and driven to the school, where Reginald would drop him off at the sidewalk in front of the main building.

Eugene’s day consisted of the normal regimen of kindergarten instruction, interspersed with regular trips to the playground. Lunch time, however, Eugene spent alone in the nurse’s office, as kindly Nurse Rita was just about the only adult capable of watching him eat.

While Eugene’s classmates did not openly display the contempt for him that many adults would, he was most certainly not the most well-liked child in his class. His mannerisms were atrocious, his communicative skills abhorrent and he just plain smelled funny.

In the beginning, Eugene spent more time with his nose in a corner of the classroom than actually participating; a fact appreciated by the students, teachers, and Eugene. The less time he spent with other children, the more time he could spend thinking about various other matters that interested him; whatever those matters were could be anyone’s guess.

Eugene’s school day ended promptly at 2:30, when he would be escorted with the other children to the curb in front of the school building, to await their parents. Eugene looked forward to this most of all. On most days, his father would arrive on time, with a smile and a loving hug.

When later questioned by police about Eugene’s disappearance, Veronica Frankenstein could say very little. His being snatched by some insidious villain out of the question, it was decided that he must have simply wandered off at some point during the day.

Try not to judge Veronica solely upon her abandonment of young Eugene. She had done her best to accept the young child as her own. But, time spent with Eugene only served to bring about memories of her own beloved Sylvester, which highlighted Eugene’s glaring imperfections.

As the laws regarding the creation of such a being as Eugene are particularly lacking, so apparently are the laws regarding the disappearance of such an individual. There was to be no manhunt for his captor and no Amber Alerts were broadcast across the state; his picture was not to be placed on cartons of milk. Instead, his file was to be placed on the bottom of an already sizable stack of cases regarding missing children.

Eugene was not to be missed, except perhaps, by the family dog. Mr. Puddles – a rather awkward mix of terrier and collie – knew something was amiss. The grumpy mutt would normally spend his evenings tormenting the young bluish-tinted human child, and that child was no longer available for him to play with; a situation he set about right away to remedy.