Here's another tale of Frankenstein's Monster, as viewed through the humorous lense of Dick Briefer's take on the character during the mid-1940s.
A Monster at Jeopardy
Dr. Victor Frankenstein had been many things in his life—brilliant, obsessive, arguably insane—but "television producer" was not among them. His creation, however, had evolved far beyond the doctor's wildest expectations.
The being known to most as "The Monster," though he preferred to go by Frank, sat in his modest apartment, adjusting his bow tie in the mirror. Eight feet tall with sallow, yellowish skin stretched over working muscles and a face that only a mad scientist could love, he nevertheless cut a striking figure in his custom-tailored suit.
"Epistemology, $800," he practiced, his deep voice rumbling through the small space. "What is the categorical imperative? Who is Søren Kierkegaard? What are the primary critiques of utilitarian ethics?"
Frank had spent the two centuries since his creation devouring knowledge with the same ferocity with which he had once pursued his maker across the Arctic. Philosophy, literature, mathematics, history—all had been consumed by his prodigious intellect. After decades of self-imposed isolation, he had gradually integrated into society as humanity became more accepting of differences—or at least more distracted by their phones.
Some nights, surrounded by his thousands of books but no companions, Frank would stare at his reflection—a patchwork face staring back at him—and wonder if knowledge alone could fill the void left by rejection. The Ph.D.s and academic accolades couldn't keep him warm on cold nights when the memory of torches and pitchforks still burned bright in his mind. Perhaps public recognition, just once, might ease that ancient ache.
Now, he wanted to test himself on the grandest intellectual stage available to the average person: "Jeopardy!"
***
"Next up for audition number 47291," called the bored casting assistant. "Mister... just 'The Monster'? Is that right?"
The massive figure ducked through the doorway, his frame barely clearing the entrance. "I actually go by Frank, though my full identifier would be Frankenstein's Monster. I've considered adopting 'Shelley' as a surname, given the circumstances."
The three producers at the table visibly recoiled. The head producer, Marcia, recovered first.
"Well... welcome to the Jeopardy auditions, Mr... Frank. I'm Marcia, and these are my colleagues, Tom and Devin."
"A pleasure," Frank said, extending a hand the size of a dinner plate. "I've been an avid viewer since the Fleming era. Trebek was the pinnacle, naturally."
Tom, a balding man with a permanent expression of mild indigestion, leaned toward Marcia. "Is this some kind of publicity stunt?"
Frank's acute hearing picked up the whisper. "I assure you, sir, I'm quite real. Just a being with an unnatural thirst for knowledge seeking worthy opponents."
Devin, the youngest producer, was frantically typing on his phone. He glanced at Frank, then returned his attention to his phone and asked, "You just got done with a bunch of botched plastic surgeries?"
Frank sighed, a sound like wind through a mausoleum. "No. Dr. Frankenstein assembled me from cadavers in 1795."
Marcia cleared her throat. "Right. Well, let's proceed with the audition. We'll start with the personal anecdote portion. Do you have an interesting story you might share with the host if selected?"
The Monster considered this. "Perhaps the time I learned to read by observing a family through a hole in their wall? Or my decades-long pursuit of my creator across the frozen wasteland of the Arctic? Or maybe something more relatable—I once had a delightful conversation with Lord Byron about poetry before he fled in terror."
Tom's eye twitched. "Maybe something more... contemporary?"
"Ah," the Monster nodded. "I recently completed my fourteenth Ph.D.—this one in quantum computing. My dissertation on quantum entanglement as a metaphor for the creator-creation relationship won several awards, though I suspect the committee was too frightened to deny me."
Devin had stopped typing and was now staring openly. "Fourteen Ph.D.s?"
"Yes. One becomes quite productive when one doesn't require sleep. Though I do enjoy it occasionally—purely for the dreams."
Marcia, ever the professional, pressed on. "Let's move to the sample questions. I'll give you clues from different categories, and you respond in the form of a question."
"Of course," the Monster said, folding his massive hands in his lap. "I am familiar with the format."
"For $200: This 'Father of Modern Philosophy' famously stated 'I think, therefore I am.'"
"Who is René Descartes?" the Monster responded instantly. "Though I've always found his mind-body dualism problematic. If he had experienced consciousness in a body assembled from multiple sources as I have, perhaps his philosophical framework would have been more nuanced."
Marcia blinked. "Correct. For $400: This element, with atomic number 79, is one of the least reactive metals."
"What is gold? An interesting element—I once consumed some during a particularly dark period in the 1800s, thinking it might end my torment. It did not, though it made for some rather spectacular waste elimination."
Tom looked faintly ill.
"For $600," Marcia continued, her voice slightly higher, "This Shakespeare play features the line 'What a piece of work is man.'"
"What is Hamlet?" The Monster's eyes grew distant. "A play that resonated deeply with me. 'How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty... the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals.' Yet Hamlet fails to recognize the monstrosity within himself, while I am forced to wear mine externally. The irony is not lost on me."
Devin was now recording the audition on his phone, all pretense of professionalism abandoned.
"Final question," Marcia said. "For $1000: This Mary Shelley novel, published in 1818, tells the story of a scientist who creates a sapient creature."
The Monster's face, normally frozen in a rictus of stitched features, somehow managed to convey annoyance.
"What is Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus?" He sighed. "Though I must point out the numerous inaccuracies in that account. Ms. Shelley took considerable creative liberties. I am far more articulate than portrayed, and the ending is pure fabrication. I never disappeared into the Arctic darkness to die. Obviously."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
"Well," Marcia finally said, "that was certainly... unique. We'll be in touch if you're selected for the show."
