Frankie, Make Ends Meat
When I escaped my maker, I was not quite remade, more manikin than human, disheveled and foamy, with wonderings red and spookish all over. Sewn to my corselet like a pocket was the proverb: A stitch in time saves nine. My urge for assemblage had already kicked in and, naturally, these were instructions! I began my search for the remains of nine dead souls to complete me, and what better place to find them than the cemetery? Grave robbing called to me, and soon I was neck-deep in these quiet wardrobes, borrowing cadavers from the earth's large closet, hemming the unearthed into this runway‑ready version of myself.
But why stop with me? Remaking myself had been so much fun. Where you might see death, I see fashion! Gimme spilled blood for dye and gangrene for glue, severed limbs for structure, armor stripped from a battlefield casualty, and a few freshly plucked extremities for extra haute couture.
What am I, you ask? Corpse‑stitcher? Scavenger? Macabre haberdasher with graveyard supply chains? Correct, correct, annnnd correct. From my end of the sepulcher, I am a highly resourceful craftswoman, raising the dead to prop up the living.
When inspiration strikes, Frankie knows exactly where to collect her materials. But if the flesh is unwilling, she has just the right tool to snip away the stubborn bits.
Hold tight to your hats and your heads. Whatever the class, size, or shape, Frankie makes the alterations to equip it from the grave.