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Nice Legs

Nice Legs by Tim Butler

“Nice legs Igor,” said the Baron.
“Thank you master,” replied Igor. “They’re from horse.”
“Really?” The Baron smiled indulgently. ”I would never have guessed.”
“I shave them myself. Very smooth.”
“That’s wonderful. Why don’t we see how they look on our creation?”
The Baron stepped up to an operating table where a green surgical sheet was laid over an oddly lumpy form.
“Behold!” he announced. “My creation!”.
With a flourish, he whipped back the sheet and uncovered the terrible being which lay beneath it. Made from a hotch potch of crudely stitched body parts, it reminded Igor of a giant fried breakfast which had been dropped on the floor and hastily scooped back onto the plate.
“He is beautiful master,” he said, and he meant it. He was very fond of a fried breakfast.
“She, Igor. How many times must I remind you?”
“Sorry master. It is hard to tell. I think because of the eyes.”
“She has the eyes of a hawk!” exclaimed the Baron. “Quite literally.”
“Very hard to find,” interjected Igor.
“Yes Igor well done. They were quite tricky to attach too. but I think I did a fairly good job under the circumstances. As I say, the eyes of a hawk, the heart of an lion, the torso of a bear.”
“Yes, well done Igor. I know that was a big job. Now where was I? The torso of a shaved bear. The hands of a, where were the hands from again?”
“Strangler.” replied Igor.
“Ah yes, the hands of a strangler and now the legs of a racehorse!”
“The legs of a horse! It’s the perfect being, the supreme specimen. I, Baron Colin Von Frankenstein, have advanced evolution a thousand years! The oh…” The Baron faltered for a moment. “What are those things on his, I mean, her neck Igor?”
“Gills, master.”
“Gills? I don’t remember adding gills.”
“You sewed them on last Wednesday master. After ‘Young Scientists’ night.”
“Oh yes, it’s coming back to me now. We’d had a few at the Peasant and Pitchfork and that idiot Moreau kept harping on about Michael Phelps. Greatest Olympian of all time indeed. We’ll see about that, won’t we Igor?”
Igor rolled his eyes noncommittally and scratched his hump.
“Won’t we Igor?” he repeated pointedly. 
“Oh yes master, we’ll see.”
“They won’t believe their eyes once my creation gets into open competition. She can run like a stallion, leap like an antelope and swim like a fish. She’ll destroy the competition in every discipline – sprinting, hurdles, discus.”
“Equestrian?” suggested Igor.
“Equestrian too.” Agreed the Baron, looking again at the pair of legs which Igor was still holding. “Possibly without the need for a horse.”

Two weeks later, Igor and the Creature returned to Castle Frankenstein. The Baron greeted them at the drawbridge holding a chilled bottle of champagne from his ancestral cellar.
“Welcome back Igor,” he called out. “How did we perform? A triumph I presume?”
“Not entirely master,” Igor replied. “Bit of trouble at games.”
“She wasn't disqualified was she?”
“No master.”
“Was it a drug test? Traces of horse tranquillizers or something.”
“Not that either.”
“Well what then?”
“There was trouble with mascot.”
“With the mascot? That thing that looks like an animated foot with an eye where the big toe should be? Oh dear lord, she didn’t attack it did she?”
“Worse,” replied Igor.
“Worse? Worse in what way. Look Igor I think you’d better tell me exactly what happened.”
“Everything was going well master. Creature was in 400m hurdle heats. Hooves in starting blocks. Then mascot appears on other side of stadium. Big white foot with tiny arms and legs and one big staring eye. Creature see it with eye of hawk.”
“Oh the horror!” exclaimed the Baron. “My poor creature must have been terrified!”
“Not exactly - she fell in love with it. Didn’t want to race anymore. Just moon about Olympic park all day.”
“So that’s it? My life’s work ruined by some teenage infatuation!” The Baron wailed in anguish.
“Not quite master. Igor speak to people from Rio. They looking for ultimate symbol of Olympic diversity.”
The Baron’s anguish abated slightly.“Go on Igor.” he said.
“Want creature as Face of Games for 2016.”
”Like Jess Ennis?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Well I’d call that a success,” said the Baron. And he poured himself a generous glass of champagne.