Thank you for coming. Careful—please mind your step.

As you can probably tell by all these big metal traps, my house is infested with Frankensteins. I know, I know, Frankensteins are just part of country living. But I can’t take it anymore. One Frankenstein is fine. Two is pesky. But fourteen Frankensteins? That is just too much. Of course I haven’t spotted fourteen Frankensteins all at once, but I know they’re there. Just look at the towering mountain of poop in my yard and tell me it isn’t the work of over a dozen Frankensteins.

I’m relieved you’re here, because it has been very hard to find a pest control company willing to deal with this. One company had a rigid no-Frankensteins clause. Another company made a big deal about treating them humanely and calling them “The Creatures of Viktor Frankenstein” and relocating them to a Frankenstein Rescue upstate. The last company smelled my desperation and charged me an arm and a leg. Apologies. I don’t mean to joke about body parts.

As you know, Frankensteins travel in packs and are notoriously hard to get rid of. My Frankensteins tend to congregate in the attic, which, considering their size, has become quite crowded. I hear them shambling around all night long, wailing about how they never asked to be born and how they’re cursed to wander the earth as misunderstood outcasts. The Frankenstein matriarch also complains a lot about her son. How he thinks he’s better than the family. How he mistreats them terribly. How he wants to be a human instead of a Frankenstein. It goes on and on.

I followed all the advice I could find online and in these dusty ancient texts I got at the library. First I lured the Frankensteins outside with the cries of a child in danger. I got my girlfriend’s son Timmy to stand on the edge of a water well and scream for help. Then Timmy actually did fall in the well, but the Frankensteins saved him, which was honestly very brave. I couldn’t kick them out after that

But the nocturnal moaning continued through the ceiling and the walls: The Frankenstein’s son wants to marry a human woman. The son won’t invite them to the wedding. The son is a disgrace to the Frankenstein name. On and on and on. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran up to the attic with a fiery torch and tried to scare the Frankensteins away. The attic caught fire, though, and the house nearly burned to the ground.

Fortunately the Frankensteins were able to run a bucket brigade and douse the blaze before it was too late. Then they rebuilt the house from top to bottom, making it even nicer than before. I asked why they were doing all this. They said that regardless of how I had betrayed them and locked them in the attic, they still loved me. And they desperately wanted to come to my wedding. I mean. Their son’s wedding.

Look, there’s one now!

Did you see it? Did you? Go on, shoo! Get out of here, Jerrick. Go on, git.

Yes, I do have names for the Frankensteins. I mean, the Frankensteins have names for themselves, and I happen to know what those names are. There’s Gilgore and Scoggin and Morleen… What’s that, you ask? You think I look a little like Jerrick? Ha ha. Very funny.

No! Of course I’m not a Frankenstein. What a silly thing to infer. Yes, I suppose I’m quite tall and have a few scars. But what kind of Frankenstein would call an exterminator on other Frankensteins? His own flesh and blood, as it were? Doesn’t that strike you as nonsensical? I am a normal human person, of course. The gray pallor of my skin is due to anemia. My lumbering gait is due to sciatica. And my oversized sexual organ is genetic, not the result of Doctor Viktor Frankenstein’s curious taste in corpses. If you must know.

But back to the problem at hand. I’m sure you can sympathize. I’m sure you’ve had an extended family of Frankensteins invade your home at one time or another. I’m sure you’ve wanted to get rid of those Frankensteins and build a new life for yourself. A life with a human woman who appreciates you for you, not just for your oversized sexual organ. A woman who doesn’t run screaming at your cold touch. A woman who doesn’t get mad at you when you accidentally let her son fall down a well. A woman who doesn’t want any in-laws.

So. How much is your Frankenstein Remediation Package? Excellent. It’s a deal. Here, shake my hand. No, don’t look at it, just shake it. Also, you are cordially invited to my wedding.