A new Tangled Tale for October 13, 2019 from Juliette aka Vampire Maman.
The Creature watched as the figure in the large overcoat and hat came through the door. The man walked with a slight limp. He smiled at The Creature as he took off his coat and hung it on a peg.
“Igor, you back. Doctor left,” said The Creature.
“Gone for three days. That gives us plenty of time,” said the man with the limp as he took off his hat and shook out his hair.
“Nice do,” said The Creature. “Igor look good.”
“I needed something different.”
“You look like hipster. Short sides. Longer top. Igor look stylish.”
“It isn’t Igor anymore. It never was Igor,” said the man.
“Victor called me Igor. It was a derogatory term due to my handicap.” Then he reached around and pulled a pillow out of the back of his shirt. “I won’t be needing this anymore.”
“You straight,” said The Creature.
“Physical therapy. Now I just have to use a cane when I’m on uneven surfaces. But listen, my name is, my real name, is Isidore Rassioli. Some of my friends call me Izzy.”
“Izzydore. I like.”
“You need a name too. That damn Victor didn’t even give you a name. What do you want to be called?”
“Don’t know. Never think I could have name.”
“Well I have.” Isidore pulled out an envelope and set it in front of The Creature. “You are now Corbin Jones. Look here. You now have a birth certificate, and a passport.”
“Sound good. I like. Why all this?”
“Because, my dear Corbin, it is time for us to leave. Our servitude is over. For years I toiled under Dr. Victor Frankenstein as his assistant. I did all of the research. I formulated the numbers. I came up with the key ideas, theories, and every thesis. I even wrote his lecture notes. The only reason he has tenure at the university is because of me. All the while he called me Igor and took advantage of my lack of confidence. Well no more. I am not ugly. I am not stupid. I am not a cripple.”
“Looking good Isidore. You smart. I always say that.”
“And so are you Corbin. So are you.
“Passport say American. Why?”
“Because dear Corbin you are a man of an astoundingly diverse heritage. Your body is Italian, built like Michelangelo’s David. Unfortunately the first owner was crushed in an automobile accident. Fortunately we were able to find a perfect fit for a new right arm and shoulder from a murdered Ethiopian gun smuggler. Your left brain is Irish Catholic and your right brain is Ashkenazi Jew. Your head is generic Caucasian, from an American who lost it to an unfortunate run in with a machete. You look like of like Chris Evans, you know, Captain America, sort of but I think better looking. Your ears don’t match, but nobody looks at ears unless they’re unusually large, and yours aren’t.”
“What about her?” Corbin asked, looking over at a closed door.
“The woman? Her body is from a woman who was of English, Welsh, and German decent. She was involved in an unfortunate industrial accident that took off the top of her head. Her scalp and brain are Korean. I’m not sure where those came from. Her heart is First Nation Canadian. Jesus Christ, I can’t make this stuff up. The two of you are true citizens of the world.”
From behind the closed door came a woman. She was striking with one brown eye and one hazel eye. Her long black hair was pulled up into a messy bun on the top of her hair. She wore jeans and an oversized sweater the color of the evening sky.
“Izzy. Did you get my papers?” Asked the woman.
“I did. Here you go Rochelle.”
“Oh my goodness it is good to hear my name. Rochelle. Wow.”
She opened her envelope and looked down upon the birth certificate. Rochelle Patti Smith. She’d picked out the name herself. Her own name. Not Eve or Lilith as Victor wanted to call her, but Rochelle. Patti Smith was after her favorite musician. Rochelle was just because she’s always liked the name somewhere in her distant past that she couldn’t quite remember.
“I have my bag packed,” said Rochelle.
“Good,” said Isidore.
“Where we go?” Corbin asked.
“Orange County, California, the United States of America. I got a job teaching at the Biology Department at UC Irvine.”
“UC?” Corbin asked.
“University of California,” said Isidore. “I have my PhD. This is a great opportunity. Plus we’re not going to be alone. My brothers Sal and Perry own a body shop in Long Beach.”
“They make people too?” Rochelle asked.
“No, cars. They repair cars. Automobiles.”
Six Years Later
Corbin, Rochelle, and Isidore lived in a house walking distance from the beach. It was a good life.
Corbin obtained his GED, took two years at the Community College and got into California State University Long Beach majoring in Political Science. With the help of a speech therapist he now spoke without a trace of hesitation. His girlfriend owned a surf shop and had taught him how to swim.
Rochelle was now in Law School at UC Irvine. She dated a movie producer.
Isidore was a popular teacher. Often he’d walk the beach with his dogs Ramble and Corky, and ponder the meaning of life. Not so much his life, but life in general.
He’d never even thought of making any more conglomerates of reanimated body parts and calling them human beings. Corbin and Rochelle were enough. They were miracles who’d been rescued from spending their new lives shut up in a laboratory to be poked and prodded. Now they were free. Maybe they even had souls. God knows they lived their lives like they did.
Victor had approached Rochelle a few years back, like an abusive stalker waiting to bring his woman back where she belonged. She told him that she’d call the police if he ever approached her again.
Victor had told her, “You ungrateful sewed together bitch. I made you. You belong to me.”
Rochelle said, “No Victor, I made me. I made the women I am today.”
A small note on the online news sites stated that the body of famous biologist Dr. Victor Frankenstein had been washed up on a beach just south of Santa Barbara. Corbin, Rochelle, and Isidore never talked about it. They didn’t need to.
The thought of Rochelle standing up for herself made Isidore smile. He wanted that for all of his students. It had taken years for him to stand up for himself.
As he watched the sunset over the Pacific Ocean a peace settled over Isidore.
“Come on boys,” he called to his dogs. Then he stood up straight and planted his cane in the sand. “I’m done with crutches my dear dogs. Let’s go home.”