Christ! The waiting was unbearable. No, I don't mean the two days in bandages, one week in stitches, or requisite two to four weeks in the isolation wing of this Hilton-like recovery wing of the Clinic.

I mean the years, and decades, and finally centuries, most of the last spent frozen in a glacier in the Arctic wastes. And the bitch of that was I was fully conscious the whole time. Imagine eternity with no TV, Cable, DVD's, or FM Radio. Yah. It nearly drove me nuts.

Oh Christ the itching! Its overpowering, especially around the perimeter of my scalp and either side of my neck. But I obey the Doctor's orders. Vickie French, M.D. knows her stuff and I forced my hands down to my sides. I will not scratch I will not scratch I will not...

And finally that ice core expedition which spotted me. Boy were they pissed off. Figured they'd found some archeological treasure, possibly a new Kennewick Man! One which would be undisputed! But no. Just an overly large corpse dressed in mid 19th century merchantman attire. Then, of course, I started moving, and all hell broke loose.

Doctor Vickie, she liked it when I called her that, came in today to examine her handiwork. I could tell she was proud. The stitches had been removed long ago, and she was amazed at the healing and lack of keloid deposits near any of the hard to see surgical incisions. Scar tissue was at an unheard of minimum. Also, while I got dressed to meet with the reporters, I found Dr. Vickie looking at me sideways in a manner I had not experienced in...well...ever.

After the initial hysteria I sat down with the leader of the ice core drill team, one Lantha Krishnasanti, and proceeded to tell my story. To my amazement she was fascinated with my origin, subsequent adventures, and, until recently, my almost Byronic demise. She had a hard time looking me directly in the eyes, something I was used to from days gone by, but I could tell she was more than a little impressed by my physical attributes and mental acumen. Did I forget to mention I have a photographic memory, mastery of over three dozen languages, and encyclopedic knowlege of, well, every page of every encyclopedia which existed at the time of my dramatic demise?

We approached the front of the clinic and the waiting podium. One thousand reporters and camerapersons dashed up the steps to surround us. For a moment I had a flashback to a time when a similar crowd had appeared in my presence, but with devices and objects in their hands far more lethal than your average beta cam or pocket recorder. Dr. Vickie's possessive and finely manicured hand latched on to my right forearm in support and my two hearts calmed down. She began her introduction.

The journey from the arctic to the Harbor of New York City aboard The Friendly Iceman was a pleasant enough journey. My abnormal strength and no need for ever sleeping made me a mainstay among the hardworking crew, especially after I saved the lives of four men who had almost gotten thrown overboard during a surprise sea squall. And as for Lantha, well, we conducted our own private studies into my, ummmm...anatomy, and its viability after all these many years...and I believe I passed all of her, many, um, tests.

Finishing up, Dr. Vickie turned, and beamed up at me proudly. The reporters all leaned forward, anticipation written all over their faces. I coughed a couple of times to clear my throat.

"It would appear" I began in my perfectly tailored baritone British accent. "That my esteemed Doctor's recent excursions into the unknown reaches of reconstructive surgery have met with some success."

The response to this was a chorus of laughter that brought a smile to even my face.

Reporters started shouting out questions.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Professional wrestling?!"

"Star in movies?!"

"Run for Governor!?"

I raised my massive hand and all went silent.

"I believe" my voice resonated through everyone and everything. "I believe I'd like to claim my rightful title."

Looks of outright confusion flashed across everyone's faces, even that of the esteemed Dr. Vickie.

"Frankie" She hissed. "What are you talking about? We did not discuss this with the planning board last night."

Ignoring my lovely Doctor's minor outburst I leaned down to the podium microphone for the last time.

"Until this moment, my lineage has always been somewhat nondescript. I would now like to, what is the popular slang, set things straight. My father was, for all intents and purposes, Dr. Victor Von Frankenstein, and, unbeknownst to the world at large, he was actually of British Birth, the first and forgotten son of Prince Augustus of Great Britain, Duke of Sussex, who was the son of King George III and Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz."

"Wait!" Vickie began. "Are you say..."

"And so." I finished. "My claim to the throne of England is obviously a factual and legally binding one. I wish you all well. Cheers!"

And taking up my shouting and soon to be bride in my arms, I struggled through the crowd toward my waiting limo. Flashbulbs popped everywhere, but I was wearing polarized lens sunglasses and took barely a notice.

As my car service came into view, I gave my biggest grin to the mob, knowing my smooth tanned skin, thick head of curly black hair, perfect white teeth, and freakishly good looks would soon be charming women everywhere.

"Prince William," I thought smugly while looking directly into one camera's eye. "Eat your heart out."