Lightening Bolts

‘Neck bolts, why does it always come back to neck bolts?’

This is not a statement you like to hear anyone make, not in an ideal world. Muttered by an attractive young lady in a darkened laboratory, it maintains a certain disconcerting quality. Add in the traditional mad scientist’s paraphernalia, up to and including the obligatory man-sized table and lightning rod arrangement, and it becomes almost definitely spooky.

A fact of which Doctor “Frankie” Stine was only too well aware. ‘Iggy,’ she called, ‘where is that fluid?’

A figure, you would have to call it, sidled out of the shadows. In its hands was a fizzing, green flask – and a suitcase. The flask it placed on a nearby lab bench, along with a piece of paper. ‘My resignation,’ said Iggy, apologetically. ‘Your last cheque bounced.’

‘But you can’t leave me in the lurch now; we’re so close!’

From under her hood, Iggy eyed the sheet-covered table. As far as she was concerned, leaving in the lurch was by way of a professional hazard. ‘I’m sorry, but this kind of thing is bound to end in pitchforks and flaming torches sooner or later. And if it comes to that, I’m afraid, Frankie, my dear, I don’t give a darn. All the best, Doctor.’

As Iggy departed, to the sounds of a dragging suitcase, Frankie’s shoulders slumped under her oversized, second-hand lab coat. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose.

To top it all off, the rent was probably about due.

She looked down and sighed. ‘The things we do for love…’