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Never a Good Time for Children

Rain Dylan Morgan; January 26, 2008


In looking at the various ads for riddance of little unwanted animals, Lisa turns to the internet as a way of invigorating herself. Finding things such as this woman and many other things (that I have just watched on YouTube... I won't elaborate, I've kinda scarred myself).

Although, finding nothing practical or useful, aside from some aforementioned inspiration, she turns back to the local private ads and even ads for local pounds and hell, I can go to a pet store and even buy an exotic pet. I wonder what there insides look like...?

What kind of animals do I want to investigate further... Chinchillas seem interesting... maybe I can get a coat out of a bunch of them, or hedgehogs, I wonder just how tiny the insides of hamsters are...?

Use of all abilities and disciplines as needed.

hmmm... babies?

Influence Response:

After idling your brain for a while on the wonders of the Internet, you go on a merry jaunt of philanthropy, and adopt three stray potatoes and two nearly newborn puppies from the local pound. Then, just to spice it up, you get two guinea hamsters, a chinchilla and a nine foot Burmese Python a local exotic pet store with appropriately shady standards of animal care. You know... the sort where half of the animals look nearly dead anyway and a few of the snakes are kept in Cool Whip containers for fast storage.

You sit in your apartment, looking with glee over your menagerie, and wondering which to pick first.

Then it hits you... You can pick ALL OF THEM!

You recall, that sometime ago, you bothered to purchase one of these. and with just a little imagination, impromptu medical jaw spreader alterations, and a hint of fairy dust, you soon manage to shove the hamsters, most of the chinchilla, both puppies and one and a half potatoes into Mr. Python.

The creature flails around piteously, and with your ever so sensitive ears, somewhere beneath the dying cacophony of yowls, shrieks, and adorable potato noises, you can hear the sound of his stomach lining tearing apart from the strain of so much fullness. From somewhere within the bloat, a tiny little set of teeth starts to weakly press it's way out of his over-stretched skin before you can even start.

As you sprinkle him with the standard Haruspex's barley and wine, you can see a look in his trembling eyes. He wants to die. He understands.

You don't hesitate, and tear him in half with your tiny fists, starting at the jaws and ripping with a set of medical forceps you found along with your jaw-spready-thing. Although you aren't very strong, the animal concedes to let you work, and does not struggle as he falls into slivers of what looks to be writhing blood mottled-green bacon.

The cargo of his belly drops onto the floor in a matted mess of blood, fur, teeth and excrement. One of the puppies limps away piteously from the horde, looking like a drowned piece of living poo as it hobbles aimlessly, blinded by stomach acid and blood.

You look at the mess and for an instant it seems as one animal. One mind. You let them writhe as you look at Mr. Python's liver and unraveled viscera, and find that today is a good day to go sailing, and that you should avoid conceiving children if at all possible. That's what the books say at least.

Contemplating this, you hold the Chinchilluppamsterato (which is a good enough word for what it is) tightly to you and pet it firmly, squeezing fluid and bile from it's skin. You feel a strange sense of protectiveness to it, as if you had torn it from your own insides and not the serpent's.

It's never a good time to conceive children, Caroline? Never ever. Nuhuh. No way. Better that they should have strangled you in the womb. Better they should have gotten us all.

That's right.

Children and animals. They're like pieces of mutton to man. Maggots and worms for the birdies to eat and for Mr. McFeelMeBad to get his fingers inside, stupid cunts.


You don't want to be born then? I won't make you.

I don't want anyone to be born. Not ever again.


Like a girl made out of clockwork, you contract your arms closer and closer, ratcheting the mass of animals together in your loving embrace until they stop breathing and their suffering ceases and the auras from their mangled bodies fade into the ether.

You step on the puppy as you start to clean up. It doesn't even squeal.

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