What if Valley of the Dolls were written by Mary Shelley.
It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.
It sat upright and gathered its legs beneath its twisted torso. The creature which I had created from the parts of many corpses trembled into existence. The heavy breasts of the murdered tavern wench heaved as the long blond hair of the decapitated footman lay matted on its head. The dead soulless eyes of the widow Guttfriend raised up and gazed upon me.
It lived.
And it wanted dick.
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