Oct 25, 2021
A Recently Divorced Frankenstein Completely Ruined My Casual Adult Monster Mash
Having him there was a monster bummer.
Look, being Dracula isn’t all blood and games, OK? It’s actually a lot of pressure. You try luring virgins to your spooky castle every night. It’s exhausting. And this on top of all my duties as a count.
So, when I was planning my annual Monster Mash, you could say I was hoping for a low-key event. Just a simple get-together to drink some nice wine and catch up with Monster friends. To relax, you know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I had my share of crazy Monster Mashes in my youth. But we’re adults now. I’m 400 years old five years ago, and I’m at the point where I just want to put on some jazz and eat a little muenster cheese with a hobgoblin. No drama.
Enter Frankenstein and his recent divorce bullshit. Looking back, I should have known not to invite him. “It must have got lost in the scare-mail!” I could have said of his invitation. I mean, it’s not like he’s never excluded me. Two years ago he threw a Super Bowl party and didn’t invite me because he wanted to have garlic dip. We never spoke about it, but that night I transformed into a bat and took a shit on his car.
Anyway, the Monster Mash evening starts and it’s going well. Not exactly a “graveyard smash,” but definitely enjoyable. The vibe is chill and my new candelabra is a big hit with the ghouls. I even got the undead to mingle with the demons, and they all agreed Dune was pretty good.
Then I hear it: a knock upon the door. Well, less a knock, more a BAM BAM BAM. I look at the time on my FitBite and see he’s two hours late.
“Who shows up two hours late to a Monster Mash?” I ask Swamp Thing, rolling my eyes. “An asshole, that’s who.” I looked over and of course the Asshole Monster is standing right next to me when I said it.
“Sorry,” I stammer, blushing and hating Frankenstein all the more for causing my social blunder. The Asshole Monster says it’s fine but I can tell it isn’t. I was going to say something else but then I hear it again: BAM BAM BAM. I excuse myself and try to get to the door before the big green brute breaks it down.
I open the door and there he is: 6 feet 9 inches and 900 pounds of absolute train wreck. His Hawaiian shirt is tattered and stained and his pants are no better. The bolts in his neck, usually pristine, are dull with potato chip grease. A pair of too-small sunglasses fail to hide blood-shot eyes, where the only thing clear about them is that they haven’t known sleep for days.
I realize then, looking at him standing in my doorway, that I hadn’t really seen Frankenstein since his marriage fell apart. It occurs to me that maybe I haven’t been the friend that I should have been. But this train of thought is interrupted by a loud, “Duuuuuuddddeeee.”
“Dude,” Frankenstein yells again, his eyes darting around. “Sorry I’m late. Hope I didn’t miss too much Mashing. I can’t tell you how much I need a good Mash right now. Let’s get fucked up!”
I stand aside as Frankenstein barrels into the room and pulls several bottles of tequila out of a tattered bag.
“Nice to see you, too, Frank,” I say with a calculated coldness.
“What, you mad?” he says, turning to me. “Don’t be mad. Not at Monster Mash. Come on, let’s crank the dubstep!”
“Did you even bother to read the invitation?” I say. “This is a casual Mash. No tequila, no getting ‘fucked up.’ We’re adults now, for chrissake. I’m a count.”
“Oh,” he says, taking a step toward me. “So, no more Monster Noogies?”
“Don’t you dare,” I say, but it’s no use. Frankenstein grabs my balding head and gives me a noogie.
“Get the fuck off me!” I hiss, trying not to attract attention from the other guests. Frankenstein lets go.
“Do coke with me,” he says.
“NO. Did you bring cocaine here? What the fuck!”
“Do coke with me,” he says again, desperate. “Let’s get fucked up. I need this. Let’s Mash like the old days. Forget our troubles, you know?”
“Frank, don’t ruin this night for me,” I say, but he’s already stormed off to the bathroom to do cocaine.
I turn and of course there’s the Phantom of the Opera standing there with his stupid opera glasses, watching the whole scene. He’s been waiting for the night to go up in sunshine since it started. He’s never forgiven me for beating him to the lease for the spooky castle on the hill.
“Nice to see Frankenstein up and about,” he smirks. “I heard the divorce was ugly.”
“Yeah, well I heard half your face is ugly,” I say, and immediately I regret it. What is happening to my nice evening?
“I’m sorry,” I quickly say.
“No, don’t be,” he says. “It’s no less than I’d expect. Cheats his way into the spooky castle on the hill lease and suddenly everyone is beneath him.”
“Phantom, please,” I say, but he’s already running off to play his organ, choking back tears. Again, my distain for Frankenstein burns within me, flushing my face.
Then, speak of the devil, there’s the devil.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says.
Then he just kind of wanders into the kitchen. The devil doesn’t mingle much, but he loves opening my refrigerator and staring into it.
I hear a flush and Frankenstein reappears, coked out of his stolen brain.
