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the mad monster maker
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| Prequel |
| Where it all began. |
Pain. It's part of life, it's how we're warned that something is happening in our bodies, and sometimes it's just
something we experiences in our minds eye.
Fear. It's plain as day, and it comes without mercy, stabbing our mental state into a place we'd never call home or
even dare to venture for a moment.
Reality. Something we must all live through, no matter the choice, no matter the desire. Sometimes we are taken
down roads of despair, sometimes a road of joy and sometimes ... To a dark channel of night even the beasties wouldn't
follow, no less desire for their own tastes and immorality.
Here is where we find our doctor on this fine day, one Autumn's fright. Twisted, swollen, and throbbing with an unholy
pain, he stairs down at the shapes he's forced to call his own fingers, his hands. He aches and needs to scream out in pain,
but does not, and only sets his mind on the memories of the days gone by, when he was free from this burden, this ugliness.
Can you feel it? Can empathize with this man? And if you can, what use does it do for him, it's all his and his alone, today
and certainly tomorrow.
Thought. It rages through his mind like a cat ready to pounce on a victim. It surges in him and races at a break neck
speed, barreling down entrance ways, unseen by any others, "Will this one do? Here? There? Oh God anywhere!" "Maybe
this route will do it? I'll do anything, anything to eliminate this burden, this fowl play in my system." "Oh, can it be? I've had
enough. I've surely had enough!" It's madness that's ready to take hold of this person. Ready to steady the vile thoughts that
permeate his dilemma, that roams without mercy in my noggin as a solution to this horror, this night that stays always stays
night. "Cut the dame things off." "And then what?" Starring at the stumps, the gapping wounds, in his minds eye he
realizes that this is no solution to his plight. This is only the ranting of one who seeks relief, but can't find one. "I've got to
work this out, it aches and it aches and no pill or elixir from some "fix it" witch can take away what ails me now." And so he
thinks and he thinks till his mind is sore, throbbing with these thoughts and yearns for a time when this will be but a memory
and no more. And then reality bites him ... Hard, and he cries out in his pain. "The time has come to take this matter
complete and do it with a swift sword, one that will slice off the illness without an ounce to be left." To any of us this would be
madness, pure insanity, making no sense, no sense at all. But to this man, who has seen and visited the edge of his minds
cliff many times, this made perfect sense, and more than a reasonable solution to his situation. Slice the bone and let it
heal, what more harm could it do. He's done operations countless times and worked with bodies and ailments and disease
far more mis-shappened or even eerie, than his own. So why not this ... My goodness, why not.
The year was when electricity was known and used in plenty by all, far and wide. Light lit the nights, sockets sent
currents of electricity powering whatever it was someone needed to do a task. The tools were plentiful and the tools of his
trade were more than the scalpel wielded by his hands. He had saw that spun and cut through flesh and bone, a chisel of
sorts to hone down what some would call some normal shape and some would call illogic. His main goal was to cure
himself, so more than this was waste in his mind. A sparse working environment, even in a dark, dank cell would more than
suit his very needs, so in his mind it had begun. His decision had been made and he would not forsake it. For this was his
destiny for the moment, this was his own.
Our doctor had little use for modern technology, nor the slick look of the most dazzling of hospitals, or a chemists lab
high upon some mount, who would be searching for the grand cures of life. His needs were more of a private affair, tucked
away in a country environment, that suited his mental fragments of sanity. He had no woman, nor children, or even family to
dampen his desire which made it even a better reason to continue. And so he did.
It was under shady tree, and a babbling brook that these thoughts came to him. He came to this place often enough
when he was a child and admired the large castle like structure that stood no more than a stones throw away, from where he
stood this day's night. It was a grand palace uninhabited or as long as he knew, unused since the time when war had laid it
to rest and savaged this land. War has a nasty habit of changing circumstances for people, changing plans that seemed so
solid and secure. Families ripped apart, lives disintegrated, demoralized, demonized and dissected. It was a horrid time
that dissolved their livelihoods and mansions. So there it stood, the grand castle of fable, no less, the place where he would
make dreams come true and more ... Make nightmares come most common place.
The castle. It was buried in the bush, the upturned trees, more than a place that was haunted by ghosts of by gone
lives and times, this was a place totally suited for terror and terror of the most dastardly kind. The Count Vladimir would have
appreciated it in it's totality, would have found any corner of it's fragrant earthy floor, eager to accept his coffin of doom and
selfish comfort. It was a place where no one came, except this doctor, for it was so secluded and even dead that no one had
cause to seek it out or stumble across it horrid
shapes. Though it was empty it lied in wait, in wait
for a dweller that would take its internal boundaries
and make it their own. Making use of the rooms,
the kitchen, basement and even more. It lied in wait
for a dweller or dwellers that would suit it to a tee. It
knew its time approached and it fondled that thought,
like a mother loving a child.
