www.bbtmagazine.com
Because Life's too Short Not to Laugh at it

At the moment that the gnarled, calloused fingers started gently tugging on the leg of his faded jeans, the young man standing in the corridor outside the Walker lecture theatre was already having difficulty concentrating on the task in hand. Having managed to track down his girlfriend of almost two months coming out of her tutor's office, he had spent the last half an hour trailing her all over campus and had finally persuaded her to give him five minutes to try and explain exactly why it was she should give him another chance, after showing up late and drunk for yet another date the previous evening. Somehow, he had found the power of will to get this far without belching a cloud of stale beer fumes all over his beloved - his hangover had been in full swing when he rolled out of bed at half past ten that morning, it was past lunchtime and it was showing no signs of abating- but this uncalled for interruption was in danger of ruining everything. Attempting to persevere with his apology, he found he was no longer able to maintain the illusion of composure, as the tugging causing his brain to stutter and the woman he already thought of as his future wife to make a point of checking her watch in the most demonstrative way possible.

'WHAT!?' he screamed, whirling around to face his tormentor with an efficiency and grace that caught his girlfriend's eye, reminding her of the night she had first him they had gone dancing. There was nobody there.

'Ohhhhhh, I've been bad! Please don't punish me!' Looking down, he saw a squat, hunched figure hopping from foot to foot, it's unnaturally long arms raised to cover it's head in a defensive posture. Disarmed, the young man looked to his girlfriend who in turn looked appalled at her erstwhile beau.

'Stop being so mean to that poor little man' she squealed, at an irritatingly high pitch which did nothing to help the pounding in the young man's head.

'I'm not being mean.' he offered, trying a calmer tone of voice, more for his own benefit than anybody else's.

'You are, you shouted at him'. The young man let out a long sigh.  As much as he loved his girlfriend, and as sure as he was that all he wanted to do was to spend the rest of his life with her, right at this moment those special qualities of hers that made him weak at the knees seemed somewhat elusive.

'Look, I'm sorry' he offered to the strange figure dancing about in front of him, 'I didn't mean to shout'.

'Nooooooooo young sir, Issssss my fault. I've been baaaaad.' Now that he looked closer, he could see that it wasn't just the man's physique that was strange, his clothing looked like it belonged to another era, medieval even. On his short, stumpy legs he was wearing a pair of dung-green tights, with a matching pair of suede boots on his feet. His torso was covered by some sort of tan, sleeveless, leather garment (the word jerkin popped into the young man's head but he had no idea where from) and this was cinched tight around his little pot belly by a thick, leather belt. Underneath that was a grey woolen shirt that looked unbearably scratchy and which had an integral hood fitting snugly around the man's head like a balaclava, so that only the oval of his face was visible. This drew more attention than was strictly necessary to his eyes, which were bulbous and wild and which seemed to be staring in half a dozen different directions at once.

'Look, can I help you? I haven't got any money if that's what you're after' the young man had by now decided that he was being accosted by some sort of performance artist, and that he should just try and get rid of him as quickly as possible.

'Pleeeassse' the little man thrust a piece of paper upwards into the young man's face, 'Can you tell me where I can find?' The young man furrowed his brow as he read it.

'The Morris Hall? You're going to Professor Philo's lecture?'

'Yesss, yessss! I'm going to see the brain doctor.' The little man's mouth broke into a grin that was so wide it made his head look like it was in danger of splitting open.

'Sure, yeah. Whatever. Just go right to the end of this corridor, then take the stairs up to the first floor, and it's on your right'

'Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnk yooouuuuuu!' the strange figure called back over his hunch.  He had already set off, and was limping down the corridor as fast as his good right leg would take him, the left was lame and dragged behind him. The young man watched, bemused, as the strange figure disappeared down the corridor, and then turned back to his girlfriend. She was gone.

In the crowded lecture hall, the master, who had arrived early, had staked out two good seats in the second row.  He sat in one, rested his stovepipe hat in the other, and narrowed his eyes and knotted his large brow at anyone who approached and looked as if they might ask to sit down. One brave soul, with pink hair and studs in her face, got as far as actually asking if she could sit down, to which he replied, 'Endshuldigen sie mich, Ich habe keine Englisch.' He then leant forward and snapped his teeth together loudly at her, as if taking an imaginary bite from her soft, young flesh and then followed it up with a lecherous wink. Her courage failed her, and she scurried away. As she did, the little man burst through the doors at the top of the lecture hall, and they slammed against the walls with a loud clap behind him, causing the assembled throng to turn as one to see the source of the commotion. The master did not turn, but raised one arm straight into the air to indicate his position, in it he held a lace handkerchief which he waved from side to side. The little man saw it, and made his awkward way down the steps of the central aisle towards the professor's seat.

