Prologue 1 - The Scientist I've lived in this house all my life. So did my father, and his father before that. Hell, since Granpappy developed a decent cloning technique, I'm sure there'll be a long line of Dr Steve's living here. Of course, my lab is parsecs ahead of anything my old relatives might have used - no reason to stick with primitive equipment. Anyway, it's always been a nice quiet neighbourhood. You can't really get away with the kinds of infernal experiments I do if there's kids playing out front or housewives dropping over with cakes and stuff. I like my privacy, and I get plenty of it here. Privacy, however, is a two-edged sword. I was out walking, giving Frank a little air. Frank is my "monster", although I wouldn't really call him that myself. People are so quick to stereotype. Frank is one of the living dead, and one of the nice ones, too. Sure, he eats brains - I mean he is a zombie after all. But he's also very helpful, especially around the house. But I digress... We were out getting some air and I decided to let Frank have a run, and give some of the local kids down the park a bit of fun. There's nothing like seeing the giddy look of fear in a child's eyes as they run for their life. The fat ones are especially amusing, as they see their compatriots scampering off to safety whilst their own chubby little legs seem to be condemning them to a grisly end. Frank never catches them, of course. You never eat the breeding stock before they've mated, after all. After a bit of this Frank starts to tire, so we head down to the pond to sit and feed the ducks. I've got a few bags of my special duck feed, and we have a few laughs as the bio-mutagens kick in. Some people might think this is cruel, but there's nothing like seeing a fight between two enraged males as they lash each other with their razor-sharp tentacle-spines. This particular seat by the pond is back-to-back with another, which was currently occupied by a couple of old ladies. They were twittering on about "our Jackie just had another son" and such dribble, and I was pretty much just tuning it out. Frank was grumbling a bit, what with these old girls being way past breeding age and just a waste of good brains, when they hit upon a subject that interested me. "Ooo, I don't let young Paul ride his bike near that place - there's some 'orrible sounds come out of there." "I know what you mean, dear. Our Jessy is well scared of that creepy old house. And rightly so." Why these women spoke with broad English accents is anyone's guess, but I was interested in the topic. You see, I take great professional pride in my work and like to hear that I'm maintaining the expected atmosphere around a mad scientist's abode. "It's a right pain in the arse, 'scuse my French, as we have to avoid the top of Groyn Lane in order to get to the shops. Flippin' well adds 10 minutes to the journey!" What!? The top of Groyn Lane? That's nowhere near my place! The last time I was there it was just an overgrown field that smelt like an orangutan's posing-pouch. Who the devil were they talking about? This required immediate investigation if I didn't want to lose my reputation as, as the newspaper put it, "local crazy man." A brisk walk had me approaching the top of Groyn Lane in no time, with Frank shambling behind. Nothing had changed - it was still an overgrown dumping ground for deceased motor vehicles and defunct medical equipment. Oh wait, what's that on the other side of the road? I had to know more about this person. This usurper of my hard-won position. This fiend. If anyone was going to be scaring the kiddies around here, it was going to be me and Frank. I decided to creep up to one of the downstairs windows around the back and peer in, hoping to catch a glimpse of my adversary. I noticed a steaming heap of metal off in the distance but didn't give it much thought - I had more pressing matters on my mind! The grime on the window was deep, and I had trouble seeing anything at all. I must admit, his attention to detail was excellent - a lesser man would perhaps not have bothered aging his fenestral furnishings. The interior was dark, dank, and stuffed with mysterious crates and jars of pickled snakes. This guy had done his homework, damn him. Then a movement caught my eye and my adversary made his entrance into the room. I couldn't make out his face, it was too dark for that. However, he was moving towards some of the light that was fitfully streaming through the windows and soon his visage would be revealed. Just then Frank starts tugging my sleeve and urrrrgh'ing. Frank and I get a quick glimpse of the stranger as he passes through a shaft of light before we turn from the window. It seems Frank has smelt something out in the trees and it's probably best not to dally here for too long. We scan the treeline for movement but whatever it is, it's too well hidden or has already gone. It matters not, for we have all the information we need to discover the identity of this miscreant of science. Back at my home I log onto the MadScientist magazine database. As a subscriber (which I heartily recommend) you get access to all sorts of useful information, including the current list of active fringe scientists. Thanks to Frank's photographic memory we merely query the database and see who drops out. I get a free subscription, what with being an active contributor to the magazine. If you've ever checked out an issue of MadScientist, you've probably read some of my work. Thankfully the front-end to this part of the database is a simple multiple-choice question set. You know, "pick the hair colour", "how many artificial limbs does he have", "is his head the original one he started with" - that sort of thing. Frank's speech centre isn't much beyond grunting, so I just get him to moan when the mouse is over the right answer. He can play the ass off of Half-Life on the PC, but stuff like this tends to bore him. Anyway, after a bit of churning we get down to several candidates and simply pick the one who looks like our man. Urrgh. Chad Spankett - young, "cool", and American. Don't get me wrong - nothing wrong with those crazy Yanks. It's just that when the young "hip" scientist stereotype comes to life it gets a bit much. At least he's not wearing a cowboy hat. I just hope he has the sense to wear trousers. So, I know the name and appearance of my enemy, and the location of his refuge. All that needs to be done now is to confront the scoundrel and let him know who the big man is on this campus. -back-