Frankenstein’s monster walked into Hal’s diner, sat at the counter, ordered the No. 5 sandwich. Roast beef, avocado, muenster cheese, Dijon, bacon—the diner’s most popular sandwich. Known affectionately as the Herman Munster, a sandwich that, much like Frankenstein’s monster, had been patched together with various incongruous parts.
Hal saw the monster, stood before him. He had various questions—are you real?, how are you alive?—settling on, like the sandwich? The monster, looking at his soda, growled, nodded.
You know, it’s funny, Hal said, this sandwich, it’s called the Herman Munster, you know, that character like you from that show?
Heard good things. The monster’s voice deep, stilted. Had to see what fuss about.
The other diners looked up, curious. Outside, Hal heard a swelling commotion. A mob, dozens gathered on the street, pitchforks and torches.
They here for me. They angry.
Hal walked outside. The seething crowd’s one voice: we want the monster!
Folks, calm down, he’s having lunch inside—our famous No. 5 sandwich, the Herman Munster.
They stormed past, enraged.
He’s a paying customer, he shouted, but it went unheard.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the monster finish the sandwich, stand, wipe his mouth with a napkin, extend his long arms in zombie stance.