'You're late, Igor' said the master, removing his hat from the seat beside his own, and placing it on the fold down desktop that was attached to the single arm of the chair. Igor had to face the chair and use his hands to help haul himself up into his seat, and then struggled to try and find a comfortable position on the moulded plastic which singularly failed to accommodate his hunch. 'Please don't fidget, there's a good fellow.' Igor regarded the professor. He was dressed impeccably as usual in a black, velvet frock coat under which he wore a  matching black waistcoat and a white shirt, which sprouted into ruffles at his wrists and throat. Looking up into his long, noble face though, he could see that his master looked tired, the lines on his forehead were deeper and his cheeks were sunken, making the bones in his face even more prominent than usual. His thick white hair, usually so wild and bushy, now looked lank and dull. Igor made a mental note to flagellate himself later for not taking better care of his master.

'I'm sorry professor' he said and stilled his body immediately, even though he was far from comfortable.

'How's our boy doing?' the professor did not look toward Igor when he spoke, his red rimmed eyes stared straight ahead toward the lectern on the small stage, conscious of missing the entrance of the man who he convinced himself was his last hope. Igor hesitated before replying, he was wary of adding to the master's burden but he also knew that any attempt at embroidering the truth was a risky proposition. He was a poor liar, and tired as they were, the master's eyes could lay his soul bare, if he decided to turn them from the stage and fix them on him. Igor cradled his hands in his lap and bowed his head, just in case the master did turn his way.

'He was restless before I left, but I managed to calm him down with some television. I fed him his sedative and he dropped off watching The Cartoon Network.' This was true enough in itself, but the lie was by omission.  “Restless” was something of an understatement, Junior had pretty much destroyed the hotel room. And, though he had indeed taken his sedative, it been fed to him in the uncooked flesh of a salesman who had been staying in the room next door, and who had made the mistake of coming to complain about the noise in person, rather than phoning down to reception. Junior had crushed his skull with one blow, and Igor, ever practical, had seized the opportunity when it presented itself. 'I'd like to get back soon master, he'll be scared if he wakes up and he's alone.'

'Quite so Igor, Junior is very lucky to have you looking after him' The professor laid a hand on Igor's hump and gave it a gentle squeeze. Just then the lights dimmed and Igor was glad they did, as he felt himself blush with a mixture of pride and embarrassment at the compliment. There was a whirring noise as a screen began to descend on stage behind the lectern, and when it was fully unrolled a projector somewhere toward the back of the hall flicked on, and a giant image of a human brain in profile appeared in front of them. 'Here we go Igor, Professor Philo is the foremost brain expert in the world, I'm sure he can help us.'

Igor said nothing, but was less than convinced as he watched a short, balding, rotund  man in a badly fitting suit waddle on to the stage, with a cardboard folder full of notes clasped in one meaty paw whilst the other wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. The rest of the audience, however, seemed to share the master's enthusiasm and burst into energetic applause. Professor Philo paused to survey the room when he reached the lectern, and stood for a moment savouring the adulation, before making a flapping gesture to quiet the noise as he pretended to peruse his notes.  A carefully orchestrated routine, designed to convey his modesty even as it displayed his tedium. Igor was curious as to how such an onerous and inadequate looking little man could behave with such apparent confidence, and looked toward the master to see his reaction.  He was dismayed to see that he actually seemed impressed. The master had a temper to rival even Frank's when his hopes were dashed, and looking at Professor Philo, Igor could see nothing but disappointment ahead.

Philo had agreed to appear at his alma mater at the special request of the Dean, who had arranged a series of guest lectures from the more distinguished ex-alumni. As such, he had not come to engage in an in-depth examination of  Batten Disease or Charcot-Marie-Tooth-disorder, but was here to deliver a crowd pleasing turn to the assembled laymen and women, retelling the more humorous and 'quirky' case histories that had helped to build a famous career.

He started with the tale of the young man with Cotard Syndrome, who believed that he had never recovered after being hospitalised with meningitis, and was in fact a putrefying corpse, living in hell and interacting with a horde of demons on a daily basis. He continued with the husband suffering from Capgras, who had fallen in the shower and hit his head whilst on a business trip, and had returned home to find that his wife and children had been replaced by imposters.  Then, there was the college student with Stendahl Syndrome, who fainted every time she saw a truly exceptional piece of art - the professor joking on this occasion that he suspected that this patient might be faking, as she claimed to have felt dizzy whilst looking at a piece by Tracey Emin. Finally, he finished up with an established favourite, the tale of a group of six Japanese tourists, who had suffered simultaneous nervous breakdowns whilst on vacation in Paris.

Igor was thoroughly bored - he played cat's cradle throughout with a knotted length of vein that he found in his pocket - it saddened him to think that the master was at such a low ebb that he actually felt he could learn something from this quack. Honestly, what sort of barbaric, backwards-thinking charlatan would advocate behavioural modification through psychotropic drugs and 'therapy' rather than beatings, isolation and high-voltage massage? Junior was a wayward child, there was no doubt about that, but surely they owed him better than this?

If  Igor was less than impressed by the Professor, the master appeared to be mesmerised, hanging on his every word and scribbling notes furiously, without ever tearing his eyes away from his new hero, occasionally muttering to himself under his breath an 'Of course' or an 'I see'.

After two hours, Philo drew his lecture to a close, and the audience burst into a round of rapturous applause, the master insisting on standing to deliver his own ovation, dragging Igor to his feet to join him, who cursed under his breath realising that he would have to struggle back into his seat all over again.

'Now I'll take some questions?' Philo had originally refused the Dean's request to include a question and answer session, but he was feeling invigorated by the energy in the room.  He knew an impressed audience when he saw one, and he wanted to feed from them a while longer.

'Professor, I wonder if you have any thoughts on the best way to neutralise the Evil cortex?' The master had not sat down again after the applause had finished, and was standing tall and erect. Philo squinted through his spectacles regarding the master with a degree of suspicion, with those clothes and that wild hair, the stranger looked all the world like a textbook example of a mad scientist.

'I'm sorry, could I ask you to repeat that?  I don't think I could have heard you correctly' Philo had already decided that the man was some kind of plant, somebody's idea of adding a little more fun to the proceedings, the Dean's perhaps, and as he was feeling somewhat playful himself, he decided to be a good sport and go along with the gag. It occurred to him as well, that the majority of the audience would no doubt think that this little piece of theatre was his idea, and that would do no harm to the sales of his new book 'Don't Strain Your Brain'.

'I was asking, Professor Philo, what your thoughts were on the best way to neutralise, or if necessary excise, the Evil cortex.' As the master repeated his question, Igor sensed a change in the room, and glanced around. The audience were no longer looking toward Philo, their attention was now on the master, and on Igor as well, they were sniggering, and whispering, and nudging one another. Igor sank down in his seat as far as his hump would allow, he already knew this was going to end badly.

'Ah yes, the Evil Cortex' Philo enunciated the words with relish, whilst giving a knowing nod to the throng. 'That is an interesting question. It's obvious to me from your demeanor, that you are yourself a man of science, much accomplished if I am not mistaken. May I know to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?' Igor watched with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as the master hooked his thumbs behind the lapels of his jacket, tilted his head at an angle he thought of as rakish and announced.

'I am Dr Victor Frankenstein of Geneva'. The ensuing laughter, though remarkably restrained, was distinctly audible. Dr Frankenstein looked around quizzically, one eyebrow raised, before deciding that something humorous must have befallen one of the audience members standing behind him. On stage, Philo was hamming it up for all he was worth, his mouth fell open and he held his hands to his jowly cheeks, in a move intended to convey his sense of excitement and astonishment.

'Good Lord, the famous Dr Frankenstein. This is such an honour for all of us. Your achievements in the field of human reanimation are….well, they're legendary' Igor squirmed in his seat, the master was beaming with pride, and holding up one hand to stay the eulogy, he hadn't the faintest idea he was being mocked.

'Please, Professor Philo, you are flattering me.' Dr Frankenstein's voice was confident and resonant but still flowed like warm honey, his soft Germanic accent reinforcing the nobleness of his appearance. 'It is true, I have created life from nothing, and in that regard my only rival is God himself' he paused for an exquisitely timed beat, 'But when it comes to the true beauty of creation, both the Lord and I fall some way short of the miracle that is childbirth.' Before continuing, he swept his head around the auditorium in a slow arc, making eye contact with several of the female members of the audience, who suddenly found that they were uncomfortably warm. Philo bristled. It was one thing to try and add a bit of fun to the proceedings, but this tired old player was in danger of stealing all of the limelight for himself. He cleared his throat as audibly as he could.

