A Chapter from Mary Shelley’s Frankustaine

Chapter 4

By the eager look in your eye, dear reader, I can see you think my labors those of a madman. Such an opinion is not yours alone. Oh, but they laughed. They mocked my repeated attempts to renew my once-legendary position amongst the annals of sonic history. My former colleagues in Metallica, believing themselves fully forgiven by myself due to their gaudy cinematic show of apology, bid me silence my persistent inspiration when I would show them camaraderie. Meanwhile those periodicals in which my craft was examined labeled me a lunatic, crazed in my unflagging self-certainty and my dismissal of the tyrannical teachings of Obama.

But remember that I record not the visions of a maniac. The world must have its hero, even when the system proves a failure. To examine the causes of Megalife, we must first have recourse with Megadeth. My goal was clear—to recreate that life which had so ungratefully been abandoned by the world, left to rust in peace.

As the minuteness of each player’s talent in my eyes formed a great hindrance upon my tortured psyche, I began to envision a band of gigantic stature, some four players deep, its pieces constantly rotating according to my momentary will. After having formed this plan, that of an umpteenth incarnation of my shoddily-conceived project, I began amassing that with which to reanimate my life’s work yet again. The web forums, Where Are They Now?-type serials, and my own sordid past furnished much of my materials; and often did my musical principles turn with loathing away from my continued occupation, whilst, still urged on by a bitterness that perpetually increased, I brought my work to yet another conclusion.

I knew well, therefore, what Marty’s feelings would be, but could not tear myself from my tireless employment, driven on by a kind of fevered imagination and an innate understanding that only I was the master of true shred.

Can you imagine, my companion, the grisly work I undertook to bring together this re-re-re-re-reanimated band? The painstaking effort of amassing sections of a team that had not once belonged to a musician I spurned, either with my prudent business acumen or my entirely justified worldview concerning reproduction in less fortunate nations? The raw, unspoiled clay of sonic life was scarce to a fearless iconoclast such as myself. More than once, my research on the freshly-released piece of a well-known supporting musician was dashed on the rocks of the liberal agenda espoused on their social media profiles. The effort was tremendous. I soon wished to procrastinate all that related to my political leanings and affection until my task was done.

It was on a dreary night in January that I beheld the completion of my toils. Collecting the pieces of the band around me, I engaged my supercollider and sought to infuse the spark of life into them, in the hopes that they might be born into this world again. It was already four in the morning, and I’d had too much to drink, when I saw the creatures around me open their yellow eyes, agitate their limbs, and flex the skulls beneath the skin of their faces.

My emotions at this moment were indescribable. Excitement overwhelmed me, and yet my past failures in bringing my band back to life had taught me that savagery, ignorance, and other monstrous traits were often imparted unto these monsters once awoken. Still, I could not mask my joy upon seeing that the experiment had worked. Hastily, I produced the pre-prepared recording contracts that I’d had written up prior to the animation of my new bandmates, and as each sat up from the tables on which they were brought to life I handed them document and pen, so that I might have them legally bound to me immediately.

All of my recently-animated band eyed their contracts warily, pressing their black lips together and furrowing their pale, decayed brows. It was with great trepidation that I watched the Rhythm Guitarist open his mouth and speak, uttering the first words of his new life.

“Whhu…whuu…” moaned the creature.

“Yes?” I asked. “Yes? What is it?”

“Wuuuhait a second,” he said hoarsely. “This royalty breakdown assessment on the second page doesn’t seem right to me.”

“I know, right?” coughed my Drummer. “It’s weird. He can’t be serious.”

“According to this, you get over 90% of the money from the album we’re making together,” said the Rhythm Guitarist, “unless you decide our work is… on par with the excellence of your own?” His wicked, bloodshot eyes flew up and locked with mine. “That’s some bullshit right there, man.”

“I have a question,” said the Bassist, raising a suture-dotted hand.

“And over here, it says that we receive no piece of the merch sales?” snapped my Drummer. “So I can be on a shirt next to… what’s it say here… Vic, but I don’t see a cent if a thousand shirts are sold. Is that right? Because if so, that’s fucked, dude.”

Disappointment crashed over me in a great wave. Once again, my creations were given to barbarous license by their ignorance of my greatness. Did they not owe me their very existences? Was not my genius the only reason that they had movement in their tongues with which to decry this fair deal I had given them? As I began to explain to them that I was their master, that my own gnarled hands crafted them and therefore could at a moment’s notice destroy them, the Rhythm Guitarist sneered and uttered the words that spelled my failure:

“This all seems pretty complicated. I’d like to talk to a lawyer.”

Another catastrophe. While doing my best to assure them that I would summon legal representation at once, I lead them to the incinerator and shoved them in one after the other, my Bassist’s hand still tentatively raised through the entire process. They danced as though they were marionettes in the fire, their screams ringing through the castle like a symphony of destruction.

That night, I lay there sweating bullets, a great malaise settling over me. Yet another band of creations, lost due to their inability to recognize the overwhelming power of my brilliance. My world felt as though it had degenerated into a bleak dystopia. Perhaps Herr Ulrich was right. Perhaps I am doomed to be only a second-tier creator of metal.

But there is hope yet, friend. For some months, I have been corresponding with Adlörr, a hulking yet brilliant and proficient percussionist from the south of our nation. When, at length, I elaborated on my plans to him, he responded with genuine excitement, expressing great appreciation for my previous creations and disappointment that they had been destroyed or dismissed by the ignorant world at large. I will set a date with this man, over cuisine Mexican in nature.

There is hope yet, reader. My cause is not lost. Someone will, I pray, understand the price of peace. It is only a matter of time.