by Frank Lesser
[Son of Kong roars and eats the other guard.]
Bailiff, give Son of Kong a giant banana.
[Bailiff gives Son of Kong a giant banana. Son of Kong continues roaring.]
Son of Kong, I’m going to have to ask you to focus. In your opinion, was your father, the so-called “King” Kong, whom you perhaps knew better as Father of Son of Kong, driven mad by Mr. Denham’s empty and irresponsible promises of fame?
[Son of Kong roars, rattling witness stand.]
Give him another banana!
[Bailiff approaches witness stand with second giant banana; bailiff is eaten.]
PROSECUTOR: Son of Kong! Concentrate!
SON OF KONG: I’m sorry, I eat when I get depressed. I suffer from bipolar disorder—a condition I inherited from my father.
[More gasps from jury.]
Yes, my father was predisposed to bouts of depression, which would usually end with him picking a fight with a tyrannosaurus, no doubt hoping someday he’d finally lose. But he eventually got things under control, thanks to his giant ape prescription medication.
PROSECUTOR: Giant ape prescription medication that Carl Denham failed to bring back to New York!
DEFENSE ATTORNEY: It wasn’t my client’s fault! The pillbox was as big as a lifeboat!
PROSECUTOR: Mr. Of Kong, do you see the man who tricked your father sitting in this courtroom? The man who took him from his ancestral home, where he was worshipped as a god by the Skull Island natives, to this uncaring city, where he was seen as just another tourist attraction by jaded New Yorkers?
SON OF KONG: Yes.
[Son of Kong eats Mr. Denham.]
Thanks. I didn’t realize he was in here.
[Son of Kong begins weeping.]
I’m sorry. This has been a very difficult couple of weeks. But I feel that thanks to the justice system, I finally got some closure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to eat the jury and go on a destructive rampage.
[Son of Kong eats jury, goes on destructive rampage. Judge declares mistrial.]
Groom of Frankenstein
Thank you for meeting with us to discuss our impending nuptials, Pastor Griffenhagen, although really, the torch was unnecessary. It’s been difficult finding anyone willing to perform the ceremony, since so many people have called our relationship unnatural, but I don’t care what anyone says: I’m marrying my Frankenstein.
Some people think love like ours should be illegal, but if I cared about what’s legal, I never would have broken into those morgues in the first place. Because unlike the rest of this bigoted world, I don’t judge my Frankenstein on what’s rotting on the outside, but what’s rotting on the inside. And if you can’t accept that a man could be deeply in love with a man made of the body parts of other men, then maybe you’re the one with the twisted brain of a criminal.
So scream in horror all you want at our man-on-monster love. Yes, we’re a threat to your marriage, but only because if you try to stop our wedding my Frankenstein will rip your family apart.
I’m shocked at the prejudice we’ve experienced. We moved to Berkeley because we heard it was more accepting, but apparently their version of tolerance only applies to gay people who don’t run amok through farmers’ markets killing everyone in their path. These hypocrites don’t even seem to care that he runs on clean electricity.
My Frankenstein didn’t choose to be this way. It’s just the way he was made, and I still have the diagrams to prove it. Of course, I didn’t expect things would get so serious. I thought everyone experimented in college. But I knew I was in love the moment his heavy-lidded, yellowed eyes opened for the first time and gazed into mine. And when those 10,000 volts jolted through his dormant nervous system and he looked up at me and moaned, “You complete me,” we both felt sparks.
Unfortunately, even in the early stages of our relationship we were ostracized. I expected my premed classmates to be happy for me, but most of them were upset that they weren’t going to get back the cadaver parts I had borrowed. The dean threatened to expel me, hiding his bigotry under the excuse that our relationship “posed a threat to public safety,” but I figured he’d reconsider if he met my Frankenstein and saw for himself what kind of persons he was. So late one night, I arranged for a surprise meeting in the life science building’s parking lot, and sure enough, my Frankenstein changed the dean’s mind. Unfortunately, what he changed his mind into was a pile of mush, so I felt it best to leave school anyway.
But just like inquiries into the whereabouts of missing roommates, it’s best to put this unpleasantness behind us. After all, I want to make sure everything is perfect for the wedding this weekend. It’s the biggest day of my life, although parts of my Frankenstein have been married before. The rehearsal dinner is on Friday, and the wedding itself will start Saturday evening with a romantic torchlit procession to a picturesque abandoned windmill where we’ll exchange our vows. So far, so good, although it’s been days since anyone’s seen the flower girl. I’m sure she’ll surface eventually.
Of course, we’ve had to deal with problems that most so-called normal couples don’t have. For instance, it was difficult finding a baker willing to make one of the plastic grooms on the cake out of the body parts of several other plastic grooms. We also had to register early at the home furnishings and medical supply store Bed, Bath, and Body Parts, because I needed a new set of vertebrae before the wedding so I could finish putting together the best man.
