Adam Pepper
SUPER FETUS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is not intended as a social statement. People read this story and often ask me if this is an anti-abortion piece. It is not. Others ask me if this is supposed to be a satirical pro-choice piece. Nope. No political agenda here, friends. Others have told me this story offends and upsets them. I can accept that, but I didn’t write this story simply to offend. I wrote this story because I thought it was good wholesome American fun and because it occurred to me that there simply aren’t enough positive role models for our young, developing foetuses today.
Enjoy!
ONE
I think mommy wants me out of here. She keeps muttering, whining, bitching and moaning. Complain, complain, complain, like a two-year-old-to any poor sap who’ll listen.
“My feet hurt!” I hear her say. I can feel her squat while trying vainly to rub her swollen toes. “God! How am I gonna squeeze those humongous things into my shoes.”
Oh, please, Mother. Get over it.
“My stomach hurts!” she groans while rubbing her aching belly and belching like a truck driver after downing a six of Old Milwaukee. “My waist used to be twenty-five inches.”
Yeah, okay, Mommy. When you were like fourteen, maybe.
“My ass is fat!” she whines while pinching the ripples of her own ass with her bloated thumb and forefinger, then shaking the unsightly flab up and down, as if that’ll somehow magically make her blubber-packed bottom shrink. “If this wedgee goes any further up my butt, I am going to freak. It’s disgusting! And I am not getting into those giant maternity underwears.”
All she does is complain!
“I have to pee again,” she sighs, then scampers to the bathroom, squeezing her insides together so as not to have an accident. I can feel her thighs squinching together to the point that I’m getting a serious headache.
“I’m hungry again,” she says at least five times a day, then raids the fridge of anything and everything, depending on the craving of the moment; could be ice cream, could be sardines; could be pickles, could be grape jam. Sometimes it’s none of the above. Other times it’s all of the above, slapped onto a potato roll and devoured in four bites, tops. Which is followed by the inevitable lament, “I ate too much again.” And then, of course, the ensuing tummy rubs, more belching, and more farting. She’s such a lady, my mom. She’s so dainty.
Wah. Wah. Wah. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Moan. Whine. Complain. Over and over and over again. For ten fucking months now I’ve been listening to this!
As annoying and irritating as it is, the constant bitching I can deal with. Don’t get me wrong, it drives me up the wall, but I can tolerate it. It’s not like I have anywhere to go. I can’t just turn the radio up and ignore her either. But like I said, I can accept the whining. But the sobbing fits. These hour long stints locked in the bathroom, Mother consumed with her self pity. Those kill me. “Goddamn it, why am I pregnant.” Duh! Do you need a biology lesson, Mother? Or perhaps you need to brush up on your anatomy. And then, “Why me, God?” That one always pisses me off. And worst of all, “Why is this happening to me?” That one really hurts. Doesn’t she know I’m her child? All she can think about is herself… that miserable bitch!
I think mommy wants me out of here. But I ain’t going anywhere.
Wah. Wah. Wah. “My feet hurt.” Wah. Wah. Wah. “My ass is fat.” Wah. Wah. Wah. “My boobs are huge.”
It never fucking ends! She constantly cries. Who’s the baby here?
Wah. Wah. Wah. “I’m hungry.” Wah. Wah. Wah. “My back hurts.” Wah. Wah. Wah. “I have to pee again.”
A broken fucking record. She’s as predictable as a game of tic tac toe and her bladder’s as hyperactive as a Special Ed kid who spit out his Ritalin when no one was looking.
I think mommy wants me out of here. But I ain’t leaving!
Ten months and counting… and I’m here to stay.
TWO
“It can’t be!” Sue Ellen squeezed her eyelids shut, then opened them again. There was no way. It wasn’t freakin’ possible. She blinked, and blinked again. But the damn thing wouldn’t change.
“Fucking positive! How can it be fucking positive?”
Last night she’d gone to Rierson’s Drug Store and bought three different home tests. First thing this morning, she’d balanced over the bowl, teetering like a drunken hobo on a busted seesaw, straining like hell to make sure she didn’t miss the stick with that first morning urine. What a nightmare that’d be; then she’d have to spend another twenty-four hours in god-awful suspense. They all said the same thing: positive. She was pregnant.
“It’s just not possible,” Sue Ellen kept telling herself, but the dipstick don’t lie. She slammed down the lid-a painful mistake as the noise of plastic smacking porcelain felt like a waffle skillet had been slammed shut on her skull-then sat down on the toilet seat and put her head in her hands. She rubbed her throbbing temples, trying her best to ignore the racket coming from the other side of the bathroom door.
“Holy mother of God… I’ve been knocked up again.”
Sue Ellen paused, staring at the mouldy off-white tiles of her bathroom floor, trying to find an answer. Could she really be pregnant with another snot-nosed, sass back, drive-me-up-the-wall, rob me of my youth and beauty, pain in the mother lovin’ ass, kid?
Hell no.
Another kid! How could this have happened? She’d been down this road: three kids in four years, with three different fellas. Here she was, four years since Elie-Dre’d been born, looking to start all over again. The swollen hands and feet. The cravings. The weight. The delivery… lord help her the delivery!
Sue Ellen stood up and reached into the shower, turning the hot water knob as far to the left as it would go. She wanted her troubles to fade the same way her refection did in a coat of steam that quickly covered the mirror. But when she wiped the mirror, the same pissed-off, sad face was still staring back at her.
She slid the shower curtain to the side, about to get into the hot shower, but she just couldn’t shut out the outside world any longer.
“Momma! Open up! Open up, Momma!” The voice on the other side of the door was hollering and banging away at the door with an open hand. “Open up! Open up!”
What choice did she have? The boy would keep yelling until his throat went sore. And he’d keep banging until his hands turned blue. It was Elie-Dre, her youngest. “Momma! I really gotta go!”
“Oh, alright. I’m comin’!” she yelled, even though she knew the boy couldn’t hear. No sense bothering with a robe or towel, so she just opened the door and then stepped aside.
Like The Little Engine that couldn’t wait another second, Elie-Dre barreled in, his zipper already undone. He whipped out his little manhood and a stream of pee sprayed wildly.
“Goddamn it!” she yelled. Then she grabbed the boy by his round head and turned his eyes towards her. “Lift the seat first,” she said, slowly enunciating each word.
“Sorry, Momma. I gotta go real bad.”
“Well wipe the seat with toilet paper when you’re finished.” She gestured with her hands to the roll of toilet paper and moved her arms around in a circular motion.