BRAIN FOR BRAIN—A
PERFECT MATCH
The ghost of Daniel Patrick Moynahan shook his head sadly. “You heard his speech, Doctor
Frankenstein,” he said. “Isn’t there something you can do for him?
The
Doctor didn’t answer immediately and Moynahan waited patiently, brushing the cobwebs away from the side of his face.
After what seemed an eternity but was actually only five or six minutes, Doctor Frankenstein leaned across his desk, his angular
face shrouded in the shadows cast by a solitary flickering candle. Yes—he had heard the speech…a sad speech…a
bad speech…a really terribly horribly bad speech…one of many from the same source. But this was politics. And
the doctor did not like politics. Who knew when a castle might explode or when a dam might burst or when a bolt of lightning
might shrive the wrong skull? A scalpel might slip... The thought of Pat Buchanan and his hoi polloi
chasing him across a petrified, moon-drenched noir-landscape with pine torches and pitchforks and scythes was, to say the
least, innervating—exciting, but innervating.
The ghost cleared his throat. “He said the Republican Party was pretty much a white Christian
party; he said Tom DeLay should be in jail; he said Republicans never made an honest living in their lives…No matter
how true that might be he should never have said it.”
Frankenstein sighed. “Couldn’t
Bill Frist take care of this?” he asked. “He’s a doctor.”
“Senator
Frist is a heart and lung man,” explained the ghost. “Only you have the necessary expertise for something of this
magnitude; only you know how to connect the electrodes; only you know where to go in Pennsylvania to get the precious metal
that makes the electrodes combastasize.”
“That’s Transylvania,”
corrected Frankenstein.
“You must save the Democratic Party, Doctor Frankenstein,”
begged the ghost. “You must save it from extinction; you must save it from itself; you must save the two-party system.”
“I’m afraid you are expecting too much,” said Frankenstein. Clasping his
hands in front of his face, he peered over the tips of his fingers at the ghost of Daniel Patrick Moynahan. He had no choice
but to drive a hard bargain. “Will you see to it that my electricity is turned on and that my subscription
to Junior Science Quarterly is renewed?”
“Consider it done,”
promised Moynahan,
“Then it is agreed,” said Frankenstein.
The Senator, always a courtly man, bowed and left, dragging a train of cobwebs behind him.
For several minutes the good doctor sat starring at the flickering candle. Combastasize? Was that what
they called it? He hadn’t known. He would have to write that down somewhere…Perhaps things would turn out better
this time. It would be nice to get back into the old routine. Crocheting doilies for lawn chairs, no matter how exhilarating,
was no substitute for sewing stitches in a human skull. And he had all those electrodes lying around doing nothing…time
to do some… combastasizing. It would mean a ridiculously high electricity bill and he had no way of paying
it, but maybe everything would end in the usual explosion and he would be relieved of that worry.
He walked to the door, brushed aside the cobwebs, flung it open. “Ygor!” he called.
“Right here, master,” croaked the hunchback. As usual, Ygor was standing behind
the good doctor.
“Ygor,” announced Frankenstein, “I’m going
to need a brain. See if you can procure a specimen of said item that will be a match for the cranial capacity of the man in
this picture.”
Ygor studied the photo. “I know this man!” he said.
“He plays cards every Tuesday with Jimmy Hoffa.”
Frankenstein sighed. Good
help was hard to get it this line of business. He must call the Howard-Fine-Howard Employment Agency first thing in the morning.
But back to business…“No, Ygor,” he said patiently. “This man does not play cards with Jimmy Hoffa.
This man has never played cards with Jimmy Hoffa. This man is Howard Dean. He plays cards with Michael Moore…Now I
want you to get a brain that will be compatible with his, by that I mean one that will fit in his skull. And I want a good
brain. Do not bring me something that was hanging from a gibbet—understand?
“Oh,
I will bring you a good brain,” promised Ygor. “You will see. And it will be a perfect fit…yes, a perfect
fit.”
“And don’t go
to Iraq,” warned Frankenstein. “You will find numerous good unused brains right here in Washington, DC.”
