Frankenstein Meets Der Volfman

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“Igor, come here,” the Baron said through the intercom that he had invented in his secret laboratory and installed in every room of castle Frankenstein.

“You're not here, Master,” Igor complained five minutes later after he climbed the stairs and entered the library, “and this is definitely the 'here' where you were the last time you called me.”

“That's because I'm in the living room downstairs, you complete Codfish,” the Baron said. “Come here immediately.” Igor did as he was told, but by the time he entered the living room the Baron had once again mysteriously vanished.

“Master, you've mysteriously vanished into thin air, and I'm getting all frightened and confused.”

“I haven't vanished at all,” Frankenstein grumbled. “I've gone through the secret passageway beside the fireplace, and now I'm in my lab inventing a complex piece of electrical equipment designed specifically to baffle ignorant pricks like you. I plan to call it a dishwasher, and along with my other cunning inventions it might eventually do away with the need for domestic staff. Maybe I'll construct another monster instead, because I'm getting a bit pissed off with Sheena - she won't do as she's bloody well told..... Come here, Igor, I have something to tell you.”

“What is it, Master?” Igor said a little while later as he stood in the doorway of the Baron's secret laboratory (he knew that was where he was because there was an enormous multicoloured flashing neon sigh above the door that said 'Baron Frankenstein's Secret Laboratory.')

“I want you to take extra care to get the castle spick and span today, because I'm having a guest over for dinner this evening. I should cook him something meaty, Igor, how about a nice rare steak and some raw offal? I think I'll just have beans on toast..... Get the best china out, have a quick dust and polish, spray some air freshener and maybe pick a few bunches of pretty woodland flowers and display them in vases at strategic points.

It's, erm, nobody that you know, Igor, but the monster has met my guest and for some unfathomable reason she doesn't like him, so I'm afraid we'll have to restrain her before he arrives. We'll have her chained to the radiator in the dining room, I think, we have to get Sheena used to people one way another. Running amok and slaying a few idle peasants is one thing, but as you may or may not know, there are a number of important supernatural entities staying in the district at the moment – Dracula is hosting the monster's ball in a couple of weeks time.”

“Righty-ho, I'll get the heavy duty manacles out of the cellar straight away, then I'll put my pinny on and do a spot of spring cleaning. Do you mind telling me the name of your guest and the approximate time you're expecting him, Master?”

“What for?”

“So that I don't let any Tom, Dick or Harry over the threshold by mistake – you know how much you hate unexpected visitors.”

“Good thinking, man. My guest should be here shortly after dark, and his name is der Volfman.”

“What?”

“Der Volfman,” the Baron repeated, slipping on his reading glasses and scrutinising the battered script he pulled out of his back pocket.

“Come again?”

“My guest is known as der Volfman.”

“I'm sorry, Master, but I haven't got the foggiest idea what you're trying to say.”

“It's this stupid aristocratic German accent that the scriptwriter expects me to use,” Frankenstein explained. “I've been told off by the Creative team for not using it, but I really can't do it. I used to practice when I was on the toilet, but it's no good - no matter how hard I try I still sound like a Swedish prostitute with throat cancer. I usually ignore the accent and use my normal voice and hope that no one notices, but sometimes I come across a term in the script that I don't understand. What do you reckon 'der Volfman' means, Igor?”

“Erm..... The Wolfman?”

“Yeah, I guess that must be it.”

“Oh, bugger.....”

*************************

By the time the grandfather clock in the hall struck six Igor had changed his cleaning overall for a crisp white one because it was time to prepare the evening meal. Cooking was going to be the easiest part of the day's work, he reflected; frying the mushrooms, lightly grilling a couple of steaks, thawing a bit of offal from the freezer that the Baron had invented, throwing together some beans on toast and finding a few leftovers for the monster wouldn't take long. “Fido!” Igor called from the back door as soon as he realised they were clean out of meat of any description. “Fido, come here. Good boy.....” Once he had seen to that unpleasant task Igor prised out the pheasant gizzards he had tied to the rat traps in the barn a few days back - it was all they had, and it would have to do.

At six fifteen the doorbell rang (the bell, which played Ding dong merrily on high irritatingly loudly all year round, was another of the Baron's inventions). Igor unbolted the massive front door, but before he could open it a dark, hairy something hurled itself through the French windows in the dining room. Der Volfman dusted down the ragged remnants of his shirt, which was all he was wearing, and calmly poured himself a brandy despite the objections of the monster, who was chained to the radiator. “Igor! Chuck this scruffy bastard out,” Sheena yelled. “he's a two timing fucker, and I never want to see him again!”

“Shut it, you dirty old slapper,” der Volfman replied.

“Arse-hole,” Sheena mumbled.

“Who are you?” Igor said, rushing into the room. “As if I didn't know. You're der Volfman, aren't you?”

“Yes,” der Volfman said, cocking his leg and marking the tablecloth, “but I prefer to be called Jean Paul. And I'm not a Volfman, I'm a Loup Garou – I am French, supposedly, but unfortunately I can't do the namby-pamby accent. And who might you be, my little cucumber?”

“I'm Igor, the Baron's faithful henchman-stroke-woman. I would have gotten you a drink, Sir, but you seem to have helped yourself. Would you mind not urinating indoors, especially on the furniture? It's all antique, it stains really badly and the stench of piss takes some getting rid of – even Cillit Bang won't bleeding shift it.”

“Where is the Baron?” der Volfman replied, ignoring Igor's request and piddling on the Persian rug by the fire.

