A Demented Short

The screeching of the babies didn't bother Dekkard as he sat smoking a cigarette eying his work. It had first started as a faint but dark idea that had grown until, at last, Dekkard had simply given his conscience the finger and went to it. He paused in his thoughts briefly, reaching out to tighten one of the many straps on his new creation. It squealed pitifully as he leaned back, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Dekkard knew that Paul was somewhere in the house, more than likely in the basement trying to prove that he could indeed skin a hooker in less than twenty minutes if she weighed less than one hundred and fifty pounds. So far, Dekkard had won the bet and hadn't had to clean up after Paul since they had begun the challenge. That alone made him smile, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the low light that the odd film on the windows let in. His creation began to cry again. Dekkard cursed and picked one of the rejects off the floor, chucking in the general direction of the sound. He sighed when the dead child missed his intended object and made a soft splat sound as it landed in the hall and continued to slide until it reached the stairs where it began it's short life as a slinky. He idly wondered what the parents of all of the ones he had messed up on were up to before shrugging and moving back to the table.

Dekkard giggled as he approached the thing. Gleaming wires and clear tubing wove in and out of the spikes, giving the device the look of a toaster from hell. Except for the four or five babies that poked out from a few places that is. He couldn't remember how many he'd used, only that it had been a bitch harvesting them, Glad bags could only hold so much, and with the new air tight models they had, it was always a pain to find that one or more had died in transit. Dekkard had once tried to poke holes in the bag but had been rather drunk that evening. Needless to say, it didn't go as planned. He winced at the memory of the way that he'd had to stop the car to get his knife out of the body. Not professional at all, he thought. A muffled scream reached his ears and he started to move toward the source but realized it was Paul and yelled for him to be quiet and that he had a migraine. The babies on the device began to cry again. Dekkard groaned and grabbed a dirty sheet from the pile nearby and tossed it over his creation. Maybe that would shut them up. It worked with parrots so he was sure it would work for this purpose. He went to his room and laid in bed staring at the dark stains on the walls and ceiling. Tomorrow would be a better day, he was sure of it. He glared at the costume that his work made him prance around in, the CC initials on the character's hat. Dekkard smelled pizza and felt bile rise in his throat.

Oh yes...

Tomorrow would be better...