But Ygor was already gone.
Frankenstein sighed. Now, let’s
see—what comes next? It had been so long…so very, very long. Ah, yes—he would need Mr. Dean. No sense in
sending Ygor for a brain if he had no place to put it. He looked at the picture in his hand—Howard Dean. Ah, yes, he
reached for the phone. “Get me the Asp,” he said.
In seconds the Asp was
on the line.
“Hello, dear Asp,” said the good doctor. “ Frankenstein
here. Sorry to hear about Daddy Warbucks. How is Punjab taking it…I see—It was a shock here too. But I suppose
Annie is old enough to take care of herself. She has all those new friends. How is Mr. Hefner doing? Wouldn’t want anything
to happen to him…I see. Look—I got a job for you and Punjab…That’s right—for you and Punjab.
I would send Ygor but he’s out looking for a brain and he hasn’t been quite right since that last hanging. There
are times when he thinks he’s Marty Feldman…Now, listen, I want you and Punjab to penetrate the Democratic Party
Mausoleum in Washington, DC, and seize for me an individual named Howard Dean and bring him to the mountain scholss…What’s
that? You know Howard Dean? He plays cards every Tuesday with Jimmy Hoffa? You must be mistaken. Jimmy Hoffa is dead…what’s
that? You will bring Hoffa too? No, no, I don’t want Hoffa! Don’t you dare bring him to the scholss! I only want
Howard Dean! You bring Dean here and we’ll work something out…Okay?”
The doctor hung up. Oh, for the good old days. How simple things had been, just him and the hunchback, no AMA
to ask embarrassing questions, no meteorologists to consult about weather conditions, no expensive malpractice insurances
to purchase…and the price of surgical thread these days was mind-boggling. Ah…but he must get the laboratory
ready.
And there in the mountain schloss, amidst the roar of a thousand bowling balls charging across
a leaden sky, pierced by jagged streaks of lightning and showers of cosmic sparks, surrounded by fin de siecle telemetry and
oscillators and Bunsen burners, the deed was done.
Doctor Frankenstein wiped the sweat
from his brow. It had been touch and go for a minute; but, at last, Howard Dean had a new brain. He glanced at the hunchback.
“You did good, Ygor,” he said. “You did good. Now, let us wake the patient and see if he curses the President.”
Yes, it was time for the acid test.
Ygor was ready. He rolled the giant-sized campaign
poster of George W. Bush to the side of the operating table.
Howard Dean opened his eyes,
looked slowly from side to side. Then he saw the giant poster of the President. “What’s that Nazi doing in here?”
he screeched.
Doctor Frankenstein was stunned. “Vas iss loss?” he
cried. “He’s still Howard Dean? How can that be? He has a new brain!”
“What
are you talking about, you stupid Republican quack?’ growled the man on the operating table. “I’m not Howard
Dean. Do I look like Howard Dean? I’m Dennis Kucinich…Hey, are you a registered voter? Are you in favor of the
Woolsey Amendment? You want to trade votes? Know any hot young babes? Single, preferably…Say no to new oil refineries;
say no to oil drilling in the Great Lakes; say no to oil drilling in Alaska…Do you know the words to God Bless
America? How about Yankee Doodle Dandy? Care to join me in a few patriotic arias? GOD BLESS AMERICA…And
they say I’m not patriotic…Hey, I thought I told you to get that Nazi out of here?”
“And he never shuts up either,” said the Asp.
“He was
the original model for the Chatty Kathy doll, sahib,” rumbled Punjab.
“Dennis
Kucinich…Dennis Kucinich…” mumbled an unbelieving Frankenstein. He glared at Ygor. “This is another
fine mess you’ve gotten me into!”
“But it’s a perfect match,
master,” whined Ygor. “You said you wanted a perfect match and I got you a perfect match.”
Frankenstein sighed morosely. “This means Dennis Kucinich is out there somewhere wandering around without
a brain in his head.”
“It could have been worse, Doctor; it could have been
somebody else,” said the Asp. “At least with Kucinich it will be months before anybody realizes his brain is missing.”
