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the mad monster maker
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| Chapter Three |
| The Ward. |
The Doctor's hand shook as he read his own words, jotted down in his marbled diary. The pen leached ink across the
page sometimes so quickly it was difficult for even him to decipher what he had written.
The doctor and his nurse casually walked from bed to bed. Creature after creature, for no one would ever equate these
as humans before they were reassembled, one more grotesque and twisted than even he could ever imagine. But nothing
equaled his nightmares that came to vividly each and every night. Born from a childhood of fatherly passion for his lust, he
was a child absurd and used as Daddies supplemental love toy. So he appeased his anguish by retreating into a dream
state even while he was not asleep for the night. No child should be made to satisfy some adults craving for their lust. But
who knew of this wrong doing and who cared for him then … no one and that is true. Father was more than any beast he
could ever create in a dream or in real life.
The features of the ones that he created in his lab were ones of contorted and distorted shapes no mother could ever
love and no God could even understand. Only a freak show at some circus might croon in recognition and delight for the
things before him now. They were beings of all sizes and shapes they were things that might be thought of from some other
dimension of sight and sound. If one thought of it the place as a tale it might suit a Twilight Zone episode to a tee. Here was
a place of moaning and of groaning, of pale almost motionless day mares which leeched and oozed puss through open cuts
tied together with uncaring stitches. “Come my vibrant nurse let us move to another bed case and revel in the fact that some
move with purpose … my purpose; he, he, he, ho, ho, ho, that’s the way it goes, goes, goes.” And they strolled along
continuing in a morbid glee appreciated only by them.
Year ago …
The doctor looked at his notes, held tightly by his knobby fingers. Fingers that were bent, twisted and swollen by arthritis,
long before these elderly years, handed down from generation to generation. What an inheritance he got. All the money in
the world couldn't straighten out these joints that ached more than he could bare or need to think of. What worsened his
dilemma was the fact that his pain threshold was minimal at best, truly he was mad, but thought the opposite of that in his
daily life. He had dared to operate on himself to many times, in hope that the swelling of these joints might be lessoned with
a slice of the scalpel. But to his dismay, not an ounce of help was gotten and his attempts simply made the situation worse
and most time to seem unbearable. What solution would he conjure as an appeasement for this pain, he told himself that if
he could create others with worse situation than he, it might form to lessen the thoughts of himself and his ailment. You try
and convince a deranged man that reasoning like this wasn’t the way to follow. He considered himself a genius and a
genius who would and could do things no other doctor could ever achieve and more … dream of.
Before he ever decided to create a being, as stood before him now, came the work done upon himself, slice went the
scalpel and a shave to the swollen casing of his bone. By now his hands were so gnarled and disfigured and drawn with
scars and stitches, that he became to think that this was a normal look for a person. And he thought, “No way, should I be
the only one in pain. I will discover a way to combat this ailment, even if it takes every body joint in the world to do it.” At that
point he actually thought that he might be able to disqualify his agony with work on others of similar ailments, first using the
bodies of ones that have passed on and lied shallow in the grave. Being a grave robber was not such a bad thing especially
when doing it for such a good cause as his. So the search began, night after night and day after day. Searching mostly for
the elderly that usually fell victim to this ailment. As time traveled on and they found that these corpses could not speak back
as to some relief to their problem. Then he thought, “A curious thought comes to mind. Shall I continue to work on the ones
that cannot speak or should I show a good, good reason for the taking of those that suffer in the light and don’t linger in the
dark.” It became clear that the live ones make so much more sense than any old corpse could ever do. Time marched on
and though no one missed these elderly ones who lived in the alleys; dirty, smelly and sure down for the count came the
same results, no relief was found for the ones who could speak. But while he was experimenting with these tortured souls he
began to supplement his search for a cure with a craving to change his thoughtless direction. He began to create by making
attachments of bone to places that made no sense in the design of the body. This was the beginning of what has now
become the author of his tale … “Abortions from the lab.”
This date and time …
He and his needy nurse worked in the lab with live and dead bodies. They dabbled in the macabre and went in
directions with their experiments no one had dreamt before making creations that dared to go further than the mind limit of
imagination and human consciousness. Though his father was a person who longed for his child's flesh to appease his lust,
he was a wealthy man who finally passed away leaving his son an inheritance which purchased land that was large enough
to keep him secluded from the city where any town folk that neighbored his land would notice or bothered them at all.
