CORPUSPLASTY

When I first saw the subject of the email, I wanted to delete it with the rest of the spam, but there was just something about it that intrigued me.  "Tired of being a fat, ugly nothing?"  Maybe I was crazy, but the line had a flash of refreshing honesty to it.  So I opened it up and began to read.

"Going bald?"

I ran my hand over the top of my head, and I grimaced when I felt more smooth pate than silky hair.

"Too fat?"

My prodigious belly rested gurgling across my lap.

"Bad teeth?"

My teeth had never been straight, but in my old age, a lot of them had fallen out.  I ran my tongue over the ones that remained and wished some of the gaps weren't there.

"Unsightly scars?"

My body was a road map of 'em.  I couldn't stand to even see myself in the mirror.

"Penis too small?"

My guts stirred when I read this part.  For such a large man, I was hung like the joint of a pinkie finger.  I looked at the statue of David with envy.

"Just plain ugly?"

Oh yeah.  No commentary needed here.

I continued to read:  "If so, we can help, and it's so inexpensive you'd be surprised.  We specialize in what we like to call a Corpusplasty (TM), a complete surgical overhaul that will make you the envy of everyone in Hollywood and the world."

I licked my lips.  Anyone who says he doesn't want to be beautiful is a liar.  The idea of a Corpusplasty sounded so appetizing I started thinking about how I was going to finance this thing.  Any plastic surgeon who had to fix me would have his work cut out for him, so I knew it wouldn't be cheap.  Or maybe he'd take one look at me and decide I was a chance for publicity.  Maybe he'd do it for free, in that case.

I needed more information; I scrolled down looking for someone to contact.

"Here at the Victor Frankenstein Institute, we pride ourselves on--"

I paused, and my heart tore at the insides of my chest like a hyena.  After all these years, my creator had finally resurfaced.  I'd given up on him.  I'd stopped hating him for what he'd done to me--I'd even thought he was dead--and here he was, working as a plastic surgeon in Los Angeles.

It all came back.  My insides raged, and my teeth ground so hard some of them cracked, and I could taste their dust on my tongue.  I forced my fists open, distantly noting the bloody crescents in my palms, and I grabbed a pen and paper and took down his number.  Before long, I was on the phone, and a chipper voice said, "Frankenstein Institute.  This is Sharon.  How may we help you?"

I cleared my throat to get the growl out of my voice.  "I'd like to make an appointment . . . ."