Now you know the story, how Victor Baron(or Baron Henry) Frankenstein found a way to bring life back to the dead. This was hampered some by a well-meaning, if incompetent, assistant who brought him defective brains leaving a lumbering, inarticulate monster (although “Adam” in the novel was highly articulate). This left the poor, dumb monster suited only for menial tasks.
Needing to find a dependable source of fresh cadavers, Frankenstein opened up a mortuary specializing in bodies requiring a closed caskets—mind you, aesthetics were never a big concern of his when reanimating the dead. Giving the coffins a weighted floor suggesting the heft of a body inside, actually, it had been hidden in Frankenstein's laboratory attached to Tesla (TM?) coils, Strickfadden devices, and other electric spark-generators.
Victor met Doctor Pretorius, a man or many vices, at a gathering of Great War veterans which included participants on both sides of that conflict. Both men realized they had each taken shots at the other—and both missed by a mile, Pretorius admitting he could not see the point in killing such an attractive young man. Frankenstein admitted to being a lousy shot. After several more shots (of whiskey this time,) Frankenstein admitted he'd been bringing corpses back to life.
“I recently was able to reanimate a woman who looked surprisingly like Mrs. Shelly.”
“Too bad you couldn't bring her...ahem... Percy back to life.”
“The thought never occurred to me.”
“Of course not,” Pretorius said, disappointed. “So what do you do with them?”
“That is the drawback. What to do with an ex-cadaver. They do make excellent grave diggers.”
“Distasteful labor.” Pretorius stroked his chin, a thought forming.“I can think of work most woman would claim to have to be dead before doing.”
“Do go on...”
“As you may know, we have entered an era of moral hypocrisy. Coitus is supposed to be unpleasant and exclusively for procreation.”
“Ah, my wife and I,” Frankenstein started, apparently remembering some recent pleasant time, clearly not for progeny.
“Enough of that,” Pretorius interrupted, “There are many men who want more than their wives are willing to give them.”
“Is that your experience?”
“Hardly,” he seemed to find that thought offensive.. “But I know of them. Now tell me, what have been the morals of women you've brought back to life?”
“Usually, a clean slate—most willing to be educated.”
“Groomed?” Pratorius asked, salivating.
“Occasionally, though there are always merkins for those of that particular persuasion.”
And here the partnership was formed, neither man grasping the other's word-play.
Both realized that a clean slate can be a dangerous thing, and Victor feared Pretorius would fill the slate with too many of his peculiar chalk marks. Pretorius felt quite the same about Victor. We might go by those chalk marks of the narrator, but that has plenty of its own chalk marks. At least once Pretorius scolded me saying “Mulhollen, cut it out!.”
Pretorius immediately set about re-building the forth wall.
Both had valid worries about the other's style of teaching. Frankenstein might emphasize “feminine meekness” and Pretorius might favor “strong notes of masculinity” in his women. Nobody bothered asking the women what they preferred. Might certain traits survive death or is death a cosmic eraser? Neither man dared ask those questions.
They soon did learn that the women remembered their names and a few scant details about their lives. But most were surprisingly open to new sexual adventures. Most took their “being exploited” with a good chunk of salt. And if their cheerfulness seemed out of place, “If life,” one of them would say. “means being open to any suggestion, I say metaphor me hard!” Aphorisms are not their strong suit,
Neither man could decide whether their women reflected the morality of 1815 or 1935. “Are we in Regency England or Depression-era America?” Frankenstein pondered. I do wish there was some universal way of figuring this out.”
“Perhaps one of your skeletons holds the key,” Pretorius joked.
“Puns are never solutions.”
“And I fear we've strayed again into meta-fiction.”
“What in blazes is that?”
“That we know we're characters in a story.”
“Why, that's it!” Frankenstein said, astounded. “Mary Elsa Wollstonecraft Lanchester Shelly,” the doctor called out. “What era are we in?”
“You ask a woman for her opinion?” Pratorius asked in disbelief.
“These are desperate times.” “A liberated time,” the slender woman said, “but without contraceptives. Or a more puritanical time but with them. Hardly a fair choice.”
“And I suppose you'd choose the late sixties,” Pretorius scoffed.
“Best of both worlds,” she said, a smirk on her face. “Why if my uncle were alive,” Pretorius started to say.'
“Your uncle was a general who had his ass handed to him by the Zulu.”
“She has you there,” Frankenstein remarked.
“He lost one battle,” Pretorius insisted, “but won the war.”
“What did Belloc write?” the woman asked, “No matter what happens we have got the Maxim gun and they have not? Two Gatling guns, I believe it was.”
“Oddly literate cadavers.”
“I have led my whores to culture,” Frankenstein admitted.
“But we think on our own.”
“All right,” Pretorius spat. “Foul succubus, what do you want.”
“What do girls want?” she pondered. “Ah to have fun!”
“And pray tell, what is fun to you?”
She motioned with curled finger, “Come here, let me whisper it in your ear.”
He did so and after a very short moment, his face turned white. “Dear Baron,” he said, staggering, “Have ye a fainting bench? My legs have grown wobbly and I fear I'll be in need of some smelling salts.”
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