Frank stood, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. "I understand your hesitation. My appearance is often a barrier to being taken seriously. But consider this: your ratings would likely increase exponentially. And I would donate all winnings to organizations supporting ethical scientific research and literacy programs."
As he turned to leave, he added, "Also, I believe the proper response to my final answer would have been 'correct.'"
***
Three weeks later, Frank sat in his apartment, opening his mail. Among the usual correspondence—academic journals, invitations to lecture at universities brave enough to host him, and the occasional hate mail from villagers—was an envelope with the Jeopardy logo.
His massive fingers, surprisingly dexterous after centuries of practice, carefully opened the letter.
"Dear Mr. Monster," it read. "We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as a contestant on Jeopardy. Your episode will tape on October 31st..."
The Monster allowed himself a rare smile. Halloween. Of course.
He walked to his bookshelf and ran a finger along the spines of his collection of world almanacs, encyclopedias, and historical texts.
"What is 'ready to make history'?" he said to the empty room, and began to prepare.
***
On the day of the taping, The Monster stood backstage, listening to the familiar theme music. The makeup artist had given up trying to make him look "more natural" after several futile attempts.
The floor manager approached, visibly nervous. "You're on in two minutes, Mr. Frank. Remember, when Ken introduces you, just share that anecdote we rehearsed about your work with the literacy program.
"Not my debate with Noam Chomsky on linguistic determinism?"
"Definitely not that one. Also, remember that you are 'the Monster' for the purposes of the show.""
The Monster nodded. "Very well."
As he waited for his cue, he reflected on his long, strange existence. From his violent "birth" in that lightning-struck laboratory to this moment—about to appear on a beloved television quiz show—his journey had been improbable to say the least.
"And our third contestant," Ken Jennings' voice rang out, "is certainly one for the history books. Standing at eight feet tall and hailing from 'various graveyards across Europe,' please welcome... The Monster!"
The audience's applause was hesitant at first, then grew as the Monster emerged, waving politely.
"So, Monster," Ken said, maintaining his professional demeanor despite the extraordinary circumstances, "I understand you run a literacy program?"
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"Yes, Ken," the Monster replied, his voice booming despite his attempt to modulate it. "After learning to read by observing a family through a hole in their wall—a method I do not recommend—I became passionate about accessible education. My program, 'Monsters of Literature,' brings books to underserved communities."
"Wonderful," Ken said. "And I understand you've been alive for... over two centuries?"
"Indeed. I've witnessed the French Revolution, both World Wars, and the entire run of The Bachelor. The latter was perhaps the most horrifying."
A ripple of laughter spread through the audience.
"Well, we're certainly glad to have you here. Let's see the categories for Double Jeopardy."
The board lit up:
WORLD CAPITALS
SCIENCE & NATURE
LITERARY MONSTERS
19TH CENTURY LITERATURE
FAMOUS DOCTORS
THINGS THAT SHOULD NOT BE
The Monster's stitched brow furrowed. "I sense some category manipulation, Ken."
Ken smiled innocently. "Pure coincidence. Monster, you have control of the board."
"I'll take 'Things That Should Not Be' for $800, please."
"The answer is: This quiz show contestant was created from dead body parts and reanimated with electricity."
The Monster sighed deeply and pressed his buzzer.
"What is... a transparent attempt to unsettle me?"
Ken paused, then smiled. "I'm sorry, we were looking for 'What is Frankenstein's Monster?' But the judges have informed me they'll accept your answer as well."
As the game progressed, the Monster dominated categories like "19th Century Literature" and "Famous Doctors," while struggling slightly with modern pop culture references. By Final Jeopardy, he held a commanding lead.
"And the Final Jeopardy category is... 'Second Chances.'"
The Monster nodded thoughtfully as he wrote down his wager.
"And the clue is: 'This is what both contestants and misunderstood creatures sometimes deserve.'"
The thinking music played as the three contestants wrote their answers. When it ended, Ken turned to the third-place contestant.
"Melissa, you wrote 'What is redemption?' That is correct. Your wager? $4,000, bringing you to $7,200."
The second contestant had the same answer and wagered everything, moving into the lead with $15,400.
"And finally, our leader, The Monster. Your response?"
The camera zoomed in on the answer, written in elegant script: "What is the opportunity to be judged by one's knowledge rather than one's appearance?"
Ken looked up. "The judges are accepting that. Your wager?"
The Monster had wagered $10,001, bringing his total to $34,801.
"Congratulations, you are our new Jeopardy champion!"
As the credits rolled, the Monster shook hands with his fellow contestants, careful not to crush their comparatively delicate bones.
"Will you be returning tomorrow?" Ken asked.
"Indeed," Frank replied. "I have waited two centuries for this validation. I intend to become the greatest champion in Jeopardy history."
Ken laughed nervously. "Well, you'll have to beat my record first."
Frank's stitched lips curved into what might have been a smile. "What is 'challenge accepted'?"
***
The Monster went on to win seventy-four consecutive games--none of which had the rigged categories on the Halloween contest. He amassed over $2.5 million in winnings, all donated to educational charities. His final defeat came at the hands of a librarian from Portland who specialized in obscure pop culture—the Monster's only weakness.
He returned for the Tournament of Champions, of course, and later became a popular guest host when Ken Jennings went on vacation. His catchphrase—"What is the correct response, or face my wrath?"—became a cultural phenomenon, though he insisted the "wrath" part was merely humorous.
Dr. Frankenstein, watching from whatever afterlife scientists go to, was presumably both horrified and impressed that his creation had found fame not through terror, but through encyclopedic knowledge and a surprisingly dry wit.
And somewhere, Mary Shelley smiled at how wrong—and right—she had been.
THE END
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If you liked this story, you'll probably love the material that inspired it--Dick Briefer's Frankenstein Follies from NUELOW Games!