“He's probably in his top secret lab inventing something, I'll go and tell him you're here.”

*************************

“Igor, fetch a bottle of Chateau de Ponce from the cellar, the 1798 vintage if we have any left,” the Baron said a while later at the dinner table. “Would you care for a glass of sherry while we're waiting for the wine, Jean Paul?”

“No thank you,” der Volfman replied. “I am happy volfing down this still twitching Rottweiler's hind leg and this delicious bowl of what I take to be rotting pheasant innards – is that a local delicacy? Give my compliments to the chef. Pray tell, Frankenstein, why has this bowl got 'Fido' printed on its side?”

“Fido is an, er, it's a very expensive Austrian tableware company, they supply nearly all of the royal houses of Europe and Russia.”

“Jean Paul doesn't have a clue about anything fancy,” Sheena said. “'He's a guttersnipe, and he comes from West Bromwich – he's never been to France, which explains why he hasn't got a French accent, the hairy fuck.”

“Silence, whore - you need to learn to speak when you're spoken to!”

“Chateau de Ponce vintage 1798 as ordered, Sir,” Igor said, pouring the wine.

“Why exactly are you here, Volfman?” the Baron said. “I've been a bit busy, and I haven't read much of the script beyond the next five minutes.”

“Pretty soon I'm expected to ravish a certain member of your staff,” Jean Paul said between mouthfuls of bloody flesh. “After dinner your monster and I are supposed to have a bit of a tiff, at which point she gets pissed off, grunts inanely, breaks free of her bonds and runs rampage as per usual.”

“Shut your huge, uneducated gob, you male chauvinist pig-dog,” Sheena said.

“The moon shines through the window, I look at it's gibbous face, all forlorn. Bits of old doormat are glued to my skin between shots, I slip in some plastic false gnashers and I fully transform – Awoooooooooo! Your monster and I roll over and over, dramatically punching the shit out of each other,” Jean Paul continued, ignoring Sheena's interruption. “We roll out of the front door, stop fighting for a mo' while we kiss passionately, and the scene changes to you loading your rifle and your trusty henchperson helping you to put on your wellies and your puffy pink ski suit.....

Meanwhile the villagers are told about what's going on by a passing tinker, and they set off into the mountains with pitchforks and burning torches. Sheena and I carry on whacking each other and we get a bit lost, but eventually we have a ginormous scrap with the angry mob. Sheena falls into a glacier running through an isolated pass, at which point you lose your rag and shoot me and several villagers in a fit of girlie pique. The final scene involves you following my bloody tracks, and though there's no mention of whether or not your bullets are silver I hobble off, bleeding heavily, with you and Igor in hot pursuit. We all vanish into the blizzard, which conveniently leaves our fates open in case Hammer decide to make a sequel.”

“I see,” the Baron said.

“I don't know about you, but I don't fancy any of that shit. Apart, of course, from the scene where I ravish your henchperson. My back's playing up, and I'm not sure if I'm up to any heavy exercise.....”

“I can have a look at your back after dinner if you wish,” the Baron said. “I'm a qualified doctor.”

“Cheers, doc. This side salad is a bit limp, but the mushrooms are excellent. What are they? I've never tasted anything quite so delicious.”

“They're wild mushrooms, I believe,” the Baron said. “Igor collected them in the forest when he went out to pick some flowers, the great, steaming Jessie.”

“I assume they're safe to eat.”

“They're perfectly safe, Sir,” Igor said. “The Baron has had some with his beans on toast, I've scraped a couple of handfuls in the monster's dish and the leftovers are in my pocket, I have a little nibble whenever I think nobody's looking. My dear old mum was a shaman and she taught me all about fungi, so I know the difference between edible and poisonous species. This one's called Dead Man's Fist, it's in the Strophariaceae family. It's Latin name is Strophariaceae Europus, and it's psychotropic – don't bother asking me what that means, 'cos I can't remember.”

“Doesn't the word 'psychotropic' refer to a mind-bending substance, to something that alters per-per-perception?” der Volfman said.

“Naaah,” Igor replied. “I've been eating this fungi for ages, and I haven't noticed the slightest change in my Archbishop Desmond Tutu.”

“Let's do the Time Warp!” Sheena squealed, snapping her chain, flicking glitter at der Volfman and jumping onto the table. “It's just a jump to the left, and then a step to the right! Put your hands on your hips, and bring your legs in tight.”

“Are you looking at my breasts?” the Baron said, eyeing der Volfman suspiciously. “And have you ever called Sheena Bouncy-bouncy-bum-bum behind my back?”

“Certainly not! Actually I was looking at your hunch-front's breasts. How much do you want for him-stroke-her, Baron?”

“Let's all do the Time warp!” the monster yelled.

“I'm game,” Igor grunted, digging out a large bogey and wiping it unselfconsciously on the tablecloth. “It's the pelvic thrusts that drive me insane.....”

“I suggest we do the time warp in German to the tune of Yellow Submarine,” Frankenstein said, ripping open his crisp white shirt and dropping his sensible charcoal stay-pressed trousers to reveal a rich purple Basque before climbing onto the table and dancing beside his monster. “Lass uns den Zeit-Sprung tanzen!”

“Come here, hunch-front, you sexy young thang, you,” der Volfman growled, crawling under the table and beckoning Igor to follow. “Are we gonna party, or what?”

“Erm..... Yeah, all right then,” Igor replied.

*************************