Parenting a fragile-by-perceptive little girl and parenting a bellowing, homicidal, oafish psychopath weighing nearly twenty stone are, I have learned, experiences necessitating two somewhat distinct skill sets.

The experiment went of its own accord, keeping my mind where it is, thank you, but still providing the Promethean spark to Doctor Lang’s gibbering monstrosity.  He came to life and his education was going swimmingly until Doctor Hoffman made the questionable choice of stabbing him without warning.

This is a decision that could have benefitted from more thorough deliberation.  I am unsure as to how to disassemble the bellowing behemoth, but I assume the seams might provide some sort of ready access.

Careful notation must be made of his pungent aromas, for there are many.

My naturally occurring musk of rosemary and bay rum remains unique… as does my humanity.  Today, I face the sunrise with no fear.  Somehow, the authorship of this abomination has drained away my condition, perhaps allowing me other abilities that will soon manifest themselves.

I wonder if Lang’s Progeny (let me call him “The Lad”) is stirring from his chemical catnap.

Barnabas, old boy, you’ll show Angelique the way of the world, yet!



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