It was "unthinkable," as some might call it. But I was never one for such limited thinking. "Unimaginable," perhaps might be a better word. Only though, I did imagine it. More so than imagined I realized it.

For where many great men stopped I sought to press on. Where many ceased to unlock the secrets of the infinite, I found the key.

After all what is success but a succession of failures until at last one succeeds? Their losses were my gain. For in the quest for knowledge there could be no room for revulsion. The road to truth no matter how dark, no matter how unnerving needed to be followed to a satisfactory end.

Frankenstein reached at it. And reached further than any one else ever did. And still some think him mad.

But why should they? Simple minded nitwits deprived of vision, a vision of tomorrow, a vision of a different world, a better world. A perfect world.

And as for me, well, Frankenstein left behind far more than a "monster." He left a legacy. A legacy worth following, a legacy worth building upon.

Tonight, I was going to see the completion of that legacy.

But not just Frankenstein's alone, oh no. For to based the entirety of one's effort on one man's work alone would be nothing but imitation. For my task at hand required the compounded knowledge of all the great and misunderstood luminaries of days gone by.

Frankenstein, Faust, Moreau, Alhazred — Dracula!

Names that should live on in eternity, be celebrated in every home, studied in every school, and immortalize in bronze in every town center.

But what fools people are, what simple-minded souls, what little human creatures, no! They are not deserving of the wisdom that has been left to them! Only a new species, a perfect specifies, is worthy of such an honor.

And, so, I have been collecting, so to speak. A collection which has lasted the span of my entire existence. A collection that I have now diligently and meticulous cobbled together into a singular form, a beautiful form, a perfect form.

A form I call, "Primorpheus."

"Pri" for primal and "Morpheus" for time. For the thing which sat on the table before me was something primal, a fundamental step in our evolution, and yet still timeless, I dare say, "immortal."

A being formed from the bodies of Moreau's creatures, the secrets of Faust, the science of Frankenstein, tissue from his "monster," the rites of Alhazred, the beating heart of a werewolf and blood extracted from Count Dracula, himself!

Verily! A being to rule them all.

But I had to act quick, the banging from down below grew louder and louder. The shouts of the mob, both vulgar and primitive, were just within earshot. Soon, I knew, soon they would be through the gate.

And then it would not be before long they would be knocking down my door.

I revved up the machine, marveling as the engine oscillated and the diodes lit the room in a brilliant hue.

I give a sigh of relief. "I will be dead soon," I mutter.

The mob would, before very long, I knew, break through. And, of course, in their small mindedness would see me dead.

But they would not stop my creation. They could not stop it.

Already, I could see its veins pulsating, its arm start to twitch. And while I will not live to see its glory.

I could be at peace knowing the great service I have done to humanity, the world, nay the cosmos.

It was perfect. In no way could it fail. Everything having been so meticulous planned, so carefully thought out, down to every detail. The being only faltered in inconsequential aspects.

Yes, perhaps, the arms might be a bit cumbersome, or its looks might not exactly appeal to societal eyes.

And, yes, if I had more time, I might have even gotten the brain it so deserved.

Brains, of course, being scarce, I had to improvise. Get one where I could.

Who was he? Oh, a drifter, just some nobody from the drudgery of society. You know someone whom nobody would really care if his remains got just a little, well, lighter.

For he was just a low life, himself, murdered, so it was, by a fellow criminal associate.

Name? Uh, Bill, they called him.

Yes, that was it, "Billy," a Mr. William Bones.

But what's in a brain? After all it's just a repository for information. A storage compartment, any would do just as fine as any other.

A slate upon which further knowledge may be written.

A triviality where it comes from, really. How could such possibly impact the overall outcome?

Right?


— END —





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