"Excuthe me, Mathter."

Before lifting his intent gaze from his engrossed study of the anatomical drawings scattered upon his desk, the not-so-good doctor absently flicked away a stray drop of saliva that had landed upon one paper showing off the Islets of Langerhans in all their glory. Only then did the man glance up, tolerantly regarding the, er, person currently standing in front of his desk. "What is it, Igor?"

Letting go of the full cloth sack dangling from his right hand, an action that produced an extremely ominous squelching sound from this bag when it hit the floor, an hunchbacked being with numerous scars covering a hideously misshapen countenance cleared his (probably) throat, and while continuing to drip noisome slime onto the room carpet, a rather apologetic announcement was now made: "Thir, it ith with great regret that I mutht inform you tonight about thomething contherning your newest laboratory aththithtant."

On the doctor's expectant face, a pair of eyebrows rose in mild puzzlement, as he cautiously inquired, "What about him, then?"

"I am very thorry to thay, we thall now be needing a newer aththithtant tomorrow."

Leaning back in his char, the doctor groaned in evident exasperation. "Honestly, he didn't even last a week! What in blazes happened?"

Judging from the way his facial scars contorted, Igor now appeared rather sheepish, as he began his awkward explanation. "Well, you told me to thhow him the ropeth-"

"Quite right."

"-whith I did, and altho the whipth and chainth and the Iron Maiden-"

"Kindly get to the point, Igor."

The hunchback looked a bit hurt, but he then obeyed his master's order, just like a proper Igor should, and condensed his story. "It wath my uthual night for going to the plathe that you thpethifically told me to warn you about before I thaid it."

Ending his lisping statement with those odd words, the doctor's helper then gazed expectantly across the desk at the bewildered physician in his chair, who'd have much rather gotten back to his more exciting work of investigating Things That Men (and Women, too, if you want to be picky about it) Were Not Meant To Know. Shooting his deformed employee an exasperated glower, the doctor demanded, "What place?"

"That plathe, the one you need whatth in your dethk drawer for."

Comprehension abruptly bloomed upon the doctor's features, as his annoyance now changed into quick gratitude. "Excellent work, Igor! Just give me a moment, please."

"Thertainly, thir." Igor patiently waited for the proper desk drawer to be pulled open and its contents removed and donned by the doctor, who then gave a hasty thumbs-up indicating his readiness. Taking in a deep breath, Igor next enunciated towards the man sitting behind the desk, "Ath I wath about to thay, the graveyard at Thaththafrath Thwamp."

There was then a faint squeaking noise, as the doctor used the small hand towel he was presently holding to wipe off the soaked lenses of the scuba mask covering his face. Once his vision was again clear, this man spat out the mouthpiece of the snorkel attached to the side of the underwater gear, and he prompted, "So, you took along what's-his-name, Dingleberry or Dunkins or Drumstick, to the cemetery?"

Igor nodded, adding, "Abtholutely, Mathter. However, that impathient young man theemed to not care for having to follow exathly in my footthepth, tho when we got to the end of the path, he rudely puthed patht me and headed thtraight for the gateth."

In the middle of pulling off his saliva-protection equipment, the doctor paused in his actions, delivering a somewhat quizzical look at his helper, while also incredulously asking, "Without even asking if the way was clear?"

"Quite tho, thir."

"Just how far did my former assistant get into the quicksand pool, Igor?"

Clearly thinking it over as he glanced upwards at the ceiling while estimating the distance, Igor finally lowered his uneven gaze, as he declared to his waiting employer, "Oh, only about a couple of feet into the Big Gulp, ath I like to call that exatht death trap, Mathter."

Hearing that, the doctor now frowned in confusion at Igor. "Couldn't you have just pulled him out?"

A resigned shrug of his shoulders sent splashes of mud and other foul-smelling goo away in various directions from Igor, as he then despondently informed the listening doctor. "Unfortunately, he wath already neck-deep when I got near enough on thafe ground to try a grab, thir. That might have worked, too, exthept for hith bad habit of uthing too muth pomade."

"What?" asked the baffled man, who went on. "It's true he always looked like he used an entire can of that stuff every day to slick back his blond hair, but what does that have- Oh." The doctor broke off to instead stare at where a long-suffering Igor was holding out both multiple-fingered hands ("Thirteen ith a lucky number for Igorth, thir."), which were now completely covered by a clear gel that was extremely slippery, the last remnants of an English assistant who'd had the misfortune tonight to overdo his hair care.

As Igor dropped his arms of unequal length back at his sides, this being anxiously watched the man across the desk lean back in his chair, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. The doctor then meditatively announced, "It really is a pity, Igor. That young fellow had the finest qualifications so far among my assistants. I mean, being expelled in his last year from Durmstrang… That alone had to have taken some doing."

"Hith personality probably had thomething to do with that, Mathter," Igor helpfully pointed out.

"Yes, indeed. Sullen, arrogant, supercilious, making everyone in his presence feel as if they were being done a favor to have him acknowledge their presence… Come to think of it, he would've been absolutely perfect to get sent to the front door to greet the mob waiting there and waving their pitchforks and flaming torches."

Beginning to sense he was about to get off easy over tonight's events, Igor was embolden enough to further contribute, "I have to admit, Mathter, it got rather tirethome having him alwayth thulking in the corner muttering dire threatth of vengeanthe to hith enemieth. Did you ever find out exathtly who they were, thir?"

The doctor just shrugged. "To be honest, I really wasn't paying all that much attention. Something about the weasel and the potter, whatever this meant. Maybe he was talking about the name of the pub back in his hometown in England that he got ejected from for life. Well, enough of this, Igor. Here are your new orders."

A hopeful Igor immediately perked up, perceiving that all had been forgiven. He listened in absolute concentration to the doctor's next words.

"Put an ad in the newspaper for another laboratory assistant, and we'll see who looks promising among the respondents. In the meantime, were you able to mark the exact location where - it's on the tip of my tongue - oh, yes! Where Draco Malfoy went into the quicksand?"

Igor smartly replied, "Definitely, thir!"

"Well done, Igor. Keep an eye on that spot for the next few days, until he pops up again. Then collect him, and put the body in cold storage. I'm sure we can find a use for it in some fashion later on," beamed the doctor.

This man's gaze now fell upon the full sack his abnormal employee had deposited upon the floor at the beginning of their conversation. A lambent flame swiftly kindled within the insane physician's eyes, as he began to covetously rub his hands together. Leaning forward in his chair, the doctor asked in his most eager tone, "Now, Igor, did you bring back from the cemetery for me some nice, fresh…brains?"

Knowing that everything was once more totally right in his world, a gladdened creature spoke his proud words, "A thuffithient quantity, Mathter."

Igor then loyally awaited the proper response to this reply that every member of his species always yearned to heard from their overlords, and he was not disappointed. Looking off into the distance of the realms of madness inside his mind, the pleased doctor now triumphantly expressed his absolute joy in classic mad-scientist maniacal laughter: