Chinese Baby Torture
Jerry G. Erwin
It was three a.m. when I heard the--what was that?
At first I thought it was coming from downstairs, as my neighbor (a Filipino lady) would occasionally have her boyfriend over, who watched stupid movies late at night, so I turned over, cursed the SOB, then covered my head with a pillow, and . . .
There it went again. Noise of an undetermined nature. Subtle yet distinctive, making it impossible to go back to sleep, and what the hell was that insomnia suffering fuck doing that he'd ruin a good nights sleep for me, when I had to get up early for work, and . . .
I lifted my head, listened, and realized it wasn't coming from downstairs. It seemed to be emanating from within my apartment. Some type of plumbing thing, and dammit, it would probably go on all through the night with that squeaking, creaking sound was it?
It stopped. Silence. Which somehow was louder, bothering me more, and . . . there it went again; squeaking, creaking with a not exactly scrapping, but something that seemed to be . . . sliding across the kitchen floor?
I was VERY awake now--sat up in the bed, listened carefully and got a creepy feeling of an undetermined presence in my humble abode, and . . . it stopped again, then . . . a specific sound of a door squeaking open--like a cabinet in the kitchen--then . . . closed? Oh shit. Someone was in my kitchen in the middle of the night, snooping around in my cabinets (which were mostly empty) causing my heart to race, and for some God only knows what would seem to be illogical reason I was suddenly flashing back to early that day at work, remembering a particular situation with . . .
A young, professional Chinese couple. They were at the mortuary/cemetery to make prearrangements for a funeral, including selecting property for internment. Their baby was dying. Some rare disease from birth, just three months ago, and it was only a matter of days before the end.
They seemed to be taking it well, as if relating to it from a larger perspective, which surely had something to do with their religious beliefs. Although I suspected some from of Christianity, they were making a big deal deal about the Feng Shui of the situation; the casket having to face a certain direction at just the right angle to assure spiritual balance. While making every effort to understand and respect their wishes in choosing the ideal resting place for their sweet little baby, I could not keep from noticing that . . .
The mother had big, beautiful tits.
Which the dying baby was nursing from, as if a normal, growing child, and I hated myself for such an observation, so attempted to distract my disgusting nature by also noticing the mother was wearing a designer cowgirl outfit, with horses, cactus, and lassos on the blouse, along with some very expensive looking, two-toned cowboy boots with shining sliver toe tips, and . . . what manner of Chinese Christianity was this? But it was not my place to judge or criticize anyone's point of view of life and death or how they dressed for it. It was only my place to smile and nod along to the costuming, and not be overly distracted by the mother's truly excellent attributes, which seemed to have large, dark aureolas, because she wasn't wearing a bra and . . .
I forced my sick brain away from the temptation and focused on trying to come up with the right placement of spaces at a 45 degree angle facing southeast, enabling the family and others when visiting to look down at the poor little tyke from the northwest at a 30 degree angle, particularly at twilight, when they would be most likely to visit in conjunction with their faith (I suspected some offshoot sect of Christianity, as ordinary, bible thumping rubes wouldn't be involved with some far eastern nonsense about facing this way or that, other than heaven being up and hell down) and . . .
More sounds from the kitchen. Another cabinet being squeaked open, then some undetermined, scuffling kind of sound, until that cabinet was closed, and . . . silence. Did an animal get into my apartment when I was doing the laundry? Possibly. A Opossum? Raccoon? They were smart enough to open a cabinet, weren't they? And if there was such a creature in there I'd have to be careful, because as cute as they look on the nature channel they can be vicious if cornered, giving one a nasty, infected bite, but for some annoying reason I was going back again to earlier that day at work in the cemetery, and . . .
I was happy for whatever the Chinese couple's take on God, because they wanted to purchase a lot of spaces for future family members, along with a very elegant marble bench with ornate, marble flower vases on each side. Seeing as how I was supporting my full grown, healthy daughter who was in college, the commission on eight to ten spaces with a groovy bench in one of the more prestigious areas of the park would be quite tidy, thank you, although I was further distressed to realize that . . .
The baby's mother was wearing a sharply cut thong beneath that sheer white, cowgirl skirt, and what manner of faith--Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, or some perverted offshoot of any/or parts of them--allowed a soon to be grieving mother such latitude when it came to revealing her totally hot Chinese body, making it all that more difficult for a practicing heathen like myself to keep the rapidly accelerating math together on all converging and conflicted levels of race, religion and sexuality, although . . .