'Yes, quite so, my dear doctor. Now, the Evil Cortex' he hooked his hands into claws and bared his teeth as he said it, forming what he felt was a suitably comical face.  But the audience either failed to see the joke, or else they did not find it particularly funny responding not with laughter, but only a few weak smiles. 'Ahem, yes. But Dr Frankenstein, before I share my thoughts with you, may I ask why you are asking? Do you have a particularly 'boisterous' patient in mind?' and then, winking at the audience, 'A bit of a monster, perhaps'.

'My dear Professor, Junior is certainly boisterous but I hardly think it is appropriate for a man of science, such as yourself, to refer to a patient as a monster' Frankenstein looked genuinely appalled, and despite himself Philo could not help but look abashed. He saw that the wide smiles and the laughter were back, but now the audience was laughing with Frankenstein, at his expense. He felt his cheeks burning, and regretted ever entering into this charade, typical that the Dean should pick some old has-been just because he was cheap, and not consider that he might ruin a nice little idea, because he was suffering the delusion that he was an undiscovered Olivier.

'You are, of course, perfectly correct, Herr Doctor, please accept my apologies. Perhaps you would like to join me on stage, nearer the microphone.  You project well sir, but I fear even a voice as strong as yours is being lost to some of those at the rear of the hall.' In fact, the acoustics of the hall carried Frankenstein's tones admirably, but Philo wanted him close by, so he could keep a tighter reign on him, and stop him stealing any more of the show.

Frankenstein nodded his assent and began to make his way to the stage.  As he squeezed past Igor's chair, the little man reached out a hand and grabbed the tail of the master's coat. 'Pleeeeeeeeeasse master, don't go'

'Oh for heaven's sake, Igor' Frankenstein whispered to his assistant, 'How many times do I have to tell you not to effect that ridiculous voice?  I know you can speak perfectly well'

Igor let go of the coat, 'Sorry master, you're right. But please, this man cannot help you. You are Victor Frankenstein, what can he teach you of the mind? I fear he is only jealous, and means to humiliate you' Igor managed, through a huge force of will, to stop his eyes rolling just long enough to look sincere.

'Is there a problem?' Philo had been watching this exchange from the stage, but had been unable to hear any of it. He had only now noticed that the Doctor was not alone, but had brought a dwarf dressed up as his assistant, and he feared that both of them would be joining him. Frankenstein he might be able to control, but he would have no chance with a freakish, comical sidekick.

'No problem, Professor' replied the Doctor, 'Just consulting with my assistant'.  Then whispering again to Igor, 'I forget how protective you are. Your father was just the same. Don't fret, the Professor is one of our kind, he only wants to help'.  And with that he proceeded to walk to the stage, which he mounted by the steps at the side. On stage, he stood with Philo at the lectern, and towered over him.  Philo took a sidestep to the left, to try and lessen the disparity.

'Right, now, the Evil cortex, is this area here' he said winking at Frankenstein, and proceeded to produce a laser pointer from inside his blazer and waved it in the direction of the projected image on the screen, the red dot swirling in tight little circles around the rear of the brain.

'No, it isn't' said Frankenstein, his brow was deeply furrowed.  'That's the occipital lobe'.  A ripple of laughter rose up from the auditorium.

Philo took a step back toward the doctor, and placed his hand on his arm so he could turn him to face the screen and away from the audience. 'Listen to me, 'Herr Doktorrrr'' he hissed under his breath.  'I'm happy to play along with this for the sake of the Dean, and to give the audience a bit of a giggle, but be a good chap and remember that this isn't a rehearsal for the bloody Bristol rep!' Frankenstein shook himself loose from Philo's grip, and stared down at the professor with bewilderment. Turning back towards the crowd, Philo found a smile.

'Sorry, was I pointing at the occipital lobe? Silly me being a bit vague with the pointer, difficult to be precise with a photo, as opposed to a differentiated diagram. Now, the Evil Cortex'  And he moved the pointer down, and slightly to the left. Frankenstein cleared his throat loudly.

'WHAT!' squealed Philo, finally losing his cool.

'That's the cerebellum.' Frankenstein said calmly.

'Fine,' Philo snapped, and thrust the pointer into Frankenstein's hand, 'Perhaps you'd like to show us all on the screen.' Frankenstein held the pointer between his thumb and forefinger, and directed the beam, so that a red dot flared on the end of the Professor's nose.

