"Portrait of the artist
as a mad scientist"

by David Lawrence © 2001

It's really amazing, the horrors you can watch and not lose consciousness. Or your lunch.

Here, in my lab, I'm looking at the disintegration of my wife. I'm not sad, really, just horrified. Absolutely disgusted. You'd think I wouldn't be upset if I had done this on purpose. But no, it was an accident, and I'm still fine. A little queasy, but fine.

Oh, there she goes. She was a kind of gelatin - just some blob, crouched over, groaning in anguish. Now she's a puddle, brown and slushy. I may need a mop. Or two. Her clothes remain, of course. Just her biological parts went haywire. And they took a while to transform. She was a tough old coot. Well, not old. Maybe not even a coot. Know what I mean? No, I didn't think you would.

But then who really understands us mad scientists? Not many, I can tell you that. Why am I a mad scientist, you ask? Well that's simple: mad scientists do evil. They just don't care about anyone but themselves and their work. Simple enough, right? You see, I do unholy, immoral experiments. I try to extract the vile, the grotesque, the macabre, the unmentionable in nature. Take my wife. Please.

She was all for helping though. She was a good helper, too, never interjecting her unwanted opinions; never asking too many questions. Maybe that's why I married her. Maybe that's why her parents are dead. They asked too many questions. Ah, the in-laws.

Oh sure, there have been other accidents - ones other than my former wife here. There was that one with the mail-lady. She comes (well, came) everyday at about one-thirty. Our dog always barks at her, just like I taught him. She drops the mail in the slot in the front door and goes about her business.

One day, after inventing a vaporizing ray gun, I thought I'd stand at the front door and wait for the mail-lady. It worked. After I shot her she was nothing but a cloud of black smoke, rising in the air. That was a beautiful day, that day I shot the mail-lady - sunny and warm.

But today? Well, today is not so nice a day. It's January, cold, and not very comfortable here in my basement lab. At least my wife won't mind it. Earlier, I played outside with the dog, throwing snowballs for him to catch. I'd throw the snowball in the backyard, and he'd run and catch it. With all the snow on the ground, he never found any that I threw. Snow has a funny way of disguising white balls of ice, know what I mean?

Well, I suppose I ought to clean up my wife. I'll be sure and sterilize the lab, now that the virus I created is on the loose. Why am I not a steaming, brown puddle, you ask? Well, I modified the virus's genetic code so it can't get me. Little buggers will mutate on you faster than anything, though. There are some that say that virus's are the original living organism, emerging way back when the oceans were organic soup. Kind of like my wife, eh? They'll evolve quickly, so you have to make sure and clean up the mess. Ask our old dog. Well, you can't, he's dead. But you get the idea.

I guess a mad scientist's work is never done. Now I got to get the mop out and clean up the wife-soup. After that, I'll work on some other diabolical invention to create chaos and havoc. Fun stuff, let me tell you. You ought to try it sometime. No?

Don't knock it 'till you try it.

x x x

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