#16
Puppetstein
Since the very beginning, I have had an insatiable fascination with the creations of Henson, Oz and Goelz. Out of mere felt scraps, abandoned clothing and a fistful of feathers the very illusion of life would spring. My father believed their works held no veracity – “You follow these baboons, and yet you pay no credence to Gerry Anderson!” he would scream, his eyes betraying a fury that no painted ping-pong balls could convey. “No son of mine will hold such nonsense puppetry in higher regard than the Thunderbirds!” But Sesame Street presented to me a sheer wonderment unequalled by marionettes. Consequently, I spent hours studying the tapes, sat amongst mounds of Fanta cans, bathed in the pale glow of Rubber Ducky for the seventy-eighth time. Mahna Mahna plagued my mind like a parasitic virus.
Imagine my delight, then, upon being accepted into the Ingolstadt University of Puppetry. Immediately, my Foam Economics 101 teacher, Professor Waldorf, took a liking to me. He shared my advanced, radical outlook at puppets, and we would exchange ideas in his study after hours.
“No longer are we constrained by the immobility of fixed or gloved puppet hands!” he lectured. “Look at the Swedish Chef – entirely live digits. This is no simple Supermarionation, my lad; I’d like to see Captain Scarlet manipulate a frying pan and cotton meatballs at the same time with such dexterity!”
“You neglect even to mention, Professor, the glory of the full body puppet suit. Where ever might we be were it not for Big Bird?”
“But of course, my boy!” he would yell, smashing his wine bottle over the table and thrusting his arm skywards.
Soon enough, however, I was informed of a tragic occurrence.
“Victor,” said my father, “Why did it take you so long to pick up the phone?”
“I’m sorry, father, I was working on a most important project. We’ve just been sent a complimentary box of extendable arm rods-”
“Your mother, Victor…” He sighed. “She has passed away.”
She had been flattened under several boxes of felt swatches. Time seemed to come to a stop the moment the news sunk in. Crushed, I had to return to my studies the following week, my mind a mishmash of morbid thoughts. My plans became horrific in nature, snapshots of the deteriorating mind of a junior puppeteer.
“I can rest no longer. I need to create the ultimate puppet.”
“And how do you intend to do so, boy?” enquired my professor.
“I will gather parts from history’s greatest puppets, stitching head and limbs to torso to make a puppet of unequalled greatness.”
Professor Waldorf stood up gravely. “You… you can’t be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious, professor. It will be a puppet of which the likes have never been seen. Its entertainment value will be higher than that of a mountain of Punch and Judy booths.”
“Victor, that is insane. Grief makes fools of us all; your mother’s passing has clearly traumatised you. You need rest, time to heal…”
“I need no such thing. This is happening.” And with that, I grabbed my scissors and left his study.
First, I needed to gather my materials. I journeyed to every workshop on the globe, stealing as I went parts of the finest creations ever stitched. The ears of Yoda; the lips of Audrey II; the neck of Emu; the eyes of Cookie Monster. No studio was left un-pillaged.
Then came assembly. I had in my arsenal a secret weapon, and a priceless heirloom – the sewing machine used to stitch Hitler’s dinner jacket. With this, I began the arduous process of creating my creature’s body. Particularly troublesome to sew was the angular muzzle of Roland Rat, which was somewhat overenthusiastic about submitting to gravity and drooping.
After months of work, my puppet was finally complete. I gazed into his cold, lifeless plastic eyes. The horror! I had designed him to look mirthful, to fill children and adults alike with glee and delight – Ha! This beast would have made a dalek vomit with disgust. The top of his head, hewn from Bert and Ernie, resembled a grapefruit that’s just lost in a bar brawl. His teeth, fashioned from wood, contrasted grimly with his terrifically hideous rainbow patched face. I had thought this would be amusing? My God, what was wrong with me?
So tormented was I by my failure, I could scarcely bare to slip my arm inside him. I ran crying to my bedchamber, only to find that he had somehow found his way in with me.
“What’s the matter, Vic?” he grinned his rictus grin at me.
“Leave me ALONE!” I screamed, plunging my head deep beneath the covers. He stretched out his single Kermit arm and switched on the television. A news report played, telling of the mass thievery I’d committed to achieve my goal. I wept.
Hours later, I woke to see him propped up in the corner of the room – staring at me. The moment I looked away, he was on my hand again, his face pressed against mine.
“You created me,” he giggled maniacally. “Can’tcha see the funny side?”
“There is no humour in you,” I growled. “Only hatred and pain.”
“Vic, you gotta learn to TAKE A JOKE!” he yelled, pulling a revolver from behind his back.
“Don’t you dare.”
Screaming with laughter, he pointed the gun at my forehead.
