Tuesday, December 29, 2009


This is an old work, written probably in 2005 or 2006 or something, originally here, but renewed anew ... err. I'm going to try to quit smoking again.

(being a variation of psychosis experienced while attempting nicotine discharge from the body. and an homage to that great creator,
mr. pregnant)

I was woken around 3am by the wails of a child in the aisle. Naturally, I tended towards shutting the noise out with my pillow, and was ready to sink again into sleep and strange dreams when my, shall we say, 'maternal' instinct was awoken.

Far be it from me to harbor such instinct, being a well-formed man at the rim of youth - but I always like to leave my senses open and varied to the smells of the universe.

Here it was, then, that I smelt the fear of the screaming child. After a moment's heshitatition (befluffed also by crumbs of dried soymilk profusing from my beard), I picked up my pistol and rose out from my room.

Two women were in the vicinity of the elevator door. From between them, I could see the hint of a handlebar, and the sound of the wailing child. Brandishing my pistol, I courageously approached these foul whores.

"What are you doing with the baby?" I demanded.

They were shocked. No doubt it had not occurred to them that some hero may come to rescue this poor child they were clearly smuggling away.

"Whereforth you steal this child?" I demanded from the one to my right, an elderly crone who may have been named Madame Shcadenfraude.

She gawked. The woman next to her, somewhat younger, yet no less foul in demeanour, tugged at her sleeve. The elevator had arrived. They opened the door and hurried in.

I peered between them to see the baby. Finally - there it was. Sitting in a stroller of pink nature, with lots of - pinkness. It smiled at me. I smiled back at the baby. However, at this juncture the baby started crying again. "Don't worry, baby," I said, "I'll save you!"

The crone tried to shut the door, but I put my hand right in the way, the one holding my pistol, so that it pointed at her head. "No, crone," I said. "Inform me of the whereabouts you intend to impose upon this fine child." I looked at the baby again, and it wailed louder.

"You're going to burn it aren't you?" I exclaimed. "You're going to burn the baby!"

The women gawked.

"You're taking it to the basement and throwing it into the incinerator!"

Eyes wide open, the older woman grabbed the elevator door from my hands and closed it upon themselves. I was surprised by this move and did not have time to fire my pistol.

As I heard the elevator ride down, I beat my hands upon the door. "You will not get away with this! I'm calling the police! I'm calling the police goddamn you and putting an end to this baby burning business!"

I ran back to my apartment, a cold sweat breaking upon me within the 12 steps it takes to get there. What if they reached the incinerator before the police arrived? What if that cute baby which smiled at me was borne unto ashes?" I had promised that I would save it.

Shaking my head, I stamped my way to my desk and picked my phone up. I called emergency services. I dialed 9-1-1. "They're burning babies over here!" I screamed. "Babies - they're being burned!"

I was made to hold for about 35 seconds while they patched me. In.

It was while waiting, then, and rolling my pistol around my finger, that I realized it was actually a chicken bone. A wing piece, attached to the arm as is customary. I remembered that a neighbor of mine owns a child, and due to its wailing on certain nights, takes it out for a stroll to soothe it.

"Sir, are you still there?" came the emergency voice.

"Ah ha ha ha." I said. "No."

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