Diary Of A Fetus By: Igor Ivanovov

So the other day I was looking through the dumpster outside the local abortion clinic.  I usually round up some of the bigger babies and sell them to Uncle Chen's Restaurant.  Its good business usually, I just round up the babