Bride of Frankenstein
Emily had a recurring nightmare.
In it she walked barefoot through an overgrown cemetery, wearing a silk nightgown of a style that was already out of fashion a hundred years ago. Some real Bride of Frankenstein shit. It was a moonless night. Chinese lanterns were strung all through the trees. They cast a soft, reddish glow over the graves.
A cabana bar stood amid the headstones.
The bartender grinned broadly. He offered her a martini glass full of blood. Instead of an olive it had a human eyeball skewered on a toothpick.
Emily backed away from the glass and the grinning bartender, further and further till she fell into an open grave, into the arms of her mother’s mummified corpse. The more she struggled in her dead mother’s grasp the tighter the corpse squeezed, all the while staring her down with empty eye sockets, its jaw twisted into a silent, never-ending scream.
Dead again Number Eleven! the sarge intoned. The sorriest, most pathetic excuse for a death I’ve seen in twenty-nine years of service to Our Great Nation. Except maybe that bag of bones you’re too busy cuddling to keep your fucking head in the game.
Now, back in reality, that voice seemed to follow her through the slum streets, reverberating off concrete block and corrugated metal.
Do you plan to die a snivelling worm or a human being, Number Eleven? Like a soldier or a street-walking junkie? Have some dignity, Number Eleven. Self-re-fucking-spect. Or did you prefer sucking dick full-time?