Every would-be inventor thinks that they could have created any given thing. If they'd only been allowed the proper time, context, opportunity, money, talent, and patent written down on a piece of paper, they could have invented penicillin. I hate to admit it, but I am not above grievances like this. I will forever hold a grudge against Alan Turing for sneaking his career under the radar of my birth by 40 years, which utterly robbed me of the chance to read his mind and accept the credit for all of my good ideas which he came up with. But lately I've been thinking about a particularly bitter spot in history which I completely missed out on. Imagine those 19th century experiments with electricity on dead bodies. You know the ones- a severed hand sits on a lab table with jump leads on the radial artery, and the other end of the cable on a car battery. Then somebody fires up the ignition and the hand taps out 'Chopsticks' before the audience. When it was first discovered people were so bemused and enthusiastic about what it could mean that their imaginations went mental, much as we treat quantum physics and science fiction nowadays. Fresh science generally makes people go nuts with what it is capable of, and this annoys me particularly in light of the enlightenment-era experiments on dead tissue which inspired Mary Shelly to write Frankenstein. She wasted all her potential by writing a novel in my opinion. Let me tell you what I would have done in Mary's place: electric séances.
Think of it in the context of the period; you lug somebody’s departed granddad into the parlour and attach electrodes to his neck.
“Electricity can reanimate dead tissue,” you say, holding up a pamphlet on severed hands. Then, as his dewy-eyed family watches, you patronise the shit out of them. Lay the guy's rigid hand on the table and ask the group about what they'd say to granddaddy regarding the family's churchgoing habits.
“Are we meeting approval in the eyes of the Lord?” Asks one timorous great granddaughter, with nineteen children hanging off her corset. That's when you stamp on a pedal, and 1400 volts rocket up granddad’s spine, making him fling his hands aloft.
“He despairs!” You howl through the smoke, and that's when money just starts rolling in. Granddad’s brain was obviously reactivated by the electricity, and he used his time of consciousness to protest the family's sinful nature. How did that great granddaughter get all those children anyway? That's what you should ask. If she points to her husband, apply the electrodes and run 1400 volts through him, then see how much of an obstacle he is when you're questioning people. Then grab the fanciest piece of jewellery from whoever's nearest and run like hell- you don't want to be around when the authorities show up. Get to the nearest harbour and elope on the first boat out; the codeword “Vivica” should get you stowed away into the bilge hatch of any ship docked between Aberdeen and Liverpool.
When you disembark, wherever you are, stab the first person you see with whatever you have. The first people you see are always the ones out to get you. Where you are is important, but it is just as important that you keep moving. Run for twelve feet in alternating directions, making as much noise as possible. People must know that what you are doing matters. Do you still have the electrodes? Apply them to anyone who asks questions about what you are doing. Questions are what they line the pavements with in Hell. When the sun goes down, count the stars. If they amount to an even number, kill yourself immediately: you will not endure what happens next. If they are of an odd number, run north. You will see a Subway. Enter violently and tell them that you know about the tomato seeds in the door hinges. They will wink at you knowingly. Apply the electrodes and keep running north. Somebody up here has a good idea, but they haven't written it down because nobody has forced them to with violence. You are that person. Try throwing things at the windows of houses with no lights on, since people with good ideas always live in the dark. Sometimes the people with good ideas will not be people, but pets, so keep the electrodes handy for any dogs you see. The most important thing at this point is to eat absolutely anything growing out of the ground which is larger than a thimble. Anything smaller than a thimble is a sign of treason.
There will be wolves, yes, but ask yourself: when has a wolf had a truly good idea? Hold the electrodes close to yourself and walk through the wolves until you hear your native tongue spoken in the wolven dialect. This will be coming from the compass point most aligned to your birth star, so if you happen to be left handed and born in March then you must either guide yourself by smell from this point on, or accept The Shittiest Death. Pick up the cotton idol which the Wolf Whore gifted you. It will sear your flesh, but you accept that this pain is what you sought all along. Run north. Never forget that Mary Shelly caused all this with her bad business sense. You hate her. You lash out blindly with the electrodes, but she is not there, she will never be there. She has been dead for well over a hundred years. What are you doing here? Punch a wolf, yes, that will help you remember. No! Don't you remember that that wolves never have good ideas? Keep running north until you are free of the wolves. There are bones within you which medicine cannot explain. Fashion a crude bike from these bones and cycle south until you reach the Subway from earlier. The staff will still be winking knowingly, which means nothing since they do it to every customer. Take a bottle of Sprite from the fridge and replace it with the cotton idol. The two hemispheres of your brain will separate and demand the bottle of Sprite with equally compelling arguments. Choose one side of your head and drill a hole for pouring the Sprite into. Depending on which hemisphere you give the Sprite to, you will be granted one of two powers. The left hemisphere will make every embarrassing conversation you've had retroactively turn out well, while the right will grant you an absurdly seductive Caribbean accent.
The trap lies in making you think that the past and the future matters, so take whatever tool you drilled through your skull with, and stab your brain to death. If you doubt your ability to continue without it, cycle north and ask the wolves, they will back me up on this. Apply the electrodes to the Sprite as it pours onto the cotton idol and cycle north. Everything that you do from this point on will become somebody's lyrics, so please try not to repeat yourself. Return to the site of the first murder you committed and state your victim's date of birth. Regardless of the language you speak or your dialect, the words will sound like Mary Shelly's name. She will appear and kill you with the electrodes and you will die. You should have listened to me, I kept telling you to run north.
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