The Modern Mephisto
Lightning flared across the sky, and Mephisto’s plan was rapidly approaching its glorious end. On a wooden slab behind him lay his most precious creation yet, one clockwork brain and five million volts away from perfection.
He fished the brain out of a large glass jar, right as a wave of thunder broke against the tower roof. The brain had been marinading for a month now in a sticky grey soup that was one part grease of the virgin, one part chimpanzee milk, and two parts kale. He’d prefer to leave it soak another month, but the sudden storm demanded he move his timetable up to tonight.
With great care, Mephisto carried the brain to the wooden slab and introduced it to his magnum opus. She lay there as if asleep, not quite alive but not wholly dead. Her clammy skin was a patchwork sewn from the hides of lamb and terrier, her nails the calcified scab of congealed basilisk drool, her eyes lifted straight from the collection of hell’s most tasteful optometrist. He’d spent three nights sneaking into the homes of village women and shaving them bald before he’d been happy with her fiery mane. And finally the nipples; they were rated at 50 quarts per minute, with flick settings for spray, stream, and mist.
But it all paled in comparison to the brain. What a clockwork beauty it was. There was a rumour going around that Mephisto was superficial when it came to women, that he should be interested in a lady’s intelligence as much as her banging body. He now saw that a woman’s mind could be beautiful too - if a man made it. He’d often had to take extended breaks when tweaking the gears or tightening a clasp to beat down an unruly erection, but he considered that a necessary chore of the job.
Even now, on the precipice of his finest hour, he felt the familiar bulge in his slacks. He’d be able to deal with it soon enough, once she was born into the world, so for now he staved it off with thoughts of orcish poetry and duckface. He chafed to be rid of temptation, so he lowered the brain into her open scalp and popped the enclosure shut.
The storm was nearing its peak now. Hard sheets of rain driven by the angry wind resisted his march towards the fusebox. Nothing could stand between Mephisto and his work tonight, however, and his calloused hand took the lever just as lightning shattered the sky. He wrenched it down and the lightning was drawn into the massive metal rod raised high above the tower.
The power of the storm threw him back to skid painfully across the stone. Blinding light funnelled down through the rod and into the myriad of exposed wires that ran across the roof, terminating in clamps attached to his masterpiece. He looked up from his sprawl to see her back arch in wordless pain, once and then done. Smoke trailed from the scorched clamps, and she lay still as the dead.
Mephisto pulled himself to his feet, his battered body weary now that the finishing line had been crossed. He was still yet to receive his prize though, so he hobbled over to her slab and peered hesitantly down at his beauty.
Her eyes were open, staring back, unafraid and calculating. His dapper clothing had been scorched to cinders by the energy of the transformation, so he could plainly feel the gale winds tickle his own personal lightning rod as it rose to brave the storm. He was eager to have it dealt with, so he called out to her against the thunder, “Rise Frankentits, Mephisto’s monster!”
She sat up on the wooden pallet, her naked body defiant of the savage winds, confirming that she was truly capable of thought. Tears leaked freely from his eyes and his rod grew ever firmer, rigid enough now that at any moment a ravenous bolt of lightning might choose to manicure his unkempt bush. She could help him though, so he reached out and took her arm. Her face snapped around to his, emotionless but blessedly alive.
Mephisto pointed to a stack of books on a corner table, carelessly thrown open by the wind. “I can’t make heads nor tales of that damn tax form, BA117. Can I claim your eyes as a company expense? Do those nipples depreciate? Go set your mind to it, I’ve got to go jack the beanstalk.” He retreated behind a curtain, buffeted wildly by the wind, but left it slightly parted so he could peek on her crunching those slutty numbers.