Acres and acres of pastures littered with animals of every sort. He hired help; help that would also be housed in an
undisclosed spot upon his land; help that wouldn't be missed when their time came to serve his purpose, fresh bodies for his
cause and no one else, except for the nurse. The doctor found logic in dismembering and reconnecting each chosen corpse
or freshly caught victim even to a fault. (But by not we’re all aware of that.) To him it didn't matter where the joint belong, even
attaching parts that had no business belonging there, made sense to him in his demented mind.
Nurse Hatchet …
His sadistic nurse, Nurse Hatchet, aided him with glee at every turn. When he operated on himself, she was part of it,
when he redrew a body to reassemble, nothing of this earth, she was light and airy about the situation and the doing. He
found her in a brothel, abusing men and sometimes ladies, with her own knives of plenty, cut them to the bone. She would
have made a perfect witch in her own right. The men and woman who were drawn to her were masochists who thought they
had found nirvana in her clutches, instead they were to meet nothing more than a demon in garish clothing, alluring and
demanding made up like the trollop, who Divine, would love nothing more as to call her sister. When the doctor found what
she was offering and what she was he thought, “This is my maiden bedfellow. This is the one who will suit and even enjoy the
creations in my lab.” And so they went, best friends on the cutting table, littered with parts of every color and sort. His hands
shook, the notes he kept were almost illegible and mostly said, “Another failure, failure.” Most of the name plates on the front
of the beds had to be changed because each operation led to another defeat and so few of the patients ever made it to this
ward room. But the ones who did, only made it by slim design. It didn't matter how little of them were left to be alive all that
mattered is that they got there. Some were legless and it didn’t matter. Some had cracked open craniums ... And it made
no matter. Some had fingers added to hands and others ones taken off ... This made no matter at all. An arm, take it off and
add it to another. Brown on one, yellow on white, man on woman, “Ha, Ha, what a sight indeed.” this was his and her play
ground and she was never so elated. But he was never so down hearted. And that's what drove him most, that and her
cackles with her wide grim that even grew broader when a limb pealed off a body and more when it was attached again.
She was the one who drove him to disfigure the bodies more than another reason. If this be Hell, than she was the Queen of
it all. She walked the corridors most times alone and relished with the howls of pain from every corner of this place, she
knew full well that no one could hear a sound but her and her and her madman doctor.
This is the way it went for years.
page sometimes so quickly it was difficult for even him to decipher what he had written.
The doctor and his nurse casually walked from bed to bed. Creature after creature, for no one would ever equate these
as humans before they were reassembled, one more grotesque and twisted than even he could ever imagine. But nothing
equaled his nightmares that came to vividly each and every night. Born from a childhood of fatherly passion for his lust, he
was a child absurd and used as Daddies supplemental love toy. So he appeased his anguish by retreating into a dream
state even while he was not asleep for the night. No child should be made to satisfy some adults craving for their lust. But
who knew of this wrong doing and who cared for him then … no one and that is true. Father was more than any beast he
could ever create in a dream or in real life.
The features of the ones that he created in his lab were ones of contorted and distorted shapes no mother could ever
love and no God could even understand. Only a freak show at some circus might croon in recognition and delight for the
things before him now. They were beings of all sizes and shapes they were things that might be thought of from some other
dimension of sight and sound. If one thought of it the place as a tale it might suit a Twilight Zone episode to a tee. Here was
a place of moaning and of groaning, of pale almost motionless day mares which leeched and oozed puss through open cuts
tied together with uncaring stitches. “Come my vibrant nurse let us move to another bed case and revel in the fact that some
move with purpose … my purpose; he, he, he, ho, ho, ho, that’s the way it goes, goes, goes.” And they strolled along
continuing in a morbid glee appreciated only by them.
Year ago …
The doctor looked at his notes, held tightly by his knobby fingers. Fingers that were bent, twisted and swollen by arthritis,
long before these elderly years, handed down from generation to generation. What an inheritance he got. All the money in
the world couldn't straighten out these joints that ached more than he could bare or need to think of. What worsened his
dilemma was the fact that his pain threshold was minimal at best, truly he was mad, but thought the opposite of that in his
daily life. He had dared to operate on himself to many times, in hope that the swelling of these joints might be lessoned with
a slice of the scalpel. But to his dismay, not an ounce of help was gotten and his attempts simply made the situation worse
and most time to seem unbearable. What solution would he conjure as an appeasement for this pain, he told himself that if
he could create others with worse situation than he, it might form to lessen the thoughts of himself and his ailment. You try
and convince a deranged man that reasoning like this wasn’t the way to follow. He considered himself a genius and a
genius who would and could do things no other doctor could ever achieve and more … dream of.
