This much is written. The words that form Frankenstein’s monster will break out of the page in a fit of lyrical magic and coallesce to reform the monster in the real world. The magician to make this happen, coincidentally a man by the last name of Frankenstein, will be found dead with a note written in blood on his chest, upside down, saying: ‘IT’S ALIVE!’
The monster will rampage through Western Europe, accosting blind old men and forcing them to engage in verbal intercourse with him. He will battle with his sense of humanity, falling in with a theatrical company from London, discovering oration, sex, and aimless malice.
He will hunt down an errant critic, string her up by her tongue, explaining to her the struggles of an actor. His speech, reproduced by him in court for the benefit of national television, will gain him a reprieve in the form of a reduced sentence. His autobiography will sell in millions, aided by his melancholic face looking at the reader from the cover.
He will retire to the countryside after serving his sentence and selling movie rights, and he will live out the rest of his existence in the shade of gardening controversies and accusations with respect to gravedigging. He would be a detective, but for the fact that he will not smoke opium and will generally be derisive of the police.