In the middle of the stage, dressed in the breath of dry ice fog and laser laced face stitches; Frankenstein rose from the floor with a white Rickenbacker 360 in his right hand plugged up in his exposed heart beating faster than a Neal Peart string of acid laced triplets and all amped up to a pair of Fender ’65 Deluxe Reverbs dangling from his decaying ear lobes. Blood dripped from Frank’s fingers as he slashed chords. The “Stein” screamed lyrics that sliced his lips as the crowd of 25, 435 bald scientists in white lab coats, all snorting coke, and drinking strawberry Kool-Aid held lab burners in the air chanting FRANK – EN – STEIN, FRANK – EN – STEIN, FRANK – EN – STEIN.
Sud-den-ly to most, and in slow motion to the science nerds on quaaludes, Frankenstein collapsed and registered a 9.0 Richter Scale earthquake that preceded a Mount St. Helen resurrection on the stage that left nothing but the fading sound of sizzling crack pipes. Frankenstein was dead along with all of scientists who created him.
It was such a waste of a fine guitar and amps.
Damn the scientists!