By Madeline Perez
I look around and I see ignorance. I look inside myself and I see nothing greater. We are all ignorant of something and I do not claim to know all. The truth remains that the masses are riddled with great holes. Holes in their knowledge. Holes in their hearts. Holes in their ass. Lies perpetrated by the powers that be would lead you to believe that some of you DO, in fact, know where the arcane creature “baby” comes from. Or even what a “baby” is. But I have consulted the ancient texts and I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong. So utterly, dangerously wrong.
Long ago, in a town plagued by darkness and greed, a king lay dying. It’s ok though, he was a terrible king. It was a terrible town. At this point, babies had yet to torture the ertheral plane with their wretched existance. Human beings were a small race that were simply uncovered from the earth fully grown, like potatoes or various root vegetables. They knew not the modern horrors of “being red-pilled” and wouldn’t be able to comprehend the tragedy of the “soy wojak.” The soil was fruitful and nutrient rich, and the magic of the realm filled the biological potholes of my story. A council of town superiors surrounded the grand bed of the king, where countless women had laid in the sweet, sticky summer warmth of eras past. The ghosts of these memories danced around the room, seen only by the blind eyes of the dying king. The council stood respectfully, waiting for him to choose a successor. Waiting for him to die.
His withered, shaking hand rose while blind, glazed eyes looked through each
member. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could see the weight of their souls, as such was the power of the king. His disease-ridden, disgusting old-person hand seemed to falter… and then it fell. “None of you are fit to rule. Not even the Girlbosses among you.” he strained. Though weak, his voice still held the gravity of one who was once powerful and unforgiving. “You all must band together and find me a true successor. Or else thou mother beist gay.” With that he let out a final shriek and died violently. The council turned toward each other in murmur and shock. They hated the king with unparalleled rage, and his last decision cemented the hatred in their hearts indefinitely. But the council respected his dying choice. They wished none of their mothers to be gay.
The council took up temporary rule, but resentment bred within. They coveted one another with sinful glances, tossed carelessly and then hidden away in dark places. The king’s wish haunted them, but they knew not a suitable townsfolk who could rule, and would all rather die before seeing a fellow councilmember take control. It was in this desperation they broke all societal norms and consulted the Department of Witchcraft to help construct the perfect heir. However the throne was reclaimed, it would not be with grace. They knew that much to be true.
A full moon gleamed high. Blood would be spilled tonight. The witches cackled in boisterous, feminine glory; they had been paid nearly 300 gold pieces and were laden with empty promises from nearly all the members of the laughable virgin council. Little did they understand the weight of their promises, and would be held to their necks until fulfillment at the coven’s whim. The witches congregated from all directions of the silent forest, their breasts perky with malicious intent. The leaves fell one after the other in the autumnal darkness. A comically large cauldron sat in the middle of the clearing, rusted and helpless to time. They were commissioned to create an early human. One that could be trained, raised– easily influenced. One that could be reared to become a great ruler of their domain. If only they knew the horrors they were about to unleash on the world. They would not be laughing. They would be crying.
The broth bubbled happily within the deep cauldron. Each witch added a silly little ingredient that they felt reflected humanity. Dirt was tossed in handfuls. Glitter abound. Three cups of flour. You know the drill. Finally, the witches gathered around the soup. Each took a blade to her respective palm. Their eyes gleamed with moonlight as they watched the red spill; they did not feel pain. Not since the initial severing of their souls to serve the Moon Mother. Suddenly, there came a rumbling from the cauldron. The witches stepped back, smiles wider than Wide Logan. The ground shook as their rapturous laughter flew into the sky. Then stillness. Silence. One brave and sexy witch stepped close to the cauldron, prepared for the worst. And it was the worst she would receive.
A high pitched cry rang out across the land. It curdled the blood of all who could hear. The witches fell to their knees in discomfort, eyes forced shut and still-bloodied palms to their ears. What creature was this? What banshee could utter such a terrible cry? The town would never receive new royalty. The town was actually doomed due to its proximity to the baby cauldron. The cauldron rumbled off its mighty stand and toppled over. It was too dark to see. The witches, no longer amused with themselves, stared in horror at the pot as a puff of glitter pooted out. The cry continued, and it was troubled. It was moving.
A small human crawled out on its underdeveloped knees and terrible gremlin hands. They had never seen anything like it. It’s face was in a horrific scowl and stared down every one of them, cursed in its own existence. The witches were ashamed at what they had created. They averted their eyes. All at once, another cry rang out, this one more terrible than the last. And another. And another. It was deafening. The baby cauldron started overflowing with babies. The witches shrieked and ran for the strength of their bravery only went so deep. The masses of babies smelled the positive vibes of the townspeople and decided that they just wanted to ruin it. Like a tidal wave they spilled out of the forest and into the town. It was so bad. Fires erupted around town square. The screams of the townspeople were drowned out by the sound of unwanted responsibility being thrust upon them. The one brave and sexy witch from before watched it unfold from a distance as the others could not stand to. She knew something had to be done. Something to at least minimize this crazed baby-centric damage that would surely destroy the land and all its resources.
The witch stalked the cauldron from behind. It was tumbling and rumbling as babies spilled out in high velocities not yet seen in the olde world. She knew she must be silent, as the awful creatures would surely sense her presence and tear her limb from limb. Slowly, she took out her blade from its sheath. Still dusted with blood, it would have to do. As she held the blade over her head, a fragment of moonlight was reflected and shone in the eyes of a crazed baby. It hissed at her and lunged with terrifying speed, but it was too late. The blade came down onto the center of the cauldron, and it cracked with a satisfying crunch heard all over the globe, kind of like when I eat a cheeto. The spell was broken; no more horrifying little babies were being produced. The witch was incredibly smart and sexy, but she had forgotten the self-preservation of the magical cauldron. Before she could react, the shattered pieces rose into the air and stayed there for a moment, taunting, just out of her reach, before they quickly flew off in separate directions into the darkened sky.
Legend tells us that those pieces went around the world and landed directly on peoples heads, killing them instantly. Those pieces went on to produce babies, just at a much slower pace than before. Their wide eyes and goo goo gaa gaa noises tricked stupid humans into helping them survive. To this day we remain stupid and the race of babies continues to trick us. We have only managed to partially domesticate them, but still we try. Still we suffer. And so we shall until time approaches infinity.