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Doctor Eli Goldbones At His Finest Hour pencil, ball-point pen on paper

Mad?? How dare they. The research he conducted in his secret castle basement was not mad. Nor was the fact that he had to capture living specimens of human beings for his work. That was an unpleasant sowing of seed to accomplish all that he had in fact harvested. What he did, he did for science! Scientific rigor, not because he was directed by some internal stimuli, or because the government was shooting "laser-rays" in his head to manipulate his thought process! His experiments were performed for the greater good of humanity, by god! Here, poised at the brink of his finest moment, the culmination of all his experiments and documentation, he stood between a life of an outcast shunned by colleages, and that of a possibly the most brilliant mind to have ever graced the human gene pool. Once the breaker switch was flipped, the consciousness of the Giant Tentacled Alien Brain would be transferred into the body of a middle aged male! With full speech, motor control, and opposable thumbs! How could they call this "crazy?" No, what was "crazy" was the mere thought that anyone would drink a "martini" that was not a Perfect Martini. Gin, not vodka. Two isolated, measured drops of vermouth, swished around the glass, then thrown out -upon the ice, so as not to permeate the room with the bitter scent of dried wine. Stirred gently to avoid bruising the gin, a single olive, so as not to overpower the flavor. No, "crazy" was the masses of mindless heathens who might dare to ask for something as vulgar and muddled as a "dirty martini" or even a vodka martini. For Pete's sake, every civilized person knows that a "vodka martini" isn't even a real martini. That's like asking to see a "Dog Mouse" or a "Human Chimpanzee." Such a thing exists only in the mind of one who can no longer parse their thoughts between what is real and what is make-believe.