How Frankenstein Did It
Prometheus is one of a kind and on a mission to tell his story and clear his name. With a detailed letter to the New York Press editor, he describes how his father, Dr. Vick Frankenstein, secretly created him in a lab using the best human parts at his disposal. He didn’t stitch together a monster–he crafted a nearly perfect being with the strongest body, the smartest mind, and the most handsome face.
But the biased society of 1960, embroiled in racial inequality and contesting change, isn’t ready for this advanced, man-made entity and neither is its creator. Threatened by Prometheus’ existence, the jealous doctor plots to lock him away, yet his obsessive desire for recognition sets off a disastrous chain of events driving his beautiful wife into the arms of his creation and leading to a nationwide manhunt for a person branded the East Coast Killer.
The cardboard package waiting for Ansel on his office desk smelled weird. It didn’t reek like his usual hate mail, in the form of feces, for printing pro civil rights stories. It stank with a myriad of unidentified odors–from sickly sweet to putrid–with a hint of cheap cologne as though someone tried to mask the stench from a shared dumpster between a pastry shop, a pet store, and a funeral parlor.
He hesitated opening it after hearing rumors one reporter received a box with a live raccoon inside. He’d shit his slacks if a rabid rodent tore out from there. He tapped the top.
Nothing stirred, minus the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He jostled it lightly. The contents shifted without a distinguishable noise. Could be a dead animal, he thought.
“Hey, Stella,” he yelled to his pretty secretary strolling past the door. “Want to open a package for me, doll?”
She scowled and shook her blond head. Her pendulous earrings swung left to right in a unanimous negative. After two years, she’d learned not to go near his rank mail. “Get bent, Ansel.”
“Stop flirting,” he joked, hoping to breach her brazen exterior. “You’ll make me blush.”
“Egotistical, son of a…” she mumbled, evidently still miffed about their on-again, currently off-again relationship. She reached in and snapped his door closed, almost catching the end of
her coral dress.
“Just you and me then.” The smelly parcel equaled the size and weight of a shoebox and had a smudged postmark. It arrived while he used the restroom so he couldn’t question the courier. It didn’t matter. Despite various origin states, the foul messages were the same. They offered a summarization of the sender’s intellect, a stinking, withering crap pile, gathered by an idiot, placed into a container, and paid to be shipped.