"Frankenstein, P.I. is an abundantly silly story set in the apartment of 221B Baker St. Or rather, next door to that famous address. Next to Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Watson (poor John is was killed in the line of duty by a bus) resides London’s newest detective: Frankenstein. No, not Victor Frankenstein, but the terrible, inhuman creature more properly called Frankenstein’s Monster. And even then, think less Mary Shelley and more Universal Studios. He’s big, green, indestructible, and only communicates in grunts. He is assisted in his duties by the his unscrupulous and downright felonious personal secretary Friday. What the duo lacks in funds made from solving cases they make up for in nicking nick-knacks from crime scenes.
When the world’s greatest detective has something of an identity crisis, Frankenstein and Friday catch their big break and get their chance to solve a case that puts their name on the papers. As Sherlock falls deeper and deeper down his own personal rabbit hole, Frankenstein and Friday bumble their way to greater and greater acclaim (with the body count rising as they go).
The bottom line here is that Frankenstein P.I. is ridiculous. It’s funny. It’s ridiculously funny, and as long as you’re not a stodgy stuffed-shirt who holds up sacred cows in your literature, there’s no reason not to give this little story a chance. Besides, sacred cows often make for the tastiest barbecue." -- Paul Cosca's Review
When Frankenstein, P.I. sells, it tends to sell in batches. We've failed to promote it for the last year and its ranking now reflects this.
Please be aware that the story is told from the viewpoint of Frankenstein's personal assistant, Friday.
How desperate does someone have to be to employ a monster to solve a crime?
Pretty damned desperate, if Alice Bloom was any indication. Within minutes, she was knocking at our door, looking wan and lifeless, and asking to see Frankenstein, P.I.
So I let her in.
She was a little taken back when she saw Frankie rocked back in his leather chair, his huge boots propped up on the corner of his desk. He was wearing his too-short Frankensteinian suit and coat – image is everything in marketing and he still has a rep – but his Hawaiian shirt was all too visible beneath the unbuttoned jacket.
He grunted when he saw Alice, that’s kind of his greeting, then tipped his fedora back on his head as I perched myself on the edge of his desk.
I’m cute, with a killer body, and I know how to sell the goods. That’s part of marketing, too.
My figure is made for short, tight dresses. Whenever I can, I wear vintage high heels and stockings to show off my legs. My make-up is lightly and expertly applied. After all, if you’re going to be someone’s executive assistant, you have to look the part.
You have to act it, too. Flipping open my little dictation pad, I clicked the top of my shiny silver pen. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think I was about to start taking notes.
I play my part, but I don’t actually write anything down. Frankie can’t read. Besides, I don’t know shorthand and my handwriting is a mess.
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Dutch
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Already translated.
Translated by Marlies Perman
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by Daniel de Souza
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Daniel Arturo Martin Rivera
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