Sadly, my parents won’t be attending. When I came home from college and told them I was in love with a reanimated creature I had stitched together from the body parts of executed murderers, they totally freaked out. It was the first time I really understood how prejudiced they are. I guess I should have seen it coming: When I was a child, they never got me the pony cadaver I always wanted. They said it was “too girly.”
I’m sure they’ll reconsider once they see the adopted children I create.
The biggest obstacle we still face, aside from the inevitable mob of angry villagers, is deciding on the ceremony, since my Frankenstein is half Methodist, half Catholic, and one of his arms is Jewish. That’s why in addition to meeting with you, Pastor, we’re also meeting with Father O’Grady and Rabbi Murmelson. Would you be willing to perform the ceremony with them? Before you answer, I should mention that we only have the budget to hire one officiator, so my plan is to stitch the three of you together into a single religious figure. If it’s any incentive, you would get to read the vows; when I flipped coins earlier to determine who would be which part, you were lucky enough to get heads.
The Passive-Aggressive Monster in the Closet
Hey, I know it’s awkward to leave a note, but every time I creep out of the closet and try to talk to you about this during one of your nightmares, you totally freak out.
First I should introduce myself, as people mistake me for a pile of laundry all the time. My name’s Mawgh wropth, and I’m the monster in your closet who feeds on your fears and regrets. Before I go any further, I’d like to thank you for being generous enough to also share your delicious trust and commitment issues with me. I promise I’ll chip in soon for the “groceries”! (Full disclosure: Payment will likely come in the form of night sweats.)
If you didn’t know I was living in here, you should have read the fine print on your lease.
This is pretty awkward, so I’ll just come out and say it: Would you mind keeping the noise down a bit? It’s just that I have a different schedule from yours, and if I don’t get a full day’s sleep, I can’t properly digest your doubts and I end up with indigestion. On an unrelated note, you’ll probably want to avoid wearing your dress shoes. Someone threw up in them.
I hope you don’t think I’m asking too much. The noise is really only a problem during certain hours. For instance, I don’t mind when you wake up screaming in the middle of that recurring dream where you’re back in bed with your ex-girlfriend, but when you go to kiss her she transforms into you, and this other you is cryi
ng, and when you try to get away from yourself the bed turns into a bathtub overflowing with your tears and you’re sucked under, and you try to cry for help but can only shout her name. In fact, I’ve given that dream a five-star rating on several online bogeyman dining sites.
Anyway, I don’t think this will be a problem, since you appear to be a nice guy (although it’s odd that you don’t seem to have many close friends, don’t you think?). Compromise is just part of the mutual respect and understanding implicit in having a roommate, or in having a monster in your closet who’s a light sleeper.
Also, do you think you could warn me before you bring a girl home? That way I’ll know in advance that you won’t be up all night crying over your ex-girlfriend regrets and I can make myself a sandwich from some leftover work anxieties.
Of course, that happens so rarely, it probably wasn’t even worth mentioning. Besides, even if you do get lucky, it’s not like the girl will ever live up to that ex-girlfriend you broke up with. Do you ever wonder if she still thinks about you? Maybe you should check her Facebook page again.
Sorry. Figured I might be hungry while you were reading this.
How about this—if a girl’s coming over, maybe hang a tie on the inside of the closet as a signal? Although then I guess you’d have to start hanging up things in your closet instead of piling them on the floor. You do realize I have to live in here, right? It’s not easy trying to put the moves on a hobgoblin in a hamper full of dirty underwear.
I don’t know, maybe I’m just overly sensitive to noise because I’m going through a rough time right now. I recently ended things with someone I was pretty crazy about, and now that she’s dating someone else I realize I made a terrible, terrible mistake. Oh, wait, that’s not me, that’s you.
Anyway, didn’t mean to interrupt your delicious worries about that ex-girlfriend. Hey, is she still dating that banker who probably makes more money than you? You should definitely check her Facebook page again.
One last thing—and this one isn’t a request from me, he’s just kind of shy—but the monster under your bed wanted me to ask if you wouldn’t mind getting a dust ruffle. He’s got really bad allergies.
Thanks so much!
Mawghwropth
P.S. That mole on your arm is starting to look a little funny. I’m not saying you should definitely get it checked out; I’m just saying maybe you should have someone take a look at it.
Diet Hansel
Back when I was starting out as a witch, I could eat anyone I wanted, no regrets. I still watched what I ate, but that was just to make sure they didn’t escape.
But I spoke to a nutritionist recently, and you wouldn’t believe how many calories are in a single serving of orphan. You’d have to ride around on a broom for two hours just to burn off the freckles! And don’t get me started on baby fat.
I guess I always thought when I got older I could make a potion to lower my cholesterol, but it turns out eye of newt and toe of frog are loaded with triglycerides, so last week when my doctor told me my LDL levels were dangerously high, I knew exactly what that meant I’d have to cut back on: Ludwig.