The husband was not dressed like a cowboy. Basic shirt and slacks and he was all business, calmly and specifically discussing the cost, terms, and conditions of the eventual sale. I was pleased to hear him say something about owning his own software company, figuring it would make it more likely he'd be able to afford a one hundred thousand dollar contract, as I made every effort to stop looking at his wife's exposed breasts, tightly thonged thighs, and well rounded ass in that goofy but intimidating Chinese cowgirl motif, as the dying little tyke suckled at those killer, Feng Shuied tits, and . . .
I couldn't wait until morning. I had to deal with it. Immediately. Besides, what if I went back to sleep and there was a wild animal in there and it crawled out and made its way over to my bed where it would sniff around my sleeping head until it decided to sink its sharp, wild teeth into my neck?
I got out of bed. Moved toward the kitchen. Didn't turn on the light, fearing a shocking, madly scampering cockroaches in the light scenario--only on a much worse level--so just stood there a moment and listened. Total silence, and--no, wait, it wasn't--there was a muted sound coming from somewhere in that kitchen, from one of those cabinets? I was tempted to call 911 for animal rescue to come over, but something else told me not to do that; some part of my mind that had an alternative theory as to what may have been lurking in the fourth cabinet to the right of the sink, was it?
I approached that cabinet, leaned down, took hold of the tarnished brass handle, and . . .
Did the husband notice me stealing lurid glances at his wife's body? Would it greatly offend him on multiple, Chinese/offshoot Christian levels, canceling out the profitable secular sale? I had to be positive, I had to come up with an alternative theory (excuse) to distract me from the negative (reality). In a stroke of genius I embraced the possibility of him deriving subconscious pleasure from having a woman who other guys coveted; that he enjoyed the idea of strange men drooling over her creamy Asian flesh, and--was this being positive, or common lurid fantasy?
Whatever level I was working from, her physical presence, like my potential commission, was too impressive, so I had to believe that he WOULD get off on such a thing--that he, in fact--was the one who wanted her dressed in such a goofy, revealing way (going so far as to pick out all that silly ass shit at some trashy Hollywood Hoe boutique), satisfying his hidden, dark kink of imagining strange, un-religious men aggressively molesting her succulent Chinese being at a 37 degree angle facing north, south, east and west.
Yeah, that worked.
Darkness. Silence. As if whatever was in there was trying to go undetected, and I was about to close the cabinet when I noticed the oh so subtle but profoundly distinctive gleam of . . . an eye . . . within the musty, unused void of the cupboard? Opossum? Raccoon? Gremlin? Fuck. While tempted to slam it shut and dial 911, I didn't. Once again, a sub-thought in my mind was telling me something else, to keep looking in there, because if I did go beyond my fear and leaned in a bit more to get a closer look . . .
The Chinese couple were getting back into their car to leave, with the totally hot mom turning to say something to her all business husband, when I made direct eye contact with the little dying baby. And for just a disconnected and isolated nano second I thought I could hear, as if from that baby's eyes . . . a call for help? A pleading of the most desperate nature? His tiny, baby Asian eyes seeming to say . . .
"You have to get me out of here, away from them, away from her! She isn't feeding me, she's starving me! She's feeding me death! She really isn't my mom! She's not even Chinese! PLEASE, hide me from her! Protect me! Don't let her--"
A loud knock on the door. I froze. And I realized that the eyes peering out of the kitchen cabinet were soft, wet, frightened, and--oh shit--this wasn't happening. This was my mind distorting the situation, this was not real, this was not--
Another knock, even louder. Violent? Oh Christ, but yes, and the wet, pleading eyes--real or imagined, animal or otherwise--moved back into the darkness of the cupboard, trembling in the musty, empty space, and I had to do something, I had to--
Another loud knock. Whatever angry thing it was it wasn't going away, because there was something alive in one of my kitchen cabinets, but I surely had imagined all the talking, dying baby shit, due to the ill-effects of being so turned on by the Chinese mom's luscious bod, because a woman's sensuality can have that distorting power over a man and . . . I put my hand on the doorknob, slowly turned it and--
"I want him back!" she screamed at me the moment I cracked open the door--pushing me aside and barging in. It was her, the mother, still wearing her designer cowgirl outfit. "I know he's here!" she jerked her head all around.
"Who's here?" I stammered.
