Marshall Ramsey

Frankenstein reclined awkwardly on the psychiatrist’s couch.  It was made for a man half his size and no matter how hard he tried, he could not get comfortable.  Of course, his comfort issues were internal. And that’s why he was there.

“I HAVE MUMMY ISSUES.”

The psychiatrist looked up from her pad and said, “You mean, “mommy” issues?”

” NO MUMMY ISSUES. I CAN’T GET THAT DAM’ MUMMY TO GET OFF MY COUCH AND KEEP RAIDING MY FRIDGE.”

So began the 45th therapy session for one Mr. Frankenstein.  The psychiatrist scribbled madly into her notebook.  Her life had gotten much more complicated when he had walked through her office door.  In fact, she had screamed when he walked through her door.

“NOBODY LIKES ME.  HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF PEOPLE SCREAMED WHEN YOU WALKED IN THE DOOR?”

The psychiatrist blushed.

“HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF VILLAGERS CAME AFTER YOU WITH TORCHES AND PITCHFORKS?”

The psychiatrist looked up again from her notebook. Making eye contact with Frankenstein was not the easiest thing to do. “It’s not about me, Mr. Frankenstein.”

Frankenstein made a grunting noise.  In fact, that was part of his early problem. Due to a speech impediment, he scared people just when he tried to talk. Two years of speech therapy had allowed him to become quite articulate.

IGOR MAKES FUN OF ME.  HE HASN’T LIKED ME SINCE I TOLD HIM TO HAVE A HAPPY HUMP DAY.  HE SCREAMED AT ME THAT HE WASN’T QUASIMODO.

There was a brief pause while Frankenstein wiped his eyes.

I’M JUST MISUNDERSTOOD. I’M NOT A MONSTER. I’M JUST A HUMAN BEING.

The psychiatrist closed her notebook and said, “Time’s up. See you next week.”

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Ichabod Crane’s horse galloped wildly toward the bridge.  If he could just make the bridge.  The Headless Horseman was gaining on him.  Crane didn’t dare look behind him, but if he had, he would’ve noticed the Jack O’ Lantern being raised.  His heart raced.  The bridge was in sight.

Crane pulled back the reins, stopped his horse and leapt off, rolling on the ground when he hit.  The horse continued to run across the bridge as Ichabod ran to the side.

It was time to set the trap.

He found the rope and pulled it with all his might.  He looped it around the bridge post.  The Jack O’ Lantern fell harmlessly on the bridge’s deck, scattering into a million orange pieces.  “Use a gun not a pumpkin next time, you idiot,” thought Crane as he tied the rope. Then came the horse and rider.  Who never saw the rope.

The horse tumbled and the Headless Horsemen flew over the stallion’s head.  He hit in a heap next to the horse on the bridge.  Ichabod crane ran over to him and gave him a quick punch to heart, knocking the wind out of the Horseman.

While Ichabod Crane was seen as a wimp by the townspeople, he was a black-belt in Karate.  The Horseman moaned in pain. Crane did a roundhouse kick and knocked him back to the ground.  When he hit, his costume came loose revealing Abraham “Brom Bones” Van Brunt.

“Hessian solider my  *ss.” Crane spat. “Stay away from Katrina. She’s mine.”  He punched Van Brunt in the face, knocking him out.

And that night, Ichabod Crane, Ninja, vanquished a bully. It was the untold legend of Sleepy Hollow.

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In a Coastal bar, Dracula and a shark sat watching Monday Night Football.  A bartender walks up and asks, “Who ordered the Bloody Mary?”

Both went into a frenzy.

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The Bride of Frankenstein (BOF) was at the same bar and wearing a low cut dress. She was on a mission. Since her and Frankenstein’s divorce, she was back on the dating scene.  She was out to find a new man. Or a monster.

The Wolf Man was lapping his drink out of a bowl and scratching a flea behind his ear.  He saw BOF standing seductively in the door.  He loved the way light illuminated her crazy eyes. His heart started the pound.

The bartender held up a Coors Beer and said, “WHO ORDERED THE SILVER BULLET?”

The Wolf Man dove under the table.

BOF walked over and peered at the handsome stranger. “You come here often?”

“Only during a Full Moon. And you? BTW, I love what you’re doing with your hair. Very electric.”

BOF wasn’t wasting any time.  “Let’s go dance.”

Later than night, BOF sat at the bar, alone while the bartender cleaned glasses.  He looked at her and said, “Looks like you’ve had a rough night.  Where’s your canine friend?”

“I told him to get lost. He kept humping my leg.”

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Casper the Friendly Ghost was on CNN being interviewed by Piers Morgan.  Studio lights made him glow:

Piers Morgan:  What makes you so friendly?

Casper: I used to be Casper the Moody and Grumpy Ghost but my doctor changed my medication. I now take Xanax.  In fact, some days I’m Casper the Mellow Ghost.