The sky caressed its jagged silhouette,
where some of its angles cut so deep into the days
sky that one would not be surprised to see blood
oozing from some yonder cloud. The walls of stone
were a bluish gray color, speckled with bits of red
brick shades. It's circular turrets flanked either end
of the castle and the cone shaped roof's poked into
the sky like the tip of a blade into a victim. The stairs
leading up to the entryway was covered with moss
and dead weeds. Any film maker looking forward
to a shoot, would have no fear that his set would stay intact and ready, today, tomorrow, or some hundred years away. Some
angry spirit created this place just for the events that will certainly come to pass. It was known long before the happening that
this was the place where evil would come to play.
Rats, spiders and the sort ... All dwellers, not looking for anyplace better than this. Webs created to catch some
prey. Holes with black eyes peering out. Droppings even the rats themselves scurried passed, as if it were sent from
someone other than themselves. A little fly caught in the lair of a spider, knowing as the spiders mandibles drew closer and
closer that this was his last breath on God's gray Earth. Eager, eager, little spider, edged more closer to his meal. Spittle,
drool, and eight dancing eyes that glowed and shimmered, twirling in every direction, "Din, din and yum, yum, I'm coming
your way. One little pounce and I'll be there upon you. Munching and crunching and eating your bod. This is the way of our
castle and fellows. This is the way that we play out our day."
This was the place, the castle where beings would come to life and live out their entire cycle of walking, eating and
more eating ... Of steering away from every mirror or item that would reflect what they were. For here nothing made sense,
no sense at all. And here was the place where nightmares were more than commonplace. They were everyday place, for
them ... And now for you.
He had no brother, no family to speak of, no sister, no aunt. He had no uncle, no nephew, no friend, nor a clergy man,
nor priest. He had no lover, no friendship to cuddle with, not any, any sort. He was alone, demented and deformed, callous
and careless, stormed and wretched until this very day. For today would be like no other at all. For today was the day he cut
away the pain ... Slice into and through the surface of his skin ... Seeking a cure or some kind of answer to ease the suffering
and constant throbbing from his aching joints. The swollen fingers, hideous in his site. The bent angles, sections pointing
this way and that. Deformed and misunderstood, he was a doctor, given gifts through medical science, he could make a
change and solve his terror which lasted day in, day out and day in again. He would make a difference beginning this day
and then he would share his discovery with the world. The solution ...
Or so he thought.
something we experiences in our minds eye.
Fear. It's plain as day, and it comes without mercy, stabbing our mental state into a place we'd never call home or
even dare to venture for a moment.
Reality. Something we must all live through, no matter the choice, no matter the desire. Sometimes we are taken
down roads of despair, sometimes a road of joy and sometimes ... To a dark channel of night even the beasties wouldn't
follow, no less desire for their own tastes and immorality.
Here is where we find our doctor on this fine day, one Autumn's fright. Twisted, swollen, and throbbing with an unholy
pain, he stairs down at the shapes he's forced to call his own fingers, his hands. He aches and needs to scream out in pain,
but does not, and only sets his mind on the memories of the days gone by, when he was free from this burden, this ugliness.
Can you feel it? Can empathize with this man? And if you can, what use does it do for him, it's all his and his alone, today
and certainly tomorrow.
Thought. It rages through his mind like a cat ready to pounce on a victim. It surges in him and races at a break neck
speed, barreling down entrance ways, unseen by any others, "Will this one do? Here? There? Oh God anywhere!" "Maybe
this route will do it? I'll do anything, anything to eliminate this burden, this fowl play in my system." "Oh, can it be? I've had
enough. I've surely had enough!" It's madness that's ready to take hold of this person. Ready to steady the vile thoughts that
permeate his dilemma, that roams without mercy in my noggin as a solution to this horror, this night that stays always stays
night. "Cut the dame things off." "And then what?" Starring at the stumps, the gapping wounds, in his minds eye he
realizes that this is no solution to his plight. This is only the ranting of one who seeks relief, but can't find one. "I've got to
work this out, it aches and it aches and no pill or elixir from some "fix it" witch can take away what ails me now." And so he
thinks and he thinks till his mind is sore, throbbing with these thoughts and yearns for a time when this will be but a memory
and no more. And then reality bites him ... Hard, and he cries out in his pain. "The time has come to take this matter
complete and do it with a swift sword, one that will slice off the illness without an ounce to be left." To any of us this would be
madness, pure insanity, making no sense, no sense at all. But to this man, who has seen and visited the edge of his minds
cliff many times, this made perfect sense, and more than a reasonable solution to his situation. Slice the bone and let it
heal, what more harm could it do. He's done operations countless times and worked with bodies and ailments and disease
far more mis-shappened or even eerie, than his own. So why not this ... My goodness, why not.
