Disclaimer: I don't own Frankenstein or Elizabeth. I don't own OXFAM either or any cheap perfume. I do however own a brothel in Geneva, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone.

Elizabeth sat at her make up table applying yet more make-up on to her already florescent-pink cheeks. Being married to the infamous Doctor Frankenstein was hard work; she frequently had to compete with his creations for attention. After the little accident with his first "monster", Frankenstein's skills had improved greatly. As had his choice of body parts. Instead of using criminals and dead tramps, his tastes had moved on to suicidal models, murdered prostitutes and the occasional overdosed porn star. Of course Elizabeth herself had been quick on the uptake of the new trend in plastic surgery; the fact that she contained almost twice as much silicone as Jordan and Britney Spears put together was quite a conversation starter.

"Honey, are you ready?" she called up the stairs. Spraying her "expensive" (she was unaware of the fact that Frankenstein actually had got in for 50p from an old lady in OXFAM) perfume around furiously to try and cover the stench of formaldehyde.

"I'll be down in a second," he replied, hacking another slashed-up arm from the big-boobed blonde, and chucking it into his waste pile. "Couldn't she have done it in a neater way?" He grumbled to himself. "These girls are so inconsiderate; they always have to have a big dramatic death." He sighed. No-one ever spared a thought for the mad professor….

"Well hurry up," Elizabeth called. "The guests will be here soon."

"Guests?" He had quite forgotten. Tonight, they were holding the opening party for their new brothel. Earning money had been quite a struggle for Frankenstein, since he had been banned from practising medicine within the EU after an incident where he was caught "borrowing" body parts from a morgue. But all that was about to change…

Opening up a Brothel had been, indirectly anyway, Elizabeth's idea. She was beginning to get fed up of the endless number of brainless big-boobed blondes floating about the place, and suggested Frankenstein made use of them. Given the number of uses for girls with no brains is fairly limited, before she knew it, Frankenstein had hired a team of builders, who promptly turned their once tastefully decorated 18th centaury house into a brothel.

Elizabeth had just finished lacing herself into a very tight and highly unflattering corset, in order to show off show of her latest boob job. (In fact, it just highlighted her numerous wrinkles), when the doorbell rung. At least, she thought it was the doorbell; Frankenstein's builders had ripped out their old one, and replaced it with something indistinguishable from a foghorn.

She rushed towards the stairs, tripping over her ridiculously high (and disturbingly glittery) hells, and falling in a heap at the bottom.

"Ow", she yelped, attempting to stand up, and hobble towards the door.

She attempted to smile as she greeted the guest, a rather fat looking middle aged guy.

"Welcome, this way please," She gestured to a door on her left, once stylish Victorian dining room, and now draped entirely in tacky-looking red satin, with uncomfortable looking PVC sofas, and a table set out with various alcoholic drinks.

She waited till he was out of sight, being "entertained" by several of Frankenstein's girls, before collapsing in agony.

One hour, and several packets of frozen peas later, Elizabeth was sitting in the emergency room of a local hospital, waiting for an X-ray.

Note: This is not a reflection of the "dumb blonde" stereotype. These girls were literally brainless. After his first creation, Frankenstein figured that any trace of emotion or freewill could be potentially lethal. He therefore made a habit of removing the majority of the conscious brain, leaving only enough to control basic body functions.