It was supposed to be like Build-a-Bear.
But with babies. Not real babies. Fake babies. Babies with rubber heads and cloth bodies.
“You dress the babies,” I said. “They start with a nude baby and then they just work their way down the line. Putting clothes on it. Hats, you know? Overalls.”
“What about hair?” asked Doug.
He had a point. And I had a solution. He was always trying to ruin my life, but I wasn’t going to let him this time. I was done playing second fiddle to a fucking neurosurgeon.
“The one with the flies?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. The one with the flies.”
It was also the one with 100 gallons of eggs that I’d whipped with a wooden oar.
“They take the baby, dip it’s head in the eggs, get it nice and coated, and then Mark here hits it quick with the blowtorch.”
I walked over to Mark.
“The flame scrambles the eggs into a nice, fluffy head of blonde hair.”
“Hmm…” said Doug. “And what if you want a brunette baby?”
I moved towards Doug to punch the smirk off his face, but Mark blocked me with a gigantic arm. I gripped the arm like a huge piece of corn and even started to bite it like corn.
“Don’t,” said Mark.
And I didn’t. I stopped.
“A test run is in order!” I shouted.
I grabbed a nude doll, dipped its head in the eggs and then zapped it with the blowtorch. The open flame immediately ignited the rubber and the baby’s face melted down into a look of exaggerated anguish.
It took all three of us blowing simultaneously to extinguish the flame and by the time we finally had it under control, the baby’s head had been reduced to a seared mess. The eggs, though indeed scrambled, had ultimately fallen through the baby’s ruined scalp and settled like brains in its empty skull.
Mark started to say something smart-alecky about how the baby’s charred head made it look like a brunette, but I shot him with a gun. Then I shot Doug. And then I shot myself, but in the leg so I would survive. But there is an artery in the leg so I ended up dying even faster than Mark and Doug, but to care is to say that dying is a race and that’s an immature way to look at anything.
“Except actual races,” said ghost Mark.
“Yes, Mark. Except for actual races.”