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The Reporter "So, Dr. Stans, what can you tell the viewers of DIY Network about building your very own monster in your basement?" Cub reporter, Dude, extended a recorder. "Well -- uh -- first off -- I didn't build it in the basement. Most of the work was done in my garage. Some of -- let's see -- some of the early selection processes were done at my cousin Melvin's mortuary." "Right. In the garage. What kind of equipment did you use?" "Equipment? Oh, gee. Not much. If I had it to do over again, I'd buy some second-hand meat cutting tools. The old hacksaw and dull hatchet made for some odd looking attachments." Stans flexed his right arm and pointed to the shoulder and elbow. "Here and here, for instance. I sutured him up with twine and pulled everything together, nice and tight. As long as he keeps his shirt on, no one can tell that he was assembled from parts -- well, except for the different colored hands." Dude didn't care a fig for hands. He wanted dirt. D - I - R - T. "What about his other -- uh -- appendages? Will the ladies be happy with him?" Stans hesitated. "Not -- uh -- not so much. I had to leave off the -- appendage. Of all the donor corpsicles, not a single one of those parts survived the initial freezing process." "Ah. You used frozen cadavers?" "Of course. Fresh ones go bad too quickly for scientific use." Stans sighed. "Frozen bodies can be kept for -- oh -- six months -- a year. If anyone else wants to build his own monster, I'd recommend picking up a couple chest freezers. And a good bone saw. You'll need both." A gut-freezing howl shook the house. Dude leaped to his feet. "What the hell was that!" Stans waited until the shriek faded. "That's Donnie. He's not fully accepting of his -- um -- lack of -- you know." Still trembling, Dude sat down. "Wow. He's got quite a set of lungs." "The torso came from a sailor who was used to yelling orders over the howl of wind, the screams of gulls, and so on." "You called the monster Donnie. How did you pick that name?" "Well, the head came from a guy in Cedar Rapids. I knew him before his tragic accident. Since the brain is his, I figured it was easier for all concerned if we kept that name." "How did the poor bastard die?" "It's sort of funny," said Stans with a smirk. "Donnie loved boobs. Big boobs. He sat all day in front of his computer, visiting web sites dedicated to boobs." "Well," Dude shrugged. "Who doesn't like a nice set of boobs?" "No guy I know," agreed Stans. "What got Donnie was a chick on a motorcycle." "She ran over him?" "No. She was wearing a skimpy top. Naturally, Donnie had eyes only for the magnificent hooters and especially the nipples pushing at the thin fabric -- um -- anyway, he walked past the woman, eyes locked on the boobs, and got run down by a train. The boobs -- er, the girl was waiting at a railroad crossing." "He never heard the whistle?" "Evidently not. Donnie was locked on to his target. And, I must admit, the lady had a fine set. I saw her at the inquest." Stans laughed. "Some witnesses, all female, swore that the train crew did not sound the horn. They were eyeballing the lass. None of the men in the area could say one way or the other." Again an awful shriek vibrated the house. Dude eyed the door Stans had pointed to when he mentioned that the actual monster construction took place in his garage. "Um -- is -- Donnie dangerous? You said he was somewhat upset at the way he was assembled." "Not Donnie. Oh, he has a muscular body, legs like tree trunks, and arms corded with rippling muscles, but he's still the same gentle soul he always was." A brawny fist punched through the wall. Dude screeched and fainted. Stans pulled a stubby electric stock prod from a holster at his belt and tapped the emerging arm, eliciting a pained squeak. The fist pulled back. It took several minutes of talk and a shot of whiskey to convince Dude to stay. He perched on the edge of his seat and placed his recorder on the table because his hands were shaking so bad. "I -- ah -- I think I'm almost done here, Dr. Stans." Through the fist-size hole in the wall he heard soft whimpering. "What sort of credentials do you have? I mean, assembling a human body requires some level of knowledge and skill." "Who said all the parts were human?" Stans laughed at the shocked look his remark generated on Dude's face. He didn't notice the sudden silence in the garage. "Just my little joke. As for credentials, why I have none worth discussing. I play a dentist on the internet, but beyond a small vocabulary of medical words, I'm just like hundreds of other DIY-types out there. But, give me a decent set of instructions -- videos help -- and I can accomplish wonders. Like completing a perfectly adequate root canal. Or sewing a man together from miscellaneous parts." "That's the stuff, Doc!" Dude grabbed his recorder and made for the door. He had noticed the lack of sound in the garage. "I'll just be on my way." "Hey!" cried Stans. "I thought we might have lunch. Lots of parts left over, you know. Wait! Okay. I'm kidding about the parts. I mean, there are a good many, but it would be very unethical to eat them. Unsafe, too. None have been USDA inspected." Dude finished vomiting and ran for his car. So rattled was he that he took off without fastening his seat belt. A lurking RCMP officer nailed him two blocks later and issued him a ticket. To make matters worse, the cub reporter was so nervous, sweating and shaking, that he was transported to the local police facility for a complete test sequence. Fortunately, no controlled substances were found in his system and only a small amount of booze. He avoided re-education camp and was sentenced to six months mandatory intervention analysis where his duties as an adult Canadian citizen were burned into his brain by way of constant repetition and a few waterboard sessions. Stans, meanwhile, ambled out to the garage. His creation sat in a corner, sulking. "What part of me came from an animal?" "You heard that? Never mind. I was just joking with the reporter." Donnie's glare contained a liberal dose of suspicion. "When are you going to replace this rubber thing with a real one?" He flexed bulging biceps. "I've got everything the ladies want -- except for the most important part." "Take it easy. I told you, those things freezer burn in a New York minute. I'm working on the problem." "You've given me that excuse for three months and I'm still peeing through a rubber hose." "It's not rubber. I've told you. It's a man-made fiber and damned expensive. You should be grateful." "Right. Grateful." The monster lurched to his feet. "I oughta grateful your head against the ceiling a few times." He walked forward, swaying, almost stumbling. "You still having balance problems?" Stans ignored the man mountain's threats. "I can't understand why your walking hasn't improved. Have you been practicing?" Donnie stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor. "All the time. I've also been eating nothing but that slop you insisted on. No burgers or fries. No ice cream. No Twinkies." A sob escaped the brute. "No Twinkies." "You said that twice. Twinkies are bad for you." "Everything is bad for me, according to you. I'm going to waste away to a skeleton. A skeleton with a man-made fiber tube sewn into its middle. I'll be a mystery to modern science." "Donnie, you sound like a child." Stans heaved a sigh. "I'll stock up on some veggie burgers and some low-cal ice cream." "Jeez, Stans. I am only six months old. Less, if you count from when you stitched my left arm on." Donnie sat down in his corner. "Veggie burgers? What kind of cow do they get those from?" "Cows fed a lot of ferns or carrot tops, I suppose. I'll contact cousin Melvin and see if we can come up with something for your other problem." Stans got ready to leave. "Make sure you practice your walking. Use the treadmill. That's what I got it for." "I fall off it all the time," mumbled Donnie. "Keep at it. Sooner or later, you'll quit falling off." "Yeah. When I kill myself by bashing my head in." "For crying out loud. It's like talking to a teenager." Stans went out, slamming the door behind him. Donnie flashed a finger sign at the door. "Teenager? That's not bad for a six month old monster." Instead of practicing on the treadmill, he fired up his laptop. His home page was the Daily Pair at Boobs-R-Us. Stans would have despaired at seeing that the adage was true. You can take the Donnie out of his body, but you can't take the boobaholic out of Donnie. The Psychologist "Zo," Dr. Rommel steepled his fingers and eyed the pair seated across his desk with a certain degree of disdain. "Zo, you built ein monzter out of corpzikle partz unt now you find das creation has -- how you zay? -- mental problemz?" "His name is Donnie," replied Stans. "And, no, he hasn't shown any sign of craziness -- the brain came from a body addicted to enormous boobs and that hasn't changed, but he was always harmless. The problem is that he walks funny." "Zis Donnie does not roam das streetz terrorizing women unt kinder? He has not been chazed by mobs bearing farm implementz unt torchez?" "No. None of that. He mostly sits in the garage eating ice cream -- low-cal, of course -- and works out on his treadmill. But he keeps falling off. I wondered if the problem might be mental." "Mental? Zis monzter vas built of rezycled parts unt stiched togezzer mit twine -- unt you think zee problem might be mental?" "Look, doc, I used only fresh frozen parts -- nothing smelling bad or anything with mold on it. I also bought first-quality baling twine and used an ultra-sharp sailmaker's needle. I tell you the problem isn't physical." "Zo you zay." Dr. Rommel adjusted the patch covering his right eye. "Vell, vee muzt adminizter zum tests" He got to his feet. "Walk zis vay." Cackling at his own wit, the psychologist lurched and stumbled toward a door at the back of his office. Stans prodded Donnie to his feet. "Follow the doc. Pay no attention to his little joke." "That's okay," said the monster. "He didn't get it right anyhow." Two hours later they were back at the desk. Dr. Rommel scanned a computer printout. "I can find nozzink to account for hiz odd valk. Zat zee lad haz problemz ist obviouz. No matter vat shape or word I dizplayed he alvays rezponded mit ein word, "Boobs". Zis indicatez a definite boob fixation. Mozt true Nazis had zee zame fixation." "We've always known that," said Stans. "I mean about Donnie. Even back when he was his old self he thought about nothing much but boobs." Rommel adjusted the patch, now covering his left eye. "Vee come back to conztruction processez unt materialz. Have him checked out head to toe. X-rays, MRI, zee whole ball of wax." "Sheesh." Stans slumped in his chair. "I can't afford that." "But zere ist our Dear Leaderz univerzal health care. Zey vill pay zee costs." "Wrong, doc. Obamacare doesn't cover monsters." Rommel shrugged. "Vell, zen. You are out of luck. Be zure unt pay your bill on zee vay out." He touched a comm button. "Heidi, don't let zeeze two ezcape mit out payink." "Jawohl, herr doktor." The doctor ushered the pair to the door. "Out. Out. I can't get rich zeeing poor zmuckz like you." "We're going. We're going." Stans winced as Donnie lurched against the door frame, taking out a portion of the frame and wall. The monster grinned at his builder and kept shambling. Stans hurried out ahead of him, trying to keep property damage to a minimum. "Zey didn't pay, doktor." Heidi stood behind her desk and straightened her official reichswoman uniform, which accentuated her breasts and ended well above her knees. "Vat do you vant me to do? Have zem shot?" "No, liebchen. Zis ist not ein old country. Ve muzt badger zem mit letters unt threatz unt send brawny bill collectorz to beat our money out of zem." Rommel tucked the eye patch into a pocket and smiled benevolently. "Vee can alzo bill zem for attorniez unt zee bill collectoz. It ist ein vin-vin zituation." "Oh, doktor," murmured Heidi. "Vee haf no more patientz until zis afternoon." "Hah!" Rommel took her arm and headed for the back, through his mangled office door. "Zere ist ein old rock unt roll zong zat zayz it bezt: 'Girl, you know vat I like'." The Mechanic