Steven Hunley
07-12-2013, 02:34 PM
Frankenstein Prepares the Monster's Mix
The first thing he did was spoon the powder from the one large bag to many smaller seal-top bags that would be placed in the blocks. Then he’d prepare the resin filler.
This required concentration. Mixing the chemicals would be a one-time shot. If he made a mistake nothing could be redone or replaced. It wasn't as if here, in a small frontier town in Bolivia, he could run to the nearest hardware store and ask them for supplies to make surf-boards. If the resin didn’t get hard enough, it couldn’t be remixed. If it got too hard it would heat up too much and melt the bags, ruining the product.
He laid everything out on the dresser. The cups, resin, catalyst, color, lead, aluminum flakes and popsicle sticks for mixing. When everything was there and in order he started to mix the mix.
It was time for the one-time shot.
Outside a tropical storm crept nearer. Forked and flash lightning and thunder filled the sky. He mixed the chemicals, measured the amounts with precision and stuffed the coke into the blocks.
He needed somewhere to put the blocks, somewhere flat. The dresser was taken up. So he placed his American Tourister on the bed since it was almost flat. He poured the resin in, and waited for the results. Now came the waiting. It is the waiting that kills. Would it get hot, just hot enough? Or would it get too hot? He stepped away and tried to wait but anxiety was no friend to Dude. He was no good at waiting.
Outside the sliding glass door to the balcony black inky thunderclouds like Sudanese elephants pushed their way forward, crowding the sky. Then came streaks of forked lighting followed so closely by thunder it sounded like a stampede of canon fire. The glass of the windows began to shake violently with their report. And it was hot, steamin hot. He wiped his brow. When he saw the sweat on his fingers it hit him.
The ambient temperature in the room might throw the whole thing off! It was hotter here than in San Diego. He didn’t know and had to find out.
He approached the bed with reverence, the suitcase stacked on top like an alter designed by American Tourister. He reached for the block to check its temperature. Lightning flashed through the window flooding the room with white light just as his finger tip touched the block. It was more than just warmth.
It was the spark of creation.
“It’s alive,” he whimpered like a dog and drew back his finger.
He turned away. His breathing became irregular. He spoke the magic Collin Clive words again, “It’s alive!”
Then his hands became nervous shaking hands, yes, that’s what they were, and he didn’t know what to do with them or with himself for that matter. Then there were the rays, the ultra violet rays! The smell of the ether and cooking resin permeated the room like a laboratory. He couldn’t stand breathing the suffocating toxic vapors. Grabbing the handle to the sliding glass door and the storm without, he threw it open.
Serious thunder boomed like a howitzer, forked lightning slashed and tore at the clouds rending them asunder. Savage rivulets of rain ran in torrents down his face and crept down his body like an anaconda.
He faced the seething sky and announced to the heavens just as the lightning struck,
“It’s alive!” he petitioned the Gods of Thunder and Lightning, “Alive!”
He liked being a dramatic fool at times, Dude did.
Then he said, “Frankenstein’s got nothing on me,” and calmly walked back inside.
He fell to the floor laughing, and rolled over on his back and tilted his head until he could see out the window. The clouds rushed past. The lightning appeared smaller and more distant. The interval between the thunder and lightning grew longer indicating the storm was heading away.
The worst was over.
http://youtu.be/8H3dFh6GA-A Frankenstein 1931
The first thing he did was spoon the powder from the one large bag to many smaller seal-top bags that would be placed in the blocks. Then he’d prepare the resin filler.
This required concentration. Mixing the chemicals would be a one-time shot. If he made a mistake nothing could be redone or replaced. It wasn't as if here, in a small frontier town in Bolivia, he could run to the nearest hardware store and ask them for supplies to make surf-boards. If the resin didn’t get hard enough, it couldn’t be remixed. If it got too hard it would heat up too much and melt the bags, ruining the product.
He laid everything out on the dresser. The cups, resin, catalyst, color, lead, aluminum flakes and popsicle sticks for mixing. When everything was there and in order he started to mix the mix.
It was time for the one-time shot.
Outside a tropical storm crept nearer. Forked and flash lightning and thunder filled the sky. He mixed the chemicals, measured the amounts with precision and stuffed the coke into the blocks.
He needed somewhere to put the blocks, somewhere flat. The dresser was taken up. So he placed his American Tourister on the bed since it was almost flat. He poured the resin in, and waited for the results. Now came the waiting. It is the waiting that kills. Would it get hot, just hot enough? Or would it get too hot? He stepped away and tried to wait but anxiety was no friend to Dude. He was no good at waiting.
Outside the sliding glass door to the balcony black inky thunderclouds like Sudanese elephants pushed their way forward, crowding the sky. Then came streaks of forked lighting followed so closely by thunder it sounded like a stampede of canon fire. The glass of the windows began to shake violently with their report. And it was hot, steamin hot. He wiped his brow. When he saw the sweat on his fingers it hit him.
The ambient temperature in the room might throw the whole thing off! It was hotter here than in San Diego. He didn’t know and had to find out.
He approached the bed with reverence, the suitcase stacked on top like an alter designed by American Tourister. He reached for the block to check its temperature. Lightning flashed through the window flooding the room with white light just as his finger tip touched the block. It was more than just warmth.
It was the spark of creation.
“It’s alive,” he whimpered like a dog and drew back his finger.
He turned away. His breathing became irregular. He spoke the magic Collin Clive words again, “It’s alive!”
Then his hands became nervous shaking hands, yes, that’s what they were, and he didn’t know what to do with them or with himself for that matter. Then there were the rays, the ultra violet rays! The smell of the ether and cooking resin permeated the room like a laboratory. He couldn’t stand breathing the suffocating toxic vapors. Grabbing the handle to the sliding glass door and the storm without, he threw it open.
Serious thunder boomed like a howitzer, forked lightning slashed and tore at the clouds rending them asunder. Savage rivulets of rain ran in torrents down his face and crept down his body like an anaconda.
He faced the seething sky and announced to the heavens just as the lightning struck,
“It’s alive!” he petitioned the Gods of Thunder and Lightning, “Alive!”
He liked being a dramatic fool at times, Dude did.
Then he said, “Frankenstein’s got nothing on me,” and calmly walked back inside.
He fell to the floor laughing, and rolled over on his back and tilted his head until he could see out the window. The clouds rushed past. The lightning appeared smaller and more distant. The interval between the thunder and lightning grew longer indicating the storm was heading away.
The worst was over.
http://youtu.be/8H3dFh6GA-A Frankenstein 1931