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Zombies marched down the Washington Mall.  Park Police fired at them, but to no avail. It was a “Million-Zombie March.” And they were hungry.

They went up the steps of the first building they came to and marched up looking for their meal of brains.

But unfortunately they entered the halls of Congress.

They went home hungry.

Click on photo to see the real church where this window is.

An early snowfall had blanketed the forested hills of Vermont.  A big black sedan roared through the small town, ignoring the ice and slush on the road until it was too late.  There by the bridge over the river, its driver missed the curve, lost control and hit a telephone pole head on.  And for reasons only known to God and BMW, the airbags did not fire.  The drunk driver’s head impacted the steering wheel with a bludgeoning blow.  It was like a scene out of “It’s a Wonderful Life” except there was no wonderful life in the car.

The driver awoke dazed in his crushed vehicle.  Falling snow landed on the steaming remains of the engine, making a cackling sound as if fate was laughing at his stupidity.  He blinked a couple of times and tried to get some sense of awareness of his situation. He smelled gas, which awoke his need for self preservation.  He poured out of the car and onto the snow.  Stumbling to his feet, he threw up and limped toward a light past the Green.

The stone church blended into the white and gray countryside but it’s bright red door beckoned like a snow-covered siren. He wiped his forehead: A warm, syrupy goo flowed into his eyes and face — he was bleeding profusely. When he grabbed the door handle, his hand was the same color as the painted wood.

He stumbled inside.

The nave was dark.  The interior of the church was old black oak with exquisite stained glass from nearly every period of stained glass art.  But all were dark. It was 5 a.m. and the sun was far from rising.  His blurry vision focused at the end of the church. There, over the altar, was a precious stained glass window designed by the brilliant designer Louis Comfort Tiffany himself.  The risen Christ looked out on the nave with arms raised as if to suggest an invitation for comfort. He limped toward it.

There, on the alter, world-renowned CEO Bradley S. Hollingsworth collapsed into a bloody heap on the polished oak floor.

While it would be cliche to say his life flashed before his eyes, that’s exactly what happened.  He awoke in the gym of his elementary school. The vast room smelled like varnish and Bradley looked down at the red rubber ball in his hand. He was twice as large as the other children on the other side.  Battle-ball was his favorite sport.  He found one overweight kid he loved to pick on and threw the ball at his face with all of his might. “TAKE THAT TUBBY TEDDY!” he mocked. But when the ball hit the boy’s face, HE felt the pain. His nose exploded and he saw a flash of light.  He experienced shame and the embarrassment for the first time in his life.  He felt what Tubby was feeling.

He opened his eyes again only to find himself on his high school bus.  Two seats up in front of him was the Autistic boy who he used to love to make fun of.  Bradley started taunting the child and suddenly, he felt the confusion. The rage. The fear. He couldn’t escape the pain of the laughter. What was going on?  “Make this nightmare stop!” he screamed.

He woke up in the sheets of his bed.  “Good, it was just a dream,” he thought. But to his horror, there lying next to him was the young nubile assistant from accounting. NOT AGAIN! He panicked as the door flew open. There stood his wife, the love of his life, erupting in waves of tears and anger.  Suddenly his heart felt her heart’s anguish. Her sense of betrayal. Her pain.

He sat at his mahogany desk and signed some papers. The U.S. Government had just bailed out his company.  Too big to fail, they called it.  His bonus was going to be too big to cash, he snickered. But to get that bonus, he had to lay off thousands of middle-class employees, casting them in to the sea of the Great Recession. “They’re only numbers,” he reassured himself as he signed the final approval of the massive layoff.  Suddenly he felt the fear and uncertainty of all 34,000 of the employees whose life he had just ruined.  He fell to the floor in anguish.

The door of the church flew open but not because of the wind.  A bright red glow had replaced the snow as two men in black overcoats walked down the rows toward him. Neither had faces. Bradley felt fear like he never had before in his life. His skin burned as they grabbed his legs and started dragging him back out of the church.

Bradley, having run out of options for the first time of his life, reached his hand up toward the Tiffany Jesus and cried out the only two words he could:

Forgive me.

A white flash lit the dark nave with the brilliance of a million suns. The two men screamed a banshee’s scream as they disintegrated into a pile of black ash. Bradley was bathed in a warm glow.  For the first time in his life, he felt empathy. And then he felt peace.

The next morning, a policeman found the crumbled BMW and called an ambulance. The policeman and the EMT’s followed the trail of bloody footprints through the white snow to the little gray stone church.  As they walked into the dark nave, they saw the spectacularly illuminated Tiffany Jesus.  And beneath it, bathed in a sunbeam pouring through its priceless stained glass was the body of a forgiven Bradley S. Hollingsworth.

About how I came up with the idea for this story.