Frankenstein's Monster: The Prologue

Last year, I wrote a young adult fantasy adventure novel called FRANKENSTEIN'S MONSTER. It's about a teen who inherits Dr. Frankenstein's original notes, and the monster comes looking for them, along with various bad guys. Hijinx ensue. Though I should point out that "hijinx," in this case, is defined as "explosions, martial arts and steampunk weird science."

I wrote the screenplay adaptation, and set both aside to work on my usual R-rated action thriller specs. Just for fun, I thought I'd throw the prologue up online.

This is a super-first draft, so please don't kick my ass too much.

THE CHAPTER BEFORE CHAPTER ONE:

THE UNEXPECTED VISITOR

Who could be happy with a name like Marvin Butterfield? No one sane.

So he made everyone call him “Fresh Marvy-B.” His email was FreshMarvyB@gmail.com. He’d named his World of Warcraft troll shaman “FreshMarvyB.” Sometimes he saw his friends in person. In those rare moments, they called him “Fresh Marvy-B” or “Marvy-B” or “Marvy” or “MB” or “dude.”

He was known as “FreshMarvyB655” on the auction sites.

Fresh Marvy-B opened a second bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. He downed a handful, with Mountain Dew straight from a two-liter bottle. He hunched over the keyboard, watching the final minute count down on an online auction. This one was for a stack of original copies of Weird Tales magazines, sci-fi pulp fiction published in the 1930s.

Fresh Marvy-B knew someone, somewhere out there didn’t just want the copies of Weird Tales. They needed those magazines, more than air or food or love. Getting the magazines might be the best thing that ever happened to them. Which was why Marvy-B loved collectables; people got crazy over the weirdest stuff.

Old toys and comic books weren’t better than new toys or comic books. But people paid a lot more for the old stuff. That’s how Fresh Marvy-B made money, selling people little talismans of their childhoods back to them.

Fresh Marvy-B lived in a one-bedroom apartment in North Hollywood. He sat in a very comfortable, ergonomic desk chair. There was nowhere else in the apartment to sit. Boxes covered the floor, the couch, the chairs, the counter-tops and the tables. Boxes were stacked six-deep in the corners, and forget about the closets.

The only clear space on the floor was a strategic, Y-shaped pathway. The tail started at Fresh Marvy-B’s computer desk, and the forks led to the kitchen and bathroom. Marvy-B had to climb over boxes to when he left the apartment. It helped that going outside was a rare activity for him.

The auction clock counted down past thirty seconds. The first round of robots appeared to snipe in bids. Marvy-B snorted. Amateurs.

The pros showed up in the last ten seconds. Offers exactly one cent higher than the previous bid rapid-fired through the ranks. The seconds quickly melted.

Fresh Marvy-B stacked three Doritos together into a little sandwich and inserted the whole thing in his mouth.

Three.

Two.

One…

The auction closed. Fresh Marvy-B sold the old magazines to a guy in Dayton, Ohio.

There was a knock at the door.

Fresh Marvy-B just stared at it. No one ever knocked on his door. Maybe he’d heard something from the hallway that just sounded like a knock on his door. Yeah, that was it – Marvy-B ignored it.

Another knock.

“Who is it?” Marvy-B yelled. But his mouth was full, so it came out as a mushy bellow, something like: “Mooo-hiiish-ehhh?”

No answer. Fresh Marvy-B rolled his eyes. He chewed as fast as he could to clear his mouth and regain the power of speech.

There wasn’t a third knock. Instead, Fresh Marvy-B’s unexpected visitor kicked the door open.

The flopping door knocked over boxes. Star Wars action figures tumbled out of one, trays full of neatly-arranged Hot Wheels cars spilled from another.

Fresh Marvy-B flinched. This was a first.

The visitor came into the apartment and said, “What is all this trash?”

He was middle-aged Asian man. He was somewhere between tall and short. He had dark brown skin and a big Fu Manchu mustache dropping over the sides of his mouth. He wore a black t-shirt and loose pants that flopped around his legs.

Marvy-B knew he should yell something like: I’m gonna call the cops, man! But he was too scared. Instead, he just answered the question and squeaked: “Collectables.”

The man pushed the door shut. It wouldn’t completely close, because he’d kicked the knob and lock off. The door just sorta hung a couple of inches less-open.

The man scooped up a handful of Star Wars figures worth a hundred bucks. “You collect dolls?”

“No, action figures,” Marvy-B said. “Toys. Didn’t you have any toys when you were a kid?”

“My father didn’t give me toys. He gave me beatings, and I liked it!” The Asian man threw the figures over his shoulder. They rattled across the tops of more cardboard boxes.

