Monkton,
MD, 20 October, 20__
My Dearest Sister,
And so it was that I made the acquaintance of Robert
Parkenstein on my stop in Maryland.
He was washed up on shore, but, then, I was later to learn that he had been
washed up for a very long time, a victim of his nefarious scheme to defy
Creation and play God himself. And as we were marooned in the God-forsaken
shithole that is Monkton, my ship awaiting better weather, the storm blowing
harder than a Michelle Bachman speech, I heard the horrifying and sad story
that is Parkenstein’s. We had long hours to talk, and I came to feel sorry for
him, though it was simple hubris that destroyed him. That and his mortuarial
creation. I will tell his story in his words as I remember them, though his
breath was most foul, smelling of hedonism and Gruner Veltliner, and it was
hard to be in a small room with him as he had the figure and charm of a beanbag
chair.
I became fascinated with power, Parkenstein told me, and the
more power I accumulated, the more I felt this feverish desire to transfer it
to another being, to give power to a cipher of my own creation. The thought
obsessed me. Yes, I had created monsters before, horrible monsters—Turleystein
and Rollandstein and that hideous Kranklstein—but they had life before I gave
them power. I wanted to start from scratch. I wanted to give life and power.
And I believed I could do it. There was nothing I couldn’t do, aside from
duplicate my scores in a blind setting.
I set about obtaining parts for my creation. I thought it
would be difficult, this assembling a windbag, this scavenging for a bag for my
douche, but it wasn’t. There was Craigslist. “Man seeking body parts,” read my
ad, “won’t pay an arm and a leg.” In less than a day I was overwhelmed with
offers. A man in Napa
Valley offered me the
head of his late father, but he wanted 100 points in exchange, and I don’t
trade points for money, I trade them for integrity. But I had mountains of body
parts to choose from, and I selected carefully and, I believed, wisely.
I worked day and night, removing the parts from my freezer
as I needed them, at one point mistaking a fish stick for a penis. I was so
crazed I forgot to change it. It was only later, when it was alive, that I
noticed him sticking packets of tartar sauce from H. Salt down his pants hoping
to attract someone horny and hungry, and let the chips fall where they may.
Time was of the essence, for as the parts thawed, my house began to smell like
corruption. Little did I know…
 | |
| Parkenstein toasts his Creation--the HORROR!! |
Finally, he was assembled. I beheld my creation. To me, he
was beautiful. Perfect for the life and power I intended to bestow upon him. He
was bulky, I confess, a nod to my own physique, a visual clue that the good
life is about overindulgence, and, more importantly, the unquenchable need to
talk about it, to rub it in the faces of my followers, to write endlessly of
gluttony and debauchery with the eloquence to make it seem desirable and admirable
in a world of starving people, and people who would sell body parts to a madman
for a pittance just to buy a bottle of one of my Best Buys Under $20. I’d used
the arms and hands of a maitre-d’ to give him the natural gift of taking
handouts and bribes. I’d found the brain, only slightly used, of a fellow
hedonist who’d gone insane, and I took it, leaving him still functioning, yet
no one could tell his skull was empty because it had always appeared that way,
and never more so than recently. So with my creation’s head full of Suckling, I
had to find the right nose. The nose, the most important part of my monster,
the part that would define him. I had to carefully pick my nose. Hell, I
thought, I know how to do that, I was once an attorney.
And so it was that I gave him the nose of a Bassett Hound.
It just made sense. His nose would be sensitive, powerful, and forever in my butt, where there’s
plenty of room for everyone. I was ready to give him life.
To be continued...
To be continued...
