Mrs. Frankentrump stitched her son together from an assortment of parts she had scavenged while on her rounds collecting coins from the laundry machines that her husband owned in the family’s outer-borough apartment buildings.
The thought of building a son was a tantalizing idea to Mrs. Frankentrump, as Mr. Frankentrump seldom crossed paths with her. Large real estate deals were his only desire lately.
She purposely made her collections at night, steering her Rolls-Royce through the dimly lit outer boroughs.
She had paid enormous sums of cash to shady morticians and a few corrupt medical examiners. They always had a chilled selection of parts for her to choose from when she stopped by.
Slim Pickens, though, the week she needed to find feet for her son. The only pair available was from a deceased Rodeo Cowboy.
A rodeo was a rare event in the boroughs. So, when one came to the fairground located on property her husband had developed, Mrs. Frankentrump could not resist going.
The cowboy had been thrown from his horse and while getting up was crushed against a wall.
Ironically that very same wall had been built by Mexican laborers hired by Mr. Frankentrump the summer before.
The cowboy’s feet came with spurs.
The head and brain came last. The head came from a boy that had been in a tragic accident on Halloween night.
A large pumpkin had plummeted seven stories from the balcony of one of Frankentrumps apartment buildings.
It landed directly on the head of a teenager below. He was snorting Adderall at the time and probably didn’t feel a thing.
The top of his head was totally crushed in; however, she thought it was still an excellent choice for he had nice facial features.
It was only much later in life, that her stitched together son, Donny as he would be named, discovered the answer to a deeply personal question.
The impact of that giant orange pumpkin had permanently fused DNA into the epidermis of his head.
At last, two brains became available and Mrs. Frankentrump would finally be able to stitch her son’s remaining parts together.
Excitement welled up in her as she approached her car carrying the two jars each containing a brain. She would now be able to choose the better of the two for her son.
She trembled, as her motherly endeavor neared its completion. As she was loading her car one jar slipped from her arms, splattering its contents at her feet. Now only one remained.
The handwritten name on the jar was mostly illegible. It appeared that the brain had belonged to a person named Abby Normel.
