Good-bye, Fenwell.
Too many for me.
It was a black night, the oppressive overcast and the fog, thick enough to slow the flutter of bats. Stillness and total darkness, overlaid with absolute quiet.
Yet in one area of the open countryside, the cellar of an old farmhouse gleamed with light. Artificial, yes, but not from a traditional light source. Rather, it was a byproduct of Professor Fenwell’s experiment.
If one could call it that.
This gent really had no idea what he was doing, either, which was very, very bad. It was actually worse than that; the idea for his activity came from a novel of fiction. The novel? Frankenstein. The fact that he was a professor was irrelevant, as his chosen field was English literature.
The things that intrigue us about most topics are the outcomes, not the details. So it was for Dr. Fenwell, who hadn’t considered the possible downside of ending an individual human’s circulation, allowing flesh to degrade before reassembly, simply unconsidered realities. And of course, cemeteries weren’t really an option, so the professor expected me to take lives, instead.
Imagine, selecting your victims for body size, for sexual gender, for approximate age. Then, remove the parts you need, wrap and store them in deep refrigeratìon. Dispose of the balance.
In short, all semblance of apparent sanity was quite recently departed, fleeing his very vicinity, progressively changing his being from the reasoned academic he was into the slouching, bloodstained crazy he is.
And so it is time, my former friend. I’ve seen your efforts, stitched together in your walk-in cooler. I understand your excitement, but you’ve done nothing to connect veins, arteries or any portion of your creature’s nervous system, and I’ve grown weary of killing for you. Tonight is your very last night on earth. Tonight, it is your turn. No more truckers, for you.
I might have carried on for a while longer, but the warehouse will only hold twenty-six tractor-trailers, and it’s full.
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