Sad Monsters

by Frank Lesser

  What really gets me is that the other Spider-Man didn’t even need those spider powers—as a human, he was already a gifted scientist. Sure, he never would have become a superhero, but if he hadn’t been so busy designing web-slinging devices and fighting hobgoblins, he might’ve cured cancer.

  I did take some science classes in college, but I kept getting distracted by my physics professor’s giant fly head.

  I guess I could have tried to become a supervillain. But my true love was always screen-printing.

  You like my shirt? Thanks. I spun it myself.

  Sorry, I didn’t mean to monopolize the conversation. I’ve just got a lot on my mind—work, picking up pants from the tailor, the vibrations of a vagrant trapped in the web I spun in the alleyway. Speaking of which, after you finish your drink, want to grab dinner?

  There’s a Sucker Born Every Minute

  Before I begin, I would like to thank Senator Lewis Hagstrom for inviting me to speak at this pancake breakfast fundraiser, and for rescheduling the breakfast for the evening, as something unavoidable came up during the day. When I begin my reign of eternal darkness, I shall reward Lew for his service with everlasting life, first pick of immortal consorts, and a cabinet appointment to head up Health and Human Services. Although as part of my plan to reform government and reduce waste, after I am elected that department will be renamed “Health and Human Juice Boxes.”

  Greetings, my fellow Americans. I am Congressman Vlad Tepes Dracula, and I am running for President. Tonight I will announce my five-step road to economic recovery, starting with step one, “Look into my eyes.” Yes, look into my eyes, my fellow Americans. You are growing tired. Tired of politics as usual.

  Many of you have grown cynical about politicians making empty promises, and I don’t blame you. But you can trust my campaign pledge, which is the centerpiece of my entire platform: Vote for me and you will live forever. There are of course some minor details, which I will get into after the election.

  Like many of you, I come from humble beginnings. I am the third son of a hardworking voivode, or “count,” from Wallachia, in what is now Romania. This may sound glamorous, but though tens of thousands of Wallachians trembled in fear under our rule, they were mostly Magyar peasants not worth the spit of a Székely nobleman. Still, my dealings with them made me a people person, because you are what you eat.

  I learned about the importance of small businesses early in my reign of terror, when I invited members of the local merchant class to my castle for a feast and then barricaded them in my great hall and burned them alive. Our country will prosper if we listen to these entrepreneurs’ innovative ideas, most of which involve unlocking doors.

  And we can only unlock this metaphorical door to prosperity with a hands-off approach to financial reform. That is why if you engage in insider trading when I am president, my Securities and Exchange Commission will cut your hands off.

  I am also the candidate with the most military experience. In the fifteenth century, I allied my army of bloodthirsty Wallachians with bloodthirsty Transylvanians to repel thirst-quenching Turks. My record proves that I know the importance of reaching across the aisle, usually with a sharpened pike.

  And yet I am also the “peace candidate.” My military experiences taught me that we must not shed any more blood for oil. We must conserve that blood for other purposes.

  Rest assured, I have the stomach to tackle the difficult problem of poverty. My solution could be described as “trickledown,” although in many cases it will also “splatter up.” Again, I will get into the details of this plan after the election.

  Finally, as anyone who has studied the history of my rule in Wallachia knows, I am tough on crime. During my reign, the Borgo Pass through the Carpathian Mountains was paved with the crushed skulls of criminals, and as a measure of the severity of their punishment, I made the headless criminals pave it themselves.

  Now I would like to take a moment to counter some of my opponents’ charges. They point to the large gap in my biography, which spans from 1476 to my reemergence last year as a congressman in Utah’s third district. This is not something I like to speak about, but I spent several centuries coping with the near death of someone I loved very dearly. You can read more about my inspiring struggles in my memoir, The Immortality of Hope, on sale in the lobby.