The year was when electricity was known and used in plenty by all, far and wide. Light lit the nights, sockets sent
currents of electricity powering whatever it was someone needed to do a task. The tools were plentiful and the tools of his
trade were more than the scalpel wielded by his hands. He had saw that spun and cut through flesh and bone, a chisel of
sorts to hone down what some would call some normal shape and some would call illogic. His main goal was to cure
himself, so more than this was waste in his mind. A sparse working environment, even in a dark, dank cell would more than
suit his very needs, so in his mind it had begun. His decision had been made and he would not forsake it. For this was his
destiny for the moment, this was his own.
Our doctor had little use for modern technology, nor the slick look of the most dazzling of hospitals, or a chemists lab
high upon some mount, who would be searching for the grand cures of life. His needs were more of a private affair, tucked
away in a country environment, that suited his mental fragments of sanity. He had no woman, nor children, or even family to
dampen his desire which made it even a better reason to continue. And so he did.
It was under shady tree, and a babbling brook that these thoughts came to him. He came to this place often enough
when he was a child and admired the large castle like structure that stood no more than a stones throw away, from where he
stood this day's night. It was a grand palace uninhabited or as long as he knew, unused since the time when war had laid it
to rest and savaged this land. War has a nasty habit of changing circumstances for people, changing plans that seemed so
solid and secure. Families ripped apart, lives disintegrated, demoralized, demonized and dissected. It was a horrid time
that dissolved their livelihoods and mansions. So there it stood, the grand castle of fable, no less, the place where he would
make dreams come true and more ... Make nightmares come most common place.
The castle. It was buried in the bush, the upturned trees, more than a place that was haunted by ghosts of by gone
lives and times, this was a place totally suited for terror and terror of the most dastardly kind. The Count Vladimir would have
appreciated it in it's totality, would have found any corner of it's fragrant earthy floor, eager to accept his coffin of doom and
selfish comfort. It was a place where no one came, except this doctor, for it was so secluded and even dead that no one had
cause to seek it out or stumble across it horrid
shapes. Though it was empty it lied in wait, in wait
for a dweller that would take its internal boundaries
and make it their own. Making use of the rooms,
the kitchen, basement and even more. It lied in wait
for a dweller or dwellers that would suit it to a tee. It
knew its time approached and it fondled that thought,
like a mother loving a child.
The sky caressed its jagged silhouette,
where some of its angles cut so deep into the days
sky that one would not be surprised to see blood
oozing from some yonder cloud. The walls of stone
were a bluish gray color, speckled with bits of red
brick shades. It's circular turrets flanked either end
of the castle and the cone shaped roof's poked into
the sky like the tip of a blade into a victim. The stairs
leading up to the entryway was covered with moss
and dead weeds. Any film maker looking forward
to a shoot, would have no fear that his set would stay intact and ready, today, tomorrow, or some hundred years away. Some
angry spirit created this place just for the events that will certainly come to pass. It was known long before the happening that
this was the place where evil would come to play.
Rats, spiders and the sort ... All dwellers, not looking for anyplace better than this. Webs created to catch some
prey. Holes with black eyes peering out. Droppings even the rats themselves scurried passed, as if it were sent from
someone other than themselves. A little fly caught in the lair of a spider, knowing as the spiders mandibles drew closer and
closer that this was his last breath on God's gray Earth. Eager, eager, little spider, edged more closer to his meal. Spittle,
drool, and eight dancing eyes that glowed and shimmered, twirling in every direction, "Din, din and yum, yum, I'm coming
your way. One little pounce and I'll be there upon you. Munching and crunching and eating your bod. This is the way of our
castle and fellows. This is the way that we play out our day."
This was the place, the castle where beings would come to life and live out their entire cycle of walking, eating and
more eating ... Of steering away from every mirror or item that would reflect what they were. For here nothing made sense,
no sense at all. And here was the place where nightmares were more than commonplace. They were everyday place, for
them ... And now for you.
He had no brother, no family to speak of, no sister, no aunt. He had no uncle, no nephew, no friend, nor a clergy man,
nor priest. He had no lover, no friendship to cuddle with, not any, any sort. He was alone, demented and deformed, callous
and careless, stormed and wretched until this very day. For today would be like no other at all. For today was the day he cut
away the pain ... Slice into and through the surface of his skin ... Seeking a cure or some kind of answer to ease the suffering
and constant throbbing from his aching joints. The swollen fingers, hideous in his site. The bent angles, sections pointing
this way and that. Deformed and misunderstood, he was a doctor, given gifts through medical science, he could make a
change and solve his terror which lasted day in, day out and day in again. He would make a difference beginning this day
and then he would share his discovery with the world. The solution ...
Or so he thought.
Drawing added June 1st, 2009
| The damage starts when your immune system begins to weaken your joints. Unlike minor injuries that heal over time, the deterioration of bones and cartilage within the joints caused by moderate to severe Rheumatoid Arthritis does not go away. Even without serious symptoms, RA could be irreversibly destroying your joints. |
| This pages writing was completed on June 12th, 2009. Artwork added June 1st, 2009 |