Fresh Marvy-B wondered if he was fast enough to dial nine-one-one before this guy beat him up.

“I’m looking for a set of bound notes, almost like a book,” the man said.

“A comic book?”

“No, a book for adults. It’s very old.”

“I only deal in comic books and graphic novels and related publications, like pulp – “

The visitor kicked a stack of boxes. They exploded in a shower of pink Power Rangers, Robotech planes, all-region horror movie DVDs and The Uncanny X-Men, issues #180-through-#210.

“Brian Thomas in Phoenix, Arizona sold the notes to you.” The man aimed his foot at Marvy-B like it was a cannon. “He sent a package to this address several weeks ago. The notes were in the package, which means you have the notes.”

Marvy-B thought Brian Thomas might have gotten a very similar visit. He hoped his door was the only thing that’d got broken.

“My boss wants the notes, which means I want them.” Leg still up, the man took a roll of cash from his shirt pocket. “I’m not a thief, I’ll pay you.”

The message was clear: Marvy-B had to choose between the money, or the kick.

His mouth went dry, and he could feel every Dorito crumb jammed between his teeth. He focused on the man’s foot. The guy was wearing the kinda soft shoe you see dudes wear in kung fu movies, which Fresh Marvy-B didn’t take as a good sign.

That’s when four ninjas of various shapes and sizes came into the apartment.

They blundered over the cardboard boxes by the door. One ninja fell face-first, his hands punching through the tops of boxes. “Ow! What’s in these things?”

The Asian man closed his eyes, as if wishing the ninjas would just go away.

The fallen ninja steadied himself on his knees and withdrew his hands from the boxes. Colorful action figures came out with them.

“No way! Lord of the Rings guys? You got Gollum!”

A second ninja leaned forward to see. “I had him and the Nazgul on my desk at work.” To Fresh Marvy-B: “Where’d you find ‘em?”

“They’re pretty easy to score online,” he said. “I have another in mint condition, but that one’s in storage.”

The Asian man dropped his leg so he could turn and face the ninjas. “I told you to wait outside.”

“Sorry, Thunderfoot,” said the third ninja. He was short and filled out his ninja outfit, a nice way of saying he was overweight.

“Not much ninja stuff going on out front,” said the fourth. “We wanted to see if you needed help.”

The Asian man – Thunderfoot – said, “I’ve sparred with Jet Li. I think I can handle a doll collector.”

To make his point, Thunderfoot snapped a kick at Fresh Marvy-B. The deadly foot stopped a millimeter from his forehead.

“The notes.”

Fresh Marvy-B made a dry squeak that sounded a lot like a broken shopping cart wheel.

“The notes!”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to think,” Marvy-B said. “I buy and sell a lot of stuff. And this is the first time I’ve ever had ninjas in my apartment.

“I’m not a ninja,” Thunderfoot said. “Ninjas are Japanese. I’m from Hong Kong.”

“We’re not really ninjas, either,” the first ninja said, examining an original-issue He-Man figure.

“We’re ninjas in training.”

“Elimi-ninja contestants.”

“Future ninjas of America.”

“Enough!” Thunderfoot had a gleam in his eye that said: shut up or I’ll kick you. The ninjas became very quiet, like ninjas should’ve been in the first place.

Marvy-B said: “I remember the thing you’re talking about, the handwritten notes of a scientist from the eighteenth century, held together in a leather binding.”

“Yes! That’s what I want.”

“I sold it.”

Thunderfoot’s shoe demanded answers.

“I sent them out a week ago,” Marvy-B told him. “I can give you the contact info. Name, addy, everything. The guy who bought it, he’s a professor doing research. Y’know, the dude who wrote that book about the Chinese finding America before Columbus.”

Thunderfoot seemed interested. “They did?”

“I loved that book,” the second ninja said. “Wasn’t it a bestseller?”

“Yeah, for something like a million years,” Fresh Marvy-B said.

Thunderfoot lowered his thunder foot.

Marvy-B let out a relieved sigh. “I keep all of my sales records on file.”

He printed out the professor’s information. Thunderfoot took the sheet, read it, nodded.

“Let’s go.” Thunderfoot headed for the door.

Marvy-B said: “I thought, uh…”

“What?”

“You were going to pay me.”

“Yes, for the notes. But you don’t have them.” Thunderfoot took the He-Man action figure from the ninja who was holding it. “Remember, if you call the police – ” He broke the figure in half, the implied message clear.

“I won’t, man. It’s cool.”

Thunderfoot vanished through the door. The ninjas filed out behind him. The broken boxes, the broken door and the broken He-Man figure were the only proof they’d been in the apartment.

Fresh Marvy-B wondered how giving a customer’s contact information to ninjas would affect his service rating.