Free Codename Prague by D. Harlan Wilson

Halloween III: Season of the Witch ,” bragged Truth.
    “I wasn’t in that installment,” admitted the Wütendeswissenschaftler-munster in an aggrieved British accent. “Nor was Michael Myers. Season of the Witch has nothing to do with the Halloween series. The plot concerns an evil-doing corporate magnate who manufactures a line of novelty masks that spew serpents and ooze bugs and eat people’s heads. Brilliant. But an anomaly. A barracuda in an aardvark colony, so to speak. And yet I’d argue that it’s easily the best installment.”
    “I can’t disagree,” said the doktor, and killed the Wütendeswissenschaftler-munster with a geyser gun…
    The eighth Wütendeswissenschaftlermunster finally satisfied the doktor, but after failing to create eleven functioning monsters, he killed it and created another one, which failed to create twelve functioning monsters before losing its life. He told the tenth Wütendeswissenschaftlermunster to create another Wütendeswissenschaftlermunster to do the job that neither it nor its colleagues hadn’t been able to do. The Wütendeswissenschaftlermunster resisted, claiming it wasn’t like the others. It also claimed that it was a deeply spiritual being and a son of God and killing it would be murder. Dr Teufelsdröckh thought: What would Thomas Carlyle do in his position? Give the Wütendeswissenschaftlermunster the benefit of the doubt? Respect its spirit of faith in God and itself? Dr Teufelsdröckh tried to embrace an Everlasting Yea…which, per usual, was usurped by an Everlasting No, and he insisted that the Wütendeswissenschaftlermunster create another Wütendeswissenschaftlermunster to do his bidding. Reluctantly the Wütende-swissenschaftlermunster obeyed…and created another Donald Pleasence lookalike. This one, however, possessed venomous tentacles and a deadly mouth-within-a-mouth à la the Alien film franchise.
    “That’s better than I could do,” the doktor admitted. “But not good enough.”
    He ordered the Pleasence/Alien Wütendeswissenschaftlermunster to kill its maker, then itself. The monster croaked, “Nothing can stop Michael Myers…”
    …“I don’t understand it.” Dr Teufelsdröckh poured himself a glass of table wine and took a sip. He cut up a block of Gruyere cheese and ate a slice. He chased the Gruyere with a croissant. Truth and Beauty watched him. “There. That’s better.” He wiped off his mouth. “What am I doing wrong? I followed the instructions.”
    “Sometimes instructions lie,” said Truth.
    “Instructions don’t lie,” replied the doktor. “Truth lies.”
    “Him, you mean?” asked Beauty, pointing at Truth. “Or the concept of honesty?”
    Truth punched Beauty.
    “ Hören Sie auf! ” Dr Teufelsdröckh finished the wine and put his glass aside. “At any rate, these Wütendeswissenschaftlermunsters are a waste of time, energy and resources. If one wants something done, one must do the thing oneself.”
    Twenty-two monsters later…
    “That looks like Jean-Claude Van Damme with a mustache,” admitted Truth, itching an armpit. The burlap fabric of his orderly uniform was almost unbearable. But the doktor insisted, advocating burlap’s many half-lives.
    “I disagree,” said Beauty. “Dressed in a bowler hat and tramp suit, it would bear an unmistakable likeness to Charlie Chaplin.”
    Truth huffed. “You’re wrong. Its face is too sharp and angular.”
    The monster goosestepped back and forth across the laboratory, reciting fragments of “Endymion.” Now and then it tripped over discarded body parts and slipped on puddles of viscera, motor oil and fiberoptics, but it never fell down. Dr Teufelsdröckh looked at the monster with equal measures of terror and wonderment.
    Truth said, “It’s not as ripped up as Van Damme, though. Van Damme had a better body. He was like an anatomical dummy. He was probably a clockwork man. This thing is downright flabby by comparison.”
    “ Anschlag! ”
    The monster