  Additionally, my opponents have brought up the issue of my foreign birth, but I point them to the Supreme Court’s recent 8-to-0 ruling that I am exempt from the constitutional requirements of natural-born citizenship because I was born before America was a nation. I would also like to express my condolences to the family of the late Chief Justice Walpole, who had just started writing the lone dissent when he stubbed his toe on his gavel, tragically draining his body of all blood. I thank the living justices for their wise ruling, and I look forward to appointing a replacement chief justice of complementary judicial temperament and blood type.

  I must also address the scurrilous rumors some of you may have heard that I am somehow “different.” My opponents dare not speak their accusations aloud, likely for fear of being overheard by my legions of eavesdropping bats, so instead they use code words: he’s “not one of us,” he’s “inhuman,” he’s “draining Chief Justice Walpole’s body of every drop of blood.”

  They are just trying to scare you. Still, to put to rest some of these rumors: I can go out in daylight, although my powers are diminished, as I draw my strength from the creatures of darkness—bats, wolves, spiders. Incidentally, if there are any undecided cat lovers out there, I can also gather power from black cats.

  And yes, the Ottomans called me “Vlad the Impaler,” due to my allegedly brutal treatment of my enemies, and I will admit that in my younger days I may have tortured captive Turks and disobedient boyars. But that was the folly of youth. And although I may have experimented once or twice with poking the severed heads of my enemies with sticks, I didn’t like it, and I never impaled.

  My fellow Americans, help me restore this country’s old-fashioned traditional values, along with those of fifteenth century Wallachia. While I may be able to transform into a bat on my own, I cannot transform America without your help. My campaign staff is always looking for fresh blood, which again is something I’ll describe in more detail post-election.

  Igor’s Résumé

  Objective: To serve my master obediently and unquestioningly in a mutually fulfilling master/minion relationship.

  Previous Minioning Experience:

  Laboratory assistant to Dr. Victor Frankenstein, 1927–1931 —Harvested “lab materials” from underground “lab material-yards.”

  —Assisted in the creation from lifeless matter of a living creature, which then went on a rampage through town, killing scores of villagers.

  —Learned and perfected proper torch-wielding techniques.

  Laboratory assistant to Dr. Karl Strangelstein, 1926–1927 —Assisted in development of world’s first fully functional autonomous amputated human hand.

  —Sedated unwilling experimental subjects, performed primary incisions of wrist/wristal area.

  —Devised alibis for Dr. Strangelstein when autonomous amputated hand went on rampage around town, strangling and groping scores of villagers.

  Laboratory assistant and dental hygienist to Dr. Heinrich Smilack, D.D.S., 1922–1926 —Assisted in tooth extractions and flossings.

  —Helped develop revolutionary tartar-fighting electric toothbrush, which tragically ran amok, killing scores of villagers.

  Manservant to Count Fangenstrom, 1915–1922 —Developed great people skills, used them to lure unsuspecting people to the Master’s lair.

  —Responsible for belfry maintenance/repair.

  Manservant to Comte Guillaume de Cacao (the real-life Count Chocula), 1913–1915 —Concocted delightful chocolate dessert creations for unsuspecting people, then concocted delightful unsuspecting people creations for the Master.

  —Responsible for changing the milk in the Master’s
coffin when it got too chocolaty.

  Education:

  Ingolstadt University, Class of 1912 —Graduated with honors in Toadying Theory for thesis, “Yes, I Am Getting Sleepy: A Revolutionary Approach to Succumbing to Hypnotic Suggestion.”

  —Minored in phrenology.

  —Spent semester abroad in Tuscany; learned to cook, learned to love, but ultimately decided to focus on sycophancy.

  Special Skills:

  Grave-robbing/grave-borrowing, hunchbacking.

  The Partisan Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  November the 2nd, 1892

  The preliminary tests of my potion are a resounding success! The lab rat subject reverts to a pure primal state, unencumbered by reason, with only minor side effects—mild uncontrollable rage, slight homicidal spasming, and the puzzling tendency of the other rats in its cage to tear themselves to bits.

  Of course, before I can progress to human trials, I must first experiment on an Irishman. And yet—wouldn’t Muriel be surprised if I were to finally “let loose” at our next furtive meeting of intimate whispering? Unshackled by the constraints of troublesome intellect, perhaps we could even discuss our plans to wed in the next five years in slightly less hushed tones. Perhaps I could finally get to what an American colleague, in a fit of ribaldry brought on by an excess of bilious humors, once referred to as “second base”!

  Then it is resolved. Ah, impetuous progress—I shall put my faith in the scientific method! I shall test my potion on myself! I shall finally see an ankle!

  November the 4th, 1892

  As I awaken from a lengthy stupor, the past two days blur and unblur before my eyes like Don Giovanni viewed through grimy opera glasses, a metaphor that may have no future relevance for me, as under the influence of the potion I smashed my opera glasses and purchased tickets to something called a “traveling rodeo.”

  In my uncouth state, I seem to have developed a distaste for science, heretofore my life’s passion, as I also smashed my laboratory equipment, then used a shattered stick of titanium dioxide to write across the lab walls the puzzling words “Suck it, nerd.”

  Worse, I wasn’t any more spontaneous with Muriel. Instead, during our meeting I delivered an hour-long lecture on the horrors of premarital sex, which seemed to bore her even more than my customary hour-long lecture on the importance of switching British industry to sustainable energy sources such as organically farmed whale oil and compact fluorescent steam.

  Still, I am close! I must devote myself to refining the potion. Unfortunately, I promised my friend Danvers Carew, the noted intellectual elitist, that I would canvass for him this evening in anticipation of his parliamentary race tomorrow against Hastie Lanyon, a Tory demagogue for whom only an unthinking brute would vote.

  And yet . . . my lips are quite parched! I’m sure one more sip of the potion couldn’t hurt . . . Note: For future potions, consider using a soluble base other than my proprietary mixture of concentrated tea, cocaine, and opium.

  November the 7th, 1892

  Oh, dear God, what have I done?

  I awoke in a wretched state, only this time my blood-stained hands were clutching a blood-smeared “I voted” pamphlet, and I was racked with the most fearsome dread. When my servant Poole brought the morning paper, I found confirmation of my unspeakable deed, right below an article about the brutal murders of two prostitutes and a local constable by an unknown savage: Hastie Lanyon had won by a single vote! Lest any doubt remain, according to the paper the balloting was interrupted by the arrival of “a cruel, hunched figure wearing a doctor’s lab coat and possessing the sloping brow of a Welsh criminal, who proclaimed in a growl to all within earshot, ‘Vote for Lanyon, unless you want the Mohammedans to win.’ ”

  Vaguely I can recall the horrific scene: There I stood by the ballot box, an unthinking brute, and when I looked at the name of Danvers, my good friend from Oxford, I muttered to myself, “You intellectuals think you’re so smart.”

  And then, the final shock—I glanced at the newspaper’s masthead, and it wasn’t the impartial London Daily Standard Herald, but the partisan London Standard Herald Daily!

  I immediately called Poole to my lab (or former lab, for it now bears the unmistakable trappings of a hunting den), and he informed me that in my mentally deformed state, I had switched subscriptions! A wave of nausea nearly overcame me, but luckily the potion was nearby and I took a quick sip to steel myself. Hair of the dog that bit you and you then stomped on, as they more or less say.

  November the 8th, 1892

  I fear this may be my last journal entry, as in my altered state I have been associating with all sorts of unsavory characters—streetwalkers, pickpockets, supply-side economists.

  Terrifyingly, where once I needed to consume a draught of the potion to transform, all I now require is an affront to my basest emotions, such as witnessing a member of the popish faith taking a praying job away from a hardworking Anglican, or a crying orphan whining for a handout. You “want some more,” do you? Then get a job and pull yourself up by your own gruel-straps.

  Whoever finds this journal, I beg you, destroy the remainder of the potion. Destroy whatever remains of my laboratory/hunting den/prayer circle. Destroy the op-ed I submitted to the London Standard Herald Daily titled “On Eating the Poor: Recipes and Suggested Wine Pairings.”

