DISCO FRANKENSTEIN

DISCO FRANKENSTEIN

By Sam Drog

Back in the 70s, and not many people know this story, so I’m telling it to you now, but I totally realize that you may not believe me. You can go back and check these facts, but you probably won't find much. Sure, disco was a thing. And yes, Frankenstein may pull up 100 bad movies on IMDb. But the connection, only a few know the connection.

You can laugh if you want, I’m just repeating what I heard one night in 1998 while sitting at the Waffle House.

The drag queen had a thick Eastern European accent.  Like what you would think of as Romanian if you weren’t sure where they were from. This was 3 am. I was an insomniac 20-year-old with a love for solitude and Waffle House coffee. The waitress would set a pot at my table, and I would give her five dollars and drink it down over the next two, three hours as I worked on my great American novel, which is, as of now, still unfinished.

But anyway, let's stick with the queen. Three booths down, she was holding court to a gaggle of club kids and an old tramp they had picked up to give a meal to. He had no interest in the story she was singing out. He kept face down, staring transfixed into his chili as if it was a wishing pool and that he could see his future materializing there in the greasy beans. The queen was going on and on about the good old days.

She was from Romania. I was right! Her sleepy village lay right at the steps of the Carpathian Mountains. This was back in the 1970s, and the queen, Madame Buttergrind, she revealed herself as, was trapped in a town that was stuck in the 1570s. That all changed when she opened the first all-night discotek in Romania.

This was a very dangerous thing to do. The Soviets still controlled the area, and any western influence was strictly prohibited. Buttergrind could get a bullet to the head if she was discovered. She would have to be tricky. The sign outside the club said "The Carpatian Re-education Center." But inside was something else altogether.

Inside, the world got crazy, Donna Summers got loud, and the townspeople, especially the younger ones, traded in their farm clothes for polyester one night each week. Saturday night became the one night they looked forward to.

It was tough though, Buttergrind couldn’t deny that. She always had to look over her shoulder. It would only take one squealer to send the iron fist down on top of them. But she felt like she was doing a public service. Even the old-timers had started to come in on Saturday night, dancing until dawn. The valley surrounding them echoed for the first time with The Bee Gees, The Village People, and Sister Sledge. And somewhere, deep in those towering shadows, someone was hiding, and someone was listening, and they made themselves known one special night.

On the last night of the month, The Carpathian Re-education Center held a dance competition and the winner would win a golden crown and reign as king for 30 days, after which they would have to defend it against a swarm of competitors. For the last 3 months, Yergi Clompovich, the town’s blacksmith, was king. No one could beat him. No one, until a tall, dark, and gruesome stranger came stomping in on that night, October 31st, 1979. You won't find it in any history books, the Soviets saw to that, but that night was nothing if not historical.

The gruesome guy, a first-time visitor to the club,  was not human. He was humans. Stitched together. Parts from many making one. But, my god could this beast dance.

Yergi lost his crown to this towering inferno of moves and grooves as, appropriately,  Le Freak by Chic blared over the speakers. Yergi could not keep up. The beast was unstoppable, drawing strength from the sounds The bolts on his neck cracking with raw electricity. At one point, he jumped into the air, did a triple somersault, then crashed down onto his back, knocking the needle off the record and sending the place into shocked silence.

Frankenstein, come on, you know who it was, let out one of those famous howls and, ninja-like, lept back to his feet, the music got back on beat, and three maidens fainted in ecstasy.

Yergi, the humble blacksmith, gave the crown over that night, though truth be told, it was way too small for Frankenstein's square head and had to be hammered into place. People cheered. It looked like the night would never end, but, unfortunately…

x

"My coffee is cold,"  Madame Buttergrind said. Her face changed, sagged down and I could see the years come crashing back, with the lines under her fake lashes and the hanging jowls she hid under the black boa. Something happened next that still haunted her. Someone had ratted them out. The KGB had eyes and ears everywhere.

Moments after 4 am, seconds after the crowning of the new king, the army showed up. Two dozen men, armed with machine guns, murder in their eyes, flooded into the club. The villagers were beaten.  Buttergrind tried to stop them, but was given the stock of a rifle to her face and was out cold. Frankenstein, King of Disco, saw all his new friends being rounded up and pushed outside for the firing squad.

These were his friends, his first friends, the only people who had ever accepted him. He couldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t let this happen.

This party wasn’t over.

Buttergrind was awoken by screams, blood-curdling screams of men losing their minds to terror. There was The King, ripping arms from their sockets, taking bullets to the chest and not even wincing. The bolts on his neck glowing red. He lifted one solder high over his head and ripped him in half. Blood and entrails splashed down over his crown and onto the dance floor. Soldiers too scared to run were slaughtered. Those that did run, were shot by the officers hiding outside in their jeeps.

The club was silent again, the skipping end of the last record was the only sound. The King helped up Madame Buttergrind and she hugged him so hard that even he had to gasp. But now, outside, villagers screamed, and the rattling sounds of heavy machinery were growing louder. The King and Buttergrind stormed out the front door and were met by a tank turret pointed right at them.

Across the street, the commander of this red brigade, poking his scared face out of the tank, screamed the order to fire. The King grabbed Buttergrind and lept out of the way just as a massive shell fired into the front of the disco.

Detonation!

The building, an old stable, was obliterated in a cloud of fire and smoke. The villagers ran. Buttergrind screamed and wept.

But the King had nothing but murder on his brown and blue eyes. He rose from the mud and approached the tank. The commander, his eyes wide with fear ducked down into the steel machine and locked the porthole. Inside, he screamed to reload and blow the approaching monster to kingdom come.

Frankenstein picked up speed and grabbed the turret, and with an excruciating display of raw power, bent the barrel up to a 90-degree angle. Seconds later, the fools fired the cannon.

Shrapnel filled the cabin. Fire spread quickly, cooking the shredded bodies off all that were inside, including the commander. His blood sizzled over the hot metal.

The check was due.

The tramp had finished his chili and there wasn't much story left. The club kids were speechless. Madame Buttergrind sighed.

On that long-ago morning, The King returned to the mountains and was never seen again. Though some say, on quiet October nights, deep in the darkest regions of the Carpathians, if you are still, and silent, you can hear the far away echos of Le Freak throughout the valley.

Buttergrind paid her check and went to the ladies room. The club kids jumped into their orange and green van. The tramp wandered off into the darkness. After a moment, she came back out and saw me looking. She smiled at me, “Good night Frankenstein”.

I growled back, “Gooooood niiiiight.”

And with that, Madame Buttergrind jumped into the van with her adoring children and tore away down Hwy 54.

The End

FIGHT EVIL
Sam Drog

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