When I heard men are not capable of getting pregnant my first thought was the fuck you say. I scoffed at the naysayers with their mouths full of nay. There used to be a time I believed in limitations, but that was before a blind illiterate made a million dollars as a painter of poetry. You know who I’m talking about. So I devised a plan… then crafted a better one and went with that.
I paid a young prostitute named Maria to take my seed. Several days of passionate screwing passed before I managed to sperm-punch her egg, but by god we got the job done. Let it never be said hotels for transients aren’t fertility temples; and that bellows probably helped a bit. (…dare I confess to the love between Maria and I that caused her to kill herself later when she realized she could never love me as much as she wanted, in addition to discovering her father was her brother, her mother her aunt, all descended from British royalty.)
After allowing Maria to carry the child for three months, I had the fetus removed then inserted into an artificial womb designed by a man claiming to be Japanese and a scientist. This pseudo-womb was then implanted in my abdomen. The surgical procedures went smoothly, although the fetus amputation did cause Maria to cry for several weeks. An unexpected consequence I tried to remedy with heroin, but even after I nodded out I could still hear her sobbing down the hall, ruining my high.
I carried the child for two weeks before becoming bored with the whole endeavor. Granted, there were three or seven men in the world anxious to see me successful. However, these individuals, with their constant letters of encouragement, disgusted me. They desired to experience the miracle of carrying life and birthing it into the world rather than winning a bar bet as I intended. Still, the idea of contributing to the creation of a whole new type of freak, as well as winning two bucks, motivated me to overcome being bored and strive for victory.
There are many things one learns while pregnant. Mainly it’s an education in how much it sucks to be with child. But there are other things like how spiteful bartenders can get upon realizing they’ve been serving tequila to a pregnant person for five hours, or the way casinos will make the ridiculous assumption you’ve surgically implanted some kind of cheating machine… the astonishing amount of cash porn makers will offer… how quickly your own mother will call you vile for getting pregnant. And Christ Almighty, the mad cravings as if the fetus is in a position to make demands. Don’t be getting uppity little one, we’re at the top of a flight of stairs… though that goat cheese pizza did kick ass.
In any event, another three months passed. For two days I’d been convinced my abdominal discomfort stemmed from constipation brought on by opiates. Following a quick examination by Dr. Winston “Cinnamon” Wallace, the self proclaimed Japanese scientist, it was discovered the artificial womb had malfunctioned. It’d been designed to swell in order to accommodate the growing fetus. For reasons not yet understood at the time, the swelling control mechanism had failed, and the faux womb was growing unchecked. Cinnamon gave me two options: end the experiment immediately, or risk having my abdomen distended till it ruptured in a flood of all around unpleasantness.
Before deciding, I called my friend with whom I’d made the bet. He confessed there was some temptation to insist I carry the child to a full term. However, he admitted such thoughts were more the result of disliking defeat than a wish to see me dead. He paid the two dollars in pennies, and I instructed Doc Cinnamon to quote Get this thing the fuck out of me before I die end quote.
The surgery saved my life, and initially fucked me over in the process. We discovered the baby had been dead for some time. Some time being since we’d removed it from Maria. For the last several months I’d been carrying a dead baby in my belly. I’ve experienced worse revelations, but not many. When my buddy heard of this he declared himself the victor since he defined pregnant as a state in which one contains a developing embryo. Because the fetus hadn’t grown inside me he considered my effort a failure. The dictionary had the gall to agree with his assessment of pregnancy, so I conceded defeat, and returned his two dollars. Maria killed herself not soon after. I recall standing by her coffin, which on reflection shouldn’t have been open since she set herself on fire, and being haunted by my defeat. But it’s been said… fortune… bold… something lemonade windows.
The artificial womb acted as a hermetically sealed mausoleum. The baby never decayed which was probably good for me what with the corpse being inside me; and there are a surprising amount of people who don’t want to give up their dead children. Just ask Rick Santorum. So I began Cinnamon’s Bottled Babies. It seemed better than Womb Tombs. We provide people with the means to live in the fantasy that all is well. The grim day of the stillbirth never arrived. And I think that’s worth two dollars.