  And tell Muriel that I love her, although I condemn her desire to work outside the home. Farewell, my friends, for I must flee the country. Not because I am ashamed of my new beliefs, but because it is being overrun by filthy Italians.

  The Invisible Hell of the Market

  Before we begin, I want to thank all of you for fitting this meeting into your busy foot-roasting schedules. We’ve got this slime pit booked through lunchtime, so I ordered in some perjurers’ tongues from a steak house in the Sixth Circle.

  I look out here and I see some of the best talent in the field. Mephistopheles, you’re one of our top bringers. Ba’al, I know you’ve been down on your luck, but back in the ninth century BC no one tricked more people into selling their souls than you. I’d also like to welcome the new recruits coming to us from the world of investment banking. You’ll find this is a lot like your old jobs, only less soul-crushing.

  I’m not going to lie to you: We were hit hard when the soul bubble burst. For millennia, we relied on the simple principle that the value of an immortal soul would always go up. But our market analysts failed to take into account the market oversaturation caused by the population boom after the Industrial Revolution, not to mention the recent character-devaluing effects of reality TV. Needless to say, to deter future mistakes, the analysts who screwed this up have been flayed and their shrieking skins dried in the heat of a bloodred sun. And of course they’ll only be getting half their Christmas bonus.

  I’d like to think that no one was gaming the system, even though it is suspicious that in the middle of this crisis Mammon managed to buy a new home with a beautiful view of the River Styx. But right now we are all deep underwater, and that is not somewhere you want to be down here. As you all know, it’s never just water.

  True, our system was never perfect. From time to time we’d get bilked by predatory humans claiming to have pious souls, and after their ten years were up we’d discover they were hiding their misdeeds with fraudulent sin-confessing practices. And there were times when we’d show up to collect our soul and the seller would try to default, although we probably should have realized that people willing to sell their souls would also be willing to renege on a signed contract. In the future, we aim to avoid these problems by selling bundled credit default swaps, a complicated procedure that involves bundling souls with ropes of fire and immersing them in sizzling excrement.

  It is time to change our business model. It no longer makes sound fiscal sense to trade absolutely anything, regardless of cost, to a human in exchange for his or her immortal soul. We have to face hard facts: Many of those souls were junk. Azrael, you remember that blogger who
sold you her soul so she could get a bestselling book deal out of her Web site, PizzaThatLooksLikePeople.com? While her soul is currently worth less than a tenth of a simonist’s, we’re stuck buying up thousands of her books every day to guarantee continued sales. Sure, we burn the extra copies to heat the pimps’ and panderers’ cauldron, but it would be cheaper to stack a bunch of self-abusers under the cauldron, since their excess lust makes them self-combust. We need to cut costs, and besides, all this wasteful book burning sets back our green initiative. Which is going well—we’ve already switched over from dipping hypocrites in a kettle of boiling tar to dipping them in a burning compost heap.

  We need sweeping regulation, which is why in the future, before making an offer on a risky soul, we’ll be consulting with the fortune-tellers being punished in the Eighth Circle. These safeguards may not be popular with everyone, but if the fortune-tellers cooperate, we are willing to stop frying them in a cauldron of oil and instead steam them in a giant colander.

  On a more personal note, we’re going to have to make some cutbacks to our lavish lifestyle. From now on, if you’re having ergonomic issues with your throne of skulls, talk to human resources, but you’re probably going to have to pay for your own femur-bone footrests.

  Finally, instead of making high-stakes bets on future value, we plan to refocus our efforts on our enterprise’s original purpose: tormenting the damned. Our system of cruelly ironic punishments has failed to keep pace with the modern world, which is why tomorrow we’re holding a brainstorming session to fix this. Currently, thieves are punished by being strangled by snakes whose bite turns them to ash, but Samael had the idea to feed them through red-hot meat grinders, thereby turning them into literal hamburglars. This is the kind of innovative thinking we need.