She gave me the nastiest, how fucking dare you, smirk, then said: "You know who, you conspiring, horny fuck!" She was frantically looking around, her big, pointed boobs bouncing angrily in the night.
"I don't know who or what you're talking about." I was trying so hard.
"Oh, sure you don't," she rolled her eyes. "I saw you making eye contact with him just before we drove off."
"So, just cut the I don't know what you're talking about act, mortuary man. You know good and fucking well that I'm talking about my dying baby!"
"What?" I was about to tell her what a ridiculous assumption it was to think I knew anything about the whereabouts of her baby, when I sensed . . . a stirring from the cupboard? Oh shit. But how COULD such a thing be possible? When and how did her dying child sneak into my apartment?
"Just hand him over!" she demanded, and could I sense a distinct trembling from the cupboard? Oh God, no. But could it be possible the child, in its dying desperation had made a bond with me; a bond that transcended all worldly restraints, allowing his little baby being to manifest in my--
"What bullshit story did he give you?" she smirked.
I just stared.
"Did he tell you I was starving him?"
"That I feed him death?"
"That I'm not his mom?"
"That I'm not even goddamned Chinese?!"
"Look at these slant eyes, mortuary man. What do you think?"
I could only stand there with my mouth open, making sure I didn't glance into the kitchen, giving away the poor child's hiding place, and--my God, there was a baby in my cabinet?--as she would surely rip him out of there and her eyes WERE slanted, but she could have been Korean, or Japanese, or had been in some weird, disfiguring car accident, and--"
"I know what you want," she said in a low, raspy voice. "I knew it the moment I arrived at your cemetery and you were all excited about showing me and my husband that expensive property and marble bench while you not so subtly stared at my pendulous breasts with dark aureolas."
Moot point. But I didn't say a thing. Just stood there. Motionless. Holding my breath, and I knew the dying baby in the cabinet was doing the same, as the mother stepped up to me, smiling in the most cynical and condescending way as she calmly unbuttoned her blouse, allowing her big, pointed breasts of truly magnificent nipples to fill my eyes and I could sense the baby panicking, but . . .
Mommy wasn't done. As much as I wanted to tell her to get the hell out of my apartment I could only stand there in the darkness, as helpless as the dumbest of cows on its way into the slaughter house, as she proceeded to fluidly remove her western motif skirt of cactus, lassos, and horses to reveal firm, shapely Chinese hips and ass and . . .
The baby in the cabinet was about to burst in his ordeal of knowing the chances of me not giving into such an awesome onslaught of female parts highly unlikely, rendering his existence--no, his tiny soul--null and void, as . . .
His mom slipped off her flimsy black panties, revealing a detailed and colorful tattoo of culturally induced proportions, riding suggestively low on her perfectly rounded and smooth pubis, as if the cross of her savior when he gave everything from heaven and earth for her sins of ill-begotten, fleshy reasons, if not plain old 21st century Southern California fashion.
It WAS miraculous . . . the sick, depraved, and truly unholy fucking that followed (a good hour or so), with the baby curled up in the cabinet in a terrified, fetal ball, desperately praying to a Jesus who was surely too distracted by me and his mom's moral depravity to hear the child's tortured pleas, until--
"Okay, asshole," she muttered to me as she finally got out of bed, quickly dressing back into her degenerate cowgirl outfit--"now that you got what YOU wanted . . ."
I was trapped. I had succumbed (once again) to my lowest desires, finalizing the truly evil bargain in her legally binding (on so many levels) flesh, suspecting that her conservative, down to earth business husband was surely waiting out in the car, directly in front and below my bedroom window, getting off on his wife's ability to manipulate man, God, and physics, as . . .
The poor little tyke screamed in horror the moment she opened the cabinet and yanked him out, and continued screaming as she hurried from the kitchen and on through my apartment, his little arms flaying hopelessly away in her grip, screaming even louder as she rushed him down the stairs and into the car where that sick bastard of a husband with a successful software company started up the engine and peeled out into the thick, black night, and . . .
Sometimes, I go up to the top of the hill near the church, just in front of the luxuriant marble bench with matching marble vases, to look down at a 30 degree angle upon the final resting place of that poor little baby, facing south, and in the arms of Jesus as any dead baby should be?
I hope so.
I also hope (pray) that he not complain too heatedly to our Lord concerning my betrayal over so pathetic a matter as his mother's ungodly bazooms. Because, in all fairness, Jesus himself was a victim of far lesser a temptation.
Thirty pieces of silver?Please.