“Yeah. It had nothing to do with UFOs,” Dooley
said. “The nation’s entire electrical output was used to
create a gigantic burst of energy—to bring Frankenstein
to life. They succeeded. And now he’s prowling Los Angeles.
It’s only a matter of time before he starts invading schools,
churches, golf courses, crack houses, and kills everybody
in sight. Nobody’ll be safe.”
“Nonsense. Universal is probably making
a monster movie. Maybe the guy playing Frankenstein didn’t
have time to remove all his makeup. Hey, I’m busy. Tell
the cops. Don’t call me again!”
Making a sandwich, I recalled how
I saved an ungrateful Ireland from the scourge of leprechauns.
The little creeps were responsible for committing countless
petty crimes. When I discovered they were planning to expand
to Los Angeles, I went to Ireland and wasted the bastards
in a preemptive strike. Wiped out over a million of them.
Irish radicals screamed, “Genocide.” Then they posted a
million dollar reward for the killer’s head. I’d hoped
those loons would never find out I was the culprit.
That afternoon, I watched a double-header
on TV. Between innings, the camera scanned fans sitting
in the stands. It paused on the face of a pretty woman
for a few seconds, then moved to the guy sitting next to
her. He had the kind of face that haunted people’s dreams.
Sonovabitch! He looks a lot like
Frankenstein!
I made a mental note of the section
number.
I figured he was Frankenstein about
as much as I was the Wolfman. My gut told me he was a freakin’ leprechaun
in disguise. Only a leprechaun would be nutty enough to
run around imitating a movie monster. But, how the hell
did he escape my dragnet in Ireland? Why is he in Los Angeles?
Is everyone too zonked to notice?
I decided to kill him the same way
I wiped out his brothers—with a compact flamethrower that
fit inside a student back pack.
As I packed the flamethrower, I added
two Molotov cocktails. They came in handy in Ireland when
I found leprechauns at the ends of rainbows. I’d toss a
Molotov cocktail into the woods, which would create a roaring
forest fire. That’s how I smoked out all those little green
freaks hiding in bushes. When they tried to escape, I blasted
them with my flamethrower.
I was on the freeway and heading for
the ballpark to assassinate the phony Frankenstein, when
Dooley called again.
“Please don’t hang up,” he said. “I
have new information about Frankenstein. He was spotted
at the ballgame.”
“I know. I was watching the game
on TV. He’s sitting next to a good-looking woman.”
“Thank goodness you finally believe
me. I hear noise in the background. Where are you?”
“On my way to kill the bastard.”
“Fantastic!” Dooley said. “I wanna
be there when you do it. Let’s meet at the snack bar closest
to his seat.”
“No. I’m gonna rush in, zap him,
and get the hell outta there before anybody has a chance
to react.”
“But if I’m there when it happens,
I can record everything on my camcorder. I should be able
to sell the images to CNN for big bucks. I’ll split
the take with you, fifty-fifty.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I said. “Meet
me there. What are you wearing?”
“Green shirt, white shorts.”
Arriving at the ballpark, I headed
for the snack area. Halfway there, my gut nagged me. I
wondered why Dooley was so hot on getting Frankenstein
wiped out, and why he avoided telling the cops. Plus, he
didn’t ask what I was wearing, which meant he probably
knew what I looked like. Maybe he had me under surveillance.
I called a friend who had a computer.
“Hey, Harry. It’s DeSalvo. Do me
a favor. Google on the name, Zack Dooley, and the word
researcher.
I heard fingers tapping on keys.
“He’s a member of LAGL,” Harry said.
