It had been three days of interviews and I had found no one worthy to assist me in my experiments. I was beginning to think I would be forced to make history alone. After all, I was on the verge of unlocking the greatest mystery in the universe! Or at least one of the top three. The point is, I couldn't just pick anyone. I was about to recreate life, take dead tissue and make it undead, find what was once not alive and make it alive...okay, I think that covers it. Anyway, the one I would choose to stand by my side had to be someone special. Someone worthy of being associated with the name Frankenstein. And I had yet to meet him. Until today.
I noticed him immediately. He stuck out in a sea of sycophantic med students hungry to steal my fame. He lacked any pretense, guile or front teeth for that matter. He had a crooked back, hunched shoulders, and was covered in hair from head to toe. In addition, he displayed a very proud string of drool that connected his chin to his wrinkled shirt. How refreshing, after three days of career hungry clones with brilliant minds and perfect posture, to see this man walk in and, without shame, scratch his testicles over and over again. This man wasn't here to put my name on his resume, nor was he here to unlock the secrets of life and death. No, this poor wretched creature had loftier goals. Either that or he was in the wrong room, which was entirely possible. His eyes were pretty badly crossed.
From my office window I watched this man look down the row of young boys filling out applications. Confused, he grunted at one of them. The youth looked up from above his glasses to see the snarling tatterdemalion walking toward him, gesturing for his clipboard. The young man smiled, nervously, and looked at the others around him for support -- all of which were doing their best to ignore the situation.
"The applications are on the desk over there," the young man said, politely.
The stranger stared at him, blankly.
"Just over there," the boy repeated.
The young boy's glasses fogged up with the heat of the strangers breath, which rattled like he was attempting to dislodge something from the back of his throat. The boy, realizing the beast was not going to leave, wisely handed him his clipboard. The beast took it, grunted once again and then brought his fist down on the boy's head, knocking him immediately unconscious.
The beast sat down and scribbled furiously on the application. He looked at it triumphantly and then promptly ate the pencil. At that moment, I began to suspect that this was the man for the job. And our interview only confirmed for me that this was the perfect professional for the task I was about to undertake.
"So...do you have any experience in the medical field?"
"Yes, you live," I agreed. "And yes, this is experience. But I was referring to your credentials."
He put his finger up his nose and began chewing on the inside of his cheek. "What I mean is, did you ever have any other kind of job?" The beast pointed to the crumpled mess before me. It was the application he filled out earlier. I had been avoiding it, since I happened to catch him chewing on it just before entering. I looked at him and then, reluctantly attempted to untangle the moist paper ball. It seemed to take forever, as I made my greatest efforts not to touch any of the wet parts. This proved futile. I was surprised to see that he could write. A little.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Igor, is it?"
"Good. Now...it says here you used to mow lawns for the Frobischers? Is that right?"
"Very good. Do you have any references from the Frobischers?"
"Can I contact them?"
"And how long did you...mow their lawn?"
"Very good. Now...Igor, Where did you hear about this job?"
"I read paper."
"Oh, so you can read? That is good."
"Read -- you can read?"
"You said you read the paper."
"I meant ate."
"You ate the paper?"
"Yes, you live. Now...do you have any thoughts on your future?"
"And what are they?"
"What about Chicken?"
"Do you know where you are?"
"Yes. That's me!"
"Okay, let's hold off on the chicken right now. What I mean is, what do you think you might want to accomplish from this position? What are your goals? With me. Frankenstein."
There was a long pause. Igor scratched his head, and then appeared to place his hand down the back of his pants; searching for his references, I assumed. He shook for a moment, and his eyes glazed over, as though he were in some ephemeral bliss that was not to be disturbed. He then removed his hand, slapped it limp on the desk and spit up a large green ball of phlegm that had contained some yellow shavings of the number 2 pencil he'd eaten earlier. He then looked at me and asked, "What was question?"
"Nothing," I said. This satisfied my inquiry brilliantly.
I had found my man.
Let us pitch you a sitcom ...
Some people in entertainment don't even bother trying to come up with fresh ideas.
Behind every great man is a great mind they ripped off.