Before he ever decided to create a being, as stood before him now, came the work done upon himself, slice went the
scalpel and a shave to the swollen casing of his bone. By now his hands were so gnarled and disfigured and drawn with
scars and stitches, that he became to think that this was a normal look for a person. And he thought, “No way, should I be
the only one in pain. I will discover a way to combat this ailment, even if it takes every body joint in the world to do it.” At that
point he actually thought that he might be able to disqualify his agony with work on others of similar ailments, first using the
bodies of ones that have passed on and lied shallow in the grave. Being a grave robber was not such a bad thing especially
when doing it for such a good cause as his. So the search began, night after night and day after day. Searching mostly for
the elderly that usually fell victim to this ailment. As time traveled on and they found that these corpses could not speak back
as to some relief to their problem. Then he thought, “A curious thought comes to mind. Shall I continue to work on the ones
that cannot speak or should I show a good, good reason for the taking of those that suffer in the light and don’t linger in the
dark.” It became clear that the live ones make so much more sense than any old corpse could ever do. Time marched on
and though no one missed these elderly ones who lived in the alleys; dirty, smelly and sure down for the count came the
same results, no relief was found for the ones who could speak. But while he was experimenting with these tortured souls he
began to supplement his search for a cure with a craving to change his thoughtless direction. He began to create by making
attachments of bone to places that made no sense in the design of the body. This was the beginning of what has now
become the author of his tale … “Abortions from the lab.”
This date and time …
He and his needy nurse worked in the lab with live and dead bodies. They dabbled in the macabre and went in
directions with their experiments no one had dreamt before making creations that dared to go further than the mind limit of
imagination and human consciousness. Though his father was a person who longed for his child's flesh to appease his lust,
he was a wealthy man who finally passed away leaving his son an inheritance which purchased land that was large enough
to keep him secluded from the city where any town folk that neighbored his land would notice or bothered them at all.
Acres and acres of pastures littered with animals of every sort. He hired help; help that would also be housed in an
undisclosed spot upon his land; help that wouldn't be missed when their time came to serve his purpose, fresh bodies for his
cause and no one else, except for the nurse. The doctor found logic in dismembering and reconnecting each chosen corpse
or freshly caught victim even to a fault. (But by not we’re all aware of that.) To him it didn't matter where the joint belong, even
attaching parts that had no business belonging there, made sense to him in his demented mind.
Nurse Hatchet …
His sadistic nurse, Nurse Hatchet, aided him with glee at every turn. When he operated on himself, she was part of it,
when he redrew a body to reassemble, nothing of this earth, she was light and airy about the situation and the doing. He
found her in a brothel, abusing men and sometimes ladies, with her own knives of plenty, cut them to the bone. She would
have made a perfect witch in her own right. The men and woman who were drawn to her were masochists who thought they
had found nirvana in her clutches, instead they were to meet nothing more than a demon in garish clothing, alluring and
demanding made up like the trollop, who Divine, would love nothing more as to call her sister. When the doctor found what
she was offering and what she was he thought, “This is my maiden bedfellow. This is the one who will suit and even enjoy the
creations in my lab.” And so they went, best friends on the cutting table, littered with parts of every color and sort. His hands
shook, the notes he kept were almost illegible and mostly said, “Another failure, failure.” Most of the name plates on the front
of the beds had to be changed because each operation led to another defeat and so few of the patients ever made it to this
ward room. But the ones who did, only made it by slim design. It didn't matter how little of them were left to be alive all that
mattered is that they got there. Some were legless and it didn’t matter. Some had cracked open craniums ... And it made
no matter. Some had fingers added to hands and others ones taken off ... This made no matter at all. An arm, take it off and
add it to another. Brown on one, yellow on white, man on woman, “Ha, Ha, what a sight indeed.” this was his and her play
ground and she was never so elated. But he was never so down hearted. And that's what drove him most, that and her
cackles with her wide grim that even grew broader when a limb pealed off a body and more when it was attached again.
She was the one who drove him to disfigure the bodies more than another reason. If this be Hell, than she was the Queen of
it all. She walked the corridors most times alone and relished with the howls of pain from every corner of this place, she
knew full well that no one could hear a sound but her and her and her madman doctor.
This is the way it went for years.
Drawing added May 12th, 2009