A/N: I tried to make it funny. Really, I did. But I haven't entirely gotten the hang of emulating Mel Brooks's style, so I apologize.

Once Upon A Time is just built for crossovers, guys. And yeah, there are already a lot, but most of them seem to be standard, contrived "ZOMG characters from my fave show visit Storybrooke yay!" crossovers. No, OUAT crossovers need to be Original Flavor: take another source material and mold it and play with it until it fits into the storyline, like Adam and Eddie do on the actual show.

There are so many "modern fairy tales" that I have ideas for – Brave, for example, badly needs a crossover with OUAT – but I decided to start with Young Frankenstein.

I was originally going to incorporate my theory that Frankenwhale is also The Wicked "Wizard" of the West and his castle is in a part of Oz where everything is black and white (like how in the Emerald City everything is green), but I edited all that stuff out because I'm done with this whole theorizing thing. I was so happy with how my first Dr. Whale fic turned out, but then the theory it was based on was so very inaccurate that it just felt like a waste of good writing...

Jeez, this author's note is practically as long as the fic itself. So here's what you came for! Please enjoy, and don't forget to review!

This letter was written on a whim – a hunch, if you will – twenty-eight years after Dr. Victor von Frankenstein vanished from his land with no trace left besides a jarringly purple fog. It is doubtful that its writer ever intended for it to be received by the AWOL doctor, but people sometimes want for bizarre things. After all, the letter was found in the wake of a tornado, a commonly known, if rarely successful, means of reaching other worlds.

Dear Victor,

Yes, Victor. Even though I have no reason to believe that is your name, considering you told me to call you "Father" first and that turned out to be a damned lie. But because I don't have any reason to not believe it, either, I suppose Victor it is.

I wanted you to know that your castle's gone to complete and utter shit since you vanished. I was never taught defense against torch-wielding mobs, which of course makes perfect sense, because why would you ever bother sharing that precious knowledge with your own heir? Your beloved snapdragons were the first to go. They were followed by Igor.

It was actually horrible. Igor was your best friend, I know, and although that should make his death more satisfying, I was close to him as well, not that you would have noticed. So my condolences, temporarily, for your loss. He was the truehearted type of man, always supportive and always humble, except when it came to bocce ball. I can't count the number of times he kicked my ass at bocce, mostly because it's been twenty-seven years since we last played. That's how long it's been since he died, Victor. The memories of his charred little body sinking in a radioactive moat have already begun to fade – even the most striking details, like your stunning lack of presence, are blurred.

Igor's son, Igor, and I have since become partners. For a while, I taught anatomy at a prestigious school far, far away from the castle. Igor (pronounced with a long "I," for clarification purposes), he was my assistant. In this more civilized environment, that word "assistant" does not mean "guinea pig" so much as it means "second-in-command," but besides that technicality I assume you can relate to our dynamic. I lectured and he scolded students who didn't listen. I graded term papers and he reminded me which names belonged to which children. We were well-respected throughout the land. I was the brain and he was the heart, despite his disturbing appearance – poor fellow has a larger hump than a prostitute. Or so I assume.

But before I knew it, I was discharged from the school. The best years of my life were dashed, due to your reputation. I tried to hide. Oh, I tried. It finally came in handy that you never mentioned me to anyone. I requested that my students refer to me by a cunning alias. But the rumors flew anyway, triggering a phenomenon that led me to conclude that the Frankenstein name carries a curse.

Literally, a fucking curse! Do you know what they call you, Victor? A mage! A wizard. As Igor (with a long "I") and I sat in our classroom with your name painting our monochrome cheeks a sickly shade of...

Fuck me, I don't know the names of any colors! And you wanna know why? Because we're not supposed to have them here. But you just had to start abusing magic, didn't you, you asshole?

I would apologize for my four-letter accusation, but what you've done to me is inexcusable, and it includes more than your neglect as a parental figure – that, I can forgive. As a teenager, I was no more than a distant cousin being raised as a son. I was moody and disagreeable and got in the way of your experiments.

But now I'm a respected professor. The very thought that you would sully your most important experiment with magic ruined my entire reputation. And I ought to add that the use of magic has been declared a crime since you disappeared.

Igor (with the long "I") and I were blissfully saved from hanging for our colorful crime records, and were instead exiled to the castle, which was at this point in an absofuckinglutely beautiful state. Half the walls burnt down, piles of feces in delightfully unexpected places. Dead servants were splayed everywhere. Most of them are still there, actually. You would have loved it, Victor.

But I don't suggest you try to come back here anytime soon, if you can help it. I've had a lot of time alone in your castle with your lab, your library, and a pile of corpses. With the minimal help of Igor, Jr. (that's better, right?) and the two survivors of the mob, your old housekeeper and a young servant named Inga, I've worked to perfect that most famous experiment.

And I've found the way.

I reanimated a corpse without magic. Twice. Three times. It's a process, but it gets more refined with each monster. Slowly, but surely, I'm turning monochrome again. But that's not important. All you need to know is that my scientific creations are being trained to attack. Specifically, to attack you.

I hope that wherever you are, there was enough magic for you to develop a vulnerability shield. You couldn't make it work against my army, but I'd love to watch you try.

Resentfully Yours,

Dr. Frederick Frankenstein

A/N: Derp. That last "Frankenstein" is pronounced "Fronkensteen." But you knew that already.