A Tesla Coil Crackled in the Dim Basement

Books, everywhere books, some of them with anatomical diagrams. Surgical sutures, abundant needles, manacles. Somewhere in this infernal basement is the formula I need. A tesla coil crackles in the dim basement. Rats scurry. They are the hooded Norway variety, fed on surgical waste, and clever. I digress. This companion of mine, sutured together from components collected, over the course of the last few months, from fellow humans of mine who met with unfortunate accidents. Car accidents mostly, and a skier. The mind is either that of an upright schoolteacher who volunteered his time to teach math and history, or a raving lunatic who ate his family. Frankly, I cannot remember details like that. Where are my goggles? This life I create will no doubt turn on me, lonely for another of its kind, which I cannot create because I will be so horrified by the sight of its existence. Now that I think of it, that is not like me at all. The next one will have impressive breasts and a shock of white through its excellent hair. I do this all for humanity, or a version of it anyway. There is nothing humankind was not meant to know. Torches outside, must hurry.