'Your diagram is out of date, Professor Philo. The Cortex is a sponge like protrusion, about an inch and a half long, which starts above the pituitary gland and extends into the nasal cavity. I would have expected a scientist of your standing to know that.'

Philo balled his hands into fists at his sides and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He could feel himself shaking with rage, but he felt he was composed enough to wrap this up without a tremor in his voice.

'Well, I'm very sorry, Doctor.  However, I'm afraid I am only an expert on the reality of the human brain.  The strange biology of your monstrous experiment is, I'm afraid, a little beyond me. Now, if you'll excuse me we appear to have overrun, and I have another appointment to get to, so we'll have to end the questions there'. Philo picked up his folder from the lectern, and began to make his way offstage to a mixture of half-hearted applause and disappointed murmurings. Now it was Frankenstein's turn to feel anger.

'FRAUD!' he bellowed, arm outstretched and finger pointing at Philo, 'CHARLATAN!' His eyes blazed with fury, his voice boomed and echoed off the walls. The audience whooped and Philo froze in his tracks, realising for the first time that something was very wrong. 'I have told you once already that Junior is not a monster, I will not tell you again. Do not denigrate my creation to try and cover up your own shortcomings.'

Philo was suddenly very scared but he was fiercely proud too, and had not realised by this point that the audience still regarded this as part of the show, and that he could have simply left with his reputation relatively unscathed. Instead, he turned back to face Frankenstein, and responded with a single word, 'Lunatic!'

It was enough.  Igor leapt from his chair and bounded towards Philo like a baboon, moving far more swiftly on all fours than he could upright, intent on defending his master's honour. He was up onto the Professor's shoulders and  raining blows down on his shiny bald head in a matter of seconds. The audience howled their approval and bayed for more, but Frankenstein hauled Igor off one-handed, and dragged his assistant snarling and snapping from the hall. It was only after the 'actors' had vacated the hall, and the professor was left shaking and whimpering on the stage, that some in the crowd began to realise that this might not be the fantastically choreographed piece of entertainment that they had first thought.

Back in the hotel room, Frankenstein was disconsolate when he saw the pile of bones around the bed, upon which Junior was still, thankfully, snoring loudly. 'Oh Igor, again?' Igor shrugged, as much as his hunch would allow.

'If it's any consolation, master, he was a bit of a dick.'

Frankenstein let out a long sigh, and sat down on the bed next to his slumbering creation. He ruffled Junior's coarse hair fondly, feeling the scars that covered the massive cranium brushing against the skin of his palm. 'That's not the point and you know it, sooner or later he's going to end up eating somebody who will actually be missed. I know your father told you about the unpleasantness we had with the villagers when he was my assistant.' Igor nodded, his father had indeed told him about it. His father had also told him what terrific fun it had been, what with the pitchforks and the torches and the limbs being flung far and wide, into the cold dark night.  Igor decided to keep this to himself.

'Come on,' said the doctor, 'let's start packing.  It will be easier while he's asleep. Remember what it was like on the way here, when he insisted on helping?'

Igor let out a little chuckle.  Junior's idea of helping with the packing had been dangerously chaotic, and Igor himself had almost been crushed to death under a steamer trunk, which had for some reason been filled with concrete gargoyles from the castle ramparts, but it had been hard not to get caught up with his boyish enthusiasm.

'Cheer up master.  I know he's a little rambunctious from time to time, but boys will be boys, I was much the same at his age and I didn't turn out too bad, did I?'

Frankenstein was folding a pair of Junior's pyjamas, and turned to look at Igor, who chose that moment to boggle his eyes at him for all he was worth, and the doctor smiled, despite himself.

'There you go. I know something else that will cheer you up as well.'

'What's that, Igor' the doctor asked, as he pushed a femur under the bed with his foot.

'We'll be driving past Professor Philo's house on the way to the airport.'

By Peter White

I currently reside in London where I was born and raised by a dysfunctional Irish-Catholic family and any number of cheap Horror flicks and Spaghetti Westerns. I have spent most of my working life dabbling in Pharmacy and some years ago this took me to New Zealand where I met my beautiful wife. I presently work for a Medical Information company where I pretend to know a lot about things like patents and intellectual property and drink a lot of tea. I recently had an epiphany when I realised that the first step to realising my dream of becoming a writer was to, you know, write something.

Please login to post your comments.