“Uh, your toilet’s broken,” he says.
“Listen,” I say. “I think you should go.”
“I’ll pay to fix it, OK? What’s a toilet cost, like, a hundred dollars?”
“It’s not that,” I say. “You’re not well. Maybe you should go home and get struck by lightning.”
“Are you shitting me? I’ve never felt more alive! Hey,” he leans in close, “do coke with me.”
“Frank…” But he is gone again, running into the middle of the Mash where the Chupacabra is explaining to a gargoyle the benefits of owning a Peloton.
Frankenstein starts dancing insanely in the middle of the room, flailing his massive arms and legs and kicking Sasquatch in the thigh. I cover my face in my hands. This is a disaster.
When I finally remove my pale and perfectly manicured hands away from my face, I see several Monsters leaving the Mash.
“I paid for a sitter for this?” an uppity minotaur snorts as it gallops away.
“I don’t care how recent his divorce was, your friend needs to learn how to control himself,” Mr. Hyde chides. I don’t have the energy to point out the irony of that statement coming from him.
I look around for Frankenstein and finally spot him in a corner, where he’s talking loudly to Maleficent about “the dangers of cancel culture.”
At this point, I can’t take it anymore. Something comes over me and, in an act of pure resentment, I push the ghouls out of the way and grab my candelabra. Then I storm the kitchen and grab the devil’s pitchfork from his gnarled claw.
“Whoa, what’s up your ass, man?” the devil says, but I don’t respond. I march straight up to Frankenstein; I stand in front of him and a deadly hush falls over the entire Mash.
“What are you — ” Frankenstein stumbles, but I cut him off. I’ve been patient enough.
“Get out!” I scream. I wave my candelabra and pitchfork at him for a dramatic effect. “Get out, you beast! You cretin! Leave! You’re not welcome here! You’re not one of us!”
The glimmer of the flame and shine of the pitchfork finally register in Frankenstein’s dim, coked-out eyes, filling his face with an ancient terror. He screams a primal scream, a roar so filled with horror that even the devil puts hooves over his ears.
I take a step back, my confidence wavering, shocked by the sight of what I’ve done, the terror I’ve caused. Tears suddenly pour out of Frankenstein’s mismatched eyes and he stampedes from the room, flailing his arms and knocking over a cheese table in his mad rush up the stairs. The echo of his foul shrieking slowly fades, and a silence — somehow even more terrifying — fills the room.
“Count, what in the actual FUCK,” says Maleficent, breaking the silence. “Did you really just do that?”
I stammer, caught in the web of her piercing stare. “He was — He was ruining the Monster Mash!”
“Dude, you crossed a line,” chimes in Mike Myers, shaking his head. “Do better.”
Now a real Mash exodus begins, and I watch helplessly as Monsters take up their capes and leave in disgust.
“Don’t go!” I say. “It’s not even 2 a.m.! Wait! I’ve got Janga. Come on, stay!”
But it’s no use. In a moment, I’m alone. Nothing but radioactive leftover slime from The Blob to comfort me. Suddenly, the enormity of my transgression hits me. I look at the pitchfork and candelabra in my hands and I throw them to the ground in horror.
“What have I become,” I whisper as I slump to the ground, ashamed.
Then, after several long moments of hating myself, I hear it — a loud snort, followed by stifled sobs. I slink up the long, winding stairs and find him sitting in a corner of the roof, covered in cocaine.
“I’m so sad,” he says as I sit down next to him. “I’m so fucked up.”
I put my arm around his massive shoulder and he leans his giant head on mine.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Frankenstein says, tears streaming freely now. “When she left me for Wolfman. Why didn’t you reach out to me?”
“I guess…I guess I was scared,” I say. “I’m used to being the one who frightens. Not the one who’s frightened…”
“Me too,” he says, sniffling. “But we could have at least been scared together.”
There’s a long silence as we listen to the wind whistle through the crenellation of my castle and watch the town below get absolutely annihilated by the giant legion of Monsters who left the Mash.
“I’m sorry I ruined your Monster Mash,” Frankenstein says. “And I’m also sorry I didn’t invite you to the Super Bowl party that time. I was a jerk.”
I’m taken aback by his apology. Now my eyes are teary.
“It’s OK,” I say. “I’m sorry I used your well-known weaknesses to traumatize you into leaving my Monster Mash.”
“It’s OK,” he says. “I guess I’ll have to learn to face that shit eventually… I have a lot of growing up to do.”
“Me too,” I say.
We spent the night just like that, Frankenstein and me. Just talking it out and catching up with each other, laughing about old times. At one point I transformed into a bat and took a shit on Wolfman’s car. I hadn’t laughed like that in centuries and neither had Frank.
I realized then — as we rushed indoors before the first rays of sunlight could evaporate me into powder — that it was the greatest Monster Mash I had known in all my 405 years. And being Dracula, at least in that moment, wasn’t that bad at all.