Oh, Ludwig! Like many an unhappy child, he followed the gumdrop trail in the forest to my gingerbread house, and for weeks I was fattening him up with Bavarian cream pies and linzer tortes. But no more! It pains me to see the expression on his face when I show up to his licorice cage at dinner time with a plate of steamed kale instead of his usual strudel. He cries and cries, and I’m afraid the tears streaming down his face will increase his skin’s sodium content.
It must be torture for Ludwig being stuck in that cage, surrounded by delicious caramel window treatments and marzipan wainscoting, thinking he’ll be eating nothing but salad for years. And I just don’t have the heart to tell the poor dear that he won’t be.
This diet would be so much easier during a famine. Back in the Dark Ages, farmers abandoned scrawny children left and right. But most kids today hardly need any fattening up at all, thanks to the widespread and delicious problem of childhood obesity.
Oh, Ludwig’s crying again. I can’t bear to see him suffer! Did you know that you can taste the sadness?
I considered making healthier sweets for Ludwig, really I did, but some of these nutritious treats are horrid. I may be a witch, but even I wouldn’t tell a kid that raisins are candy.
I’ve tried my best to distract him. I gave him a teddy bear made of Snackwells. I started up a Little League baseball team with the future entrees of other witches, but Ludwig didn’t like how the roster always changed after lunch, and I don’t think any of the players on his team were happy with their name, the Stuffed Cabbages. He didn’t even cheer up when I gave him that puppy, Appetizer.
In the future, I’m sure I’ll eat children raised on healthier foods. I stopped using high-fructose corn syrup years ago when I read that beet-sugar-based frosting was a better insulator. And a month ago I replaced my gumdrop doorbell with a sugar-free throat lozenge. I was going to re-shingle the roof with rice cakes, but the neighborhood homeowner’s society has very strict candy construction rules, and besides, I’m just renting. (My old place spoiled during an unusually warm summer, which is why you should never build on a cheesecake foundation.)
I know a vegan witch who only eats veggie preemie patties and Tofurchin-brand meatless urchin. But soy boy is never as comforting as a slice of good old-fashioned tweenloaf.
I guess it could be worse. A giant I know recently found out he’s allergic to gluten. He tries to keep up his spirits, but every once in a while you’ll catch him muttering to himself, “Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive, or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones,” and then he trails off.
It just doesn’t have the same ring.
Night of the Living
The following manuscript was found outside a crypt in Los Angeles’s Hollywood Forever Cemetery, along with a decomposing copy of Syd Field’s Screenplay.
EXT. PARK. BLACK-AND-WHITE.
Eerie music plays. Two DEAD PEOPLE are lying on a picnic blanket. A picnic basket beside them is filled with brains.
The eerie music ends abruptly.
ZOMBIE RADIO ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
We interrupt regularry schedule program for breaaaaaaking news.
The dead people—–HELEN and HARRY—–open their eyes.
RADIO ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
Humans have been sighted in city. Zombie scientists have determine that if zombie shake hand with human, zombie become human.
HELEN
Harry, this frighten me.
HARRY
No worry, Helen, I protect you. First, must get somewhere safe like mausoleum or funeral home or—–
VOICE (O.S.)
Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt—–
They turn. A HUMAN in a business suit is leaning over them.
HUMAN
—–but do either of you know where I can find a soda machine around here? I’d like to drink some soda.
HARRY
Run, Helen!
The zombies awkwardly shamble away from the human—–right into ANOTHER HUMAN who was standing behind them, just out of frame.
HUMAN TWO
(laughing)
Whoa there! Better watch where you’re going.
The zombies back away in horror.
HUMAN TWO (CONT’D)
My name’s Bill, nice to meet you.
He reaches out and shakes Harry’s hand before Harry can escape.
HELEN
Harry!
HARRY
Is . . . is too late for me, Helen. Run!
Helen lumbers off. The humans—–and now HUMAN HARRY—–follow, slowly. One of them whistles along with the scary music. ANOTHER HUMAN pushing a baby carriage waves to them.
HUMAN THREE
Pleasant day for a stroll!
Helen heads toward the woods—–but comes to a sudden stop. A LITTLE GIRL stands in her path.
LITTLE GIRL
(holding out a chocolate bar)
Would you like some candy?
Helen screams. MORE HUMANS appear.
HUMAN FOUR
Is everything okay? I heard someone screaming, so I brought the police.
Helen shambles off as several policemen enter the frame.
EXT. DILAPIDATED HOUSE
Helen staggers from behind camera to the door. Humans move into frame, following her.
INT. LIVING ROOM
Helen shuts the door behind her and slowly moves away. As she passes the window, the very first human knocks on it.
HUMAN ONE
Sorry to bother you again, but you left this back at the park.
He holds up the picnic basket. Helen moans.
Soon the windows fill with the silhouettes of humans. Several wait in the doorway, too polite to barge in. They murmur, “After you,” “I insist, you first.”
Helen backs away, deeper into the house, toward a darkened doorway. From the darkness behind her, a WOMAN emerges, her hand extended.
WOMAN
Hi, I’m Karen. The Realtor.
Helen recoils in horror.