I paid a young prostitute named Maria to take my seed. Several days of passionate screwing passed before I managed to sperm-punch her egg, but by god we got the job done. Let it never be said hotels for transients aren’t fertility temples; and that bellows probably helped a bit. (…dare I confess to the love between Maria and I that caused her to kill herself later when she realized she could never love me as much as she wanted, in addition to discovering her father was her brother, her mother her aunt, all descended from British royalty.)
After allowing Maria to carry the child for three months, I had the fetus removed then inserted into an artificial womb designed by a man claiming to be Japanese and a scientist. This pseudo-womb was then implanted in my abdomen. The surgical procedures went smoothly, although the fetus amputation did cause Maria to cry for several weeks. An unexpected consequence I tried to remedy with heroin, but even after I nodded out I could still hear her sobbing down the hall, ruining my high.
I carried the child for two weeks before becoming bored with the whole endeavor. Granted, there were three or seven men in the world anxious to see me successful. However, these individuals, with their constant letters of encouragement, disgusted me. They desired to experience the miracle of carrying life and birthing it into the world rather than winning a bar bet as I intended. Still, the idea of contributing to the creation of a whole new type of freak, as well as winning two bucks, motivated me to overcome being bored and strive for victory.
There are many things one learns while pregnant. Mainly it’s an education in how much it sucks to be with child. But there are other things like how spiteful bartenders can get upon realizing they’ve been serving tequila to a pregnant person for five hours, or the way casinos will make the ridiculous assumption you’ve surgically implanted some kind of cheating machine… the astonishing amount of cash porn makers will offer… how quickly your own mother will call you vile for getting pregnant. And Christ Almighty, the mad cravings as if the fetus is in a position to make demands. Don’t be getting uppity little one, we’re at the top of a flight of stairs… though that goat cheese pizza did kick ass.
In any event, another three months passed. For two days I’d been convinced my abdominal discomfort stemmed from constipation brought on by opiates. Following a quick examination by Dr. Winston “Cinnamon” Wallace, the self proclaimed Japanese scientist, it was discovered the artificial womb had malfunctioned. It’d been designed to swell in order to accommodate the growing fetus. For reasons not yet understood at the time, the swelling control mechanism had failed, and the faux womb was growing unchecked. Cinnamon gave me two options: end the experiment immediately, or risk having my abdomen distended till it ruptured in a flood of all around unpleasantness.
Before deciding, I called my friend with whom I’d made the bet. He confessed there was some temptation to insist I carry the child to a full term. However, he admitted such thoughts were more the result of disliking defeat than a wish to see me dead. He paid the two dollars in pennies, and I instructed Doc Cinnamon to quote Get this thing the fuck out of me before I die end quote.
The surgery saved my life, and initially fucked me over in the process. We discovered the baby had been dead for some time. Some time being since we’d removed it from Maria. For the last several months I’d been carrying a dead baby in my belly. I’ve experienced worse revelations, but not many. When my buddy heard of this he declared himself the victor since he defined pregnant as a state in which one contains a developing embryo. Because the fetus hadn’t grown inside me he considered my effort a failure. The dictionary had the gall to agree with his assessment of pregnancy, so I conceded defeat, and returned his two dollars. Maria killed herself not soon after. I recall standing by her coffin, which on reflection shouldn’t have been open since she set herself on fire, and being haunted by my defeat. But it’s been said… fortune… bold… something lemonade windows.
The artificial womb acted as a hermetically sealed mausoleum. The baby never decayed which was probably good for me what with the corpse being inside me; and there are a surprising amount of people who don’t want to give up their dead children. Just ask Rick Santorum. So I began Cinnamon’s Bottled Babies. It seemed better than Womb Tombs. We provide people with the means to live in the fantasy that all is well. The grim day of the stillbirth never arrived. And I think that’s worth two dollars.
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