[AN: Set sometime after Agatha’s return to Mechanicsburg]
They always came to Sparks once a stronghold was established. A tribe of natural minions with a talent for surgery and reanimation. Their balms and poultices could perform miracles still unknown to the rest of modern science.
The Heterodyne kept one on in her castle, on the very good chance that they might come in handy - on one condition.
It was a combination hospice and employment agency, with one name for the employees. Igors and Igorinas alike had found jobs in the hospital and various households of high standing.
And now they were offering their ‘thervitheth’ around Mechanicsburg.
Carson stared down at the gnarled figure on his doorstep. “And you don’t mind being… minions to minions?“
"Igorth are made to therve, marthter. It ith our plathe.
"And… you have to lisp?”
“It’th our trademark,” said the Igor. “Begging your pardon, marthter… but I heard you were due to undergo a thpethial operation nethethary to your pothition?“
Carson mentally rearranged the consonants. “Yes, I’ve been dreading that for a while. Why?”
“We can arrange to have the thurgery performed painlethly, with a minimal recovery period.”
“The Heterodyne will doubtlessly demand to watch.”
The Igor smiled. He knew he had a job. “We are very uthed to the martherth’… ideothyncrathieth…"