Hallo meine wunderbare Frankenfans!
Ever had a mental image burned into your brain that you really wished you could get rid of but, try as you might, the Gott verdammt thing just can’t be shifted? We’ll I certainly have and it is a scene of unimaginable horror that all began the night Igor skipped our weekly poker night.
Me and Elsie (my faithful Rottweiler) were seated, as usual, around the Frankenlab’s fold-up dining table, waiting for our weekly Wednesday night ‘Transylvania Hold’em’ session to begin. Suddenly the dining room door opens and in bursts Igor, my trusty hunchback right-hand-man. But instead of the crate of beer and mountain of potato chips he usually brings to the party, he turns up with nothing more than his overcoat and a sheepish look on his misshapen visage.
Turns out our lumpy friend had landed a new part-time job that would see him indisposed every Wednesday night from here on in. Reluctantly we waved him off and rolled up the green baize, knowing that our card night had been consigned to the annals of history (after all, I can’t just play with Elsie- she’s a rotten cheat and besides, she always gets doggy drool on the playing cards).
Seeing as I was now at a mid-week loss, I decided it was time to find a new hobby. After contemplating kung-fu classes (too energetic), flower arranging (too competitive), and yoga (too bendy) I hit upon the idea of art lessons. I duly googled my options and happily discovered a local class starting the following Wednesday to which I immediately signed up.
Over the next few days, I sharpened by pencils, dusted off my sketch book and cultivated a fetching beard-and-afro combo in homage to the late, great Bob Ross (the hair-bear king of landscape painting). By 7pm on Wednesday night, I was sitting, easel prepped, in a draughty community centre with a handful of amateur artists, waiting for the lesson to begin.
Which is where it all went a bit pear-shaped. Or Igor-shaped to be more precise.
You see, tonight’s class was to be on life drawing and, as our tutor unveiled our nude model for the evening, it all became eye-wateringly clear just what Igor had been getting up to every Wednesday evening. Needless to say I simultaneously came to see my butler in a brand new light and developed and aversion to walnuts that will probably haunt me to my dying day.
Still, judging by the following Frankenstory by Lauren and Kel, I’m not the only one to be suffering for my art…
He had decided to kill his professor the previous night after she had humiliated him in front of the entire art class. His masterpiece had been a lovely painting, and after he had finished it he could not wait to show everyone what he had in his pants. The next day, he went wandering in the rain, hoping this would optimize the effects. He knew that the person he admired most would be very pleased with him when he finally revealed his painting, but instead, she had laughed and said all manner of terrible things until she had the whole class laughing. That was when he decided to kill her. He had put a lot of thought into how to do it, so he knew it was going to be beautiful. Finally, the unveiling came. He stood upon his makeshift stage, and, with a deep and purposeful breath he glanced between those who watched him; then, he dropped his pants.
THE END
(See the original story here)
Right then, I’m off to burn my sketchbook in the garden and find myself a decent psychiatrist who can help me erase the unbearable mental scarring.
Sketchily Yours,