By Mark Budman

My mom taught me that every man has to leave a mark on this world, something that posterity would remember him by. I listened. Her wisdom and my obedience brought me nothing but trouble while I was a boy and even more so when I grew up.

Especially now.

It’s not comfortable here. Probably because I’ve never been a salaryman. Always been a freelancer. A free spirit roaming the science scene at will. My own will.

At my current place of employment, scorpions crawl under my feet, tarantulas try to sneak under my shirt’s collar and a black mamba coils around my legs. And that’s my break time. And as for my wages, it’s just a cup of foul water every twelve hours and a bowl of snake soup every twenty-four hours.

I think I had enough. I want to leave but they won’t let me. I need to complain to the labour relationships department if I use the term right. 

When Abbey left me, taking my life savings, I took two pounds of nice Belgian chocolate, five new silk ties, a dozen unblemished Georgia peaches, plus a handful of pink rose petals, a few chunks of a Brazilian wax, a pound of organic sugar, a spoon of clover honey, and some spice. I ground it together, poured the mixture into a mould I fashioned after a Playboy centrefold (December 2001, my favourite), and ran 38,000 volts through it. The key was to modulate the current with selected tunes from the Grateful Dead. I knew the resulting woman wouldn’t have any soul, but all I wanted was a body (I had enough misfortunes with full-souled women already).

I called her Eve (I know, I know, my imagination is not so great since I am not a man of letters.) Her skin looked white as virgin snow, and her cheeks were red delicious apples.  Since I was still smarting from Abbey’s departure (and Zyria’s departure before — she stole my collection of 71,000 species of moths), I began courting her right away.

“Oh, Frank,” Eve whispered when I lowered her to the bed. “Frank, darling.”

A whole bunch of fire ants ran out of her lovely mouth. Some bit my cheeks, some bit my ears, and the biggest one, the size of a cat, devoured my tongue. If that was not enough, Eve raised those lovely hands of hers and strangled me.

Now, I’m in this strange place of employment, pardon me for the term.

For 23 hours a day, they put me inside something that looks like a big copper cauldron, fixed over a pile of burning coal. The cauldron is filled with boiling oil (olive or sunflower?), which comes to my chin. It hurts. When the oil cools off a bit, a naked, red-skinned lab assistant with horns throws more coal under my cauldron. He’s very diligent and lets me cool off only for one hour a day. I tried to engage him in a scientific discussion once. 

“Do you know, sir, a black-mouthed mamba is a highly venomous snake of the genus Dendroaspis and is endemic to sub-Saharan Africa?” I asked him.

He just showed me his pointy teeth in need of a power wash.

I realise this place of employment is punishment for me, but for what? For interfering with nature by creating an artificial being? But that’s what scientists are for. Not to interfere per se, but to build a new, orderly world from the natural chaos. Is Archimedes here, too? Newton? Einstein? 

Besides, why is it so clichéd? Don’t I deserve some custom-made punishment? Something cool, airy, and breezy? 

Suddenly, I hear the Grateful Dead music; Friend of the Devil. I’m pulled into something dark and confined. I smell snips, snails, puppy dog tails, and a whiff of nuts. I have a body now. I feel a strong, pulsating electrical current running through me. Thirty-eight thousand volts at least. The mould opens up. I shut my eyes against the bright light. 

I hear a woman’s voice. “Welcome, stranger,” she says. “My name is Mary. Mary Frankenstein. No Wollstonecraft in the middle. I created this empty body, and all I needed was a soul. Thank you for coming over from the place yonder. Don’t fret! I’ll make you a star, the delight of the night skies.”

I wonder how she pulled me in. Is she also a scientist? And why me from everyone in the place of my confinement? Are we kindred souls? 

Either way, I’m glad to be here. A star is better than a labourer. When my eyes get used to the light, I see the pretty long nose of a true scientist, her large, round eyes, her glasses, and her thin but pursed lips. A mirror copy of me, except her figure is feminine. Maybe she’s the mirror of my soul. Souls have no gender.

I can’t introduce myself. Strangely, I don’t remember my name, even if her last name somehow rings the bell. Too many poisonous bites can do that to a man, if I’m still a man. So I just grunt and smooth my hair. A tarantula bites my finger but I brush it off. I’m a future star, and stars are too high up to be bothered by pain. I get up and examine my new home. Mary follows me around, holding a stick that is cracking with electricity. It must be a weapon. She’s thoughtful. 

I might like it here.

A year later, I’m still happy. Mary never made me a star, but I became her book’s protagonist. “Frankenstein’s Groom” had an Amazon ranking of 25,321 at one point. A monstrously high ranking to make a dark mark on the world. 

My mom would be proud of me. And I don’t miss the mamba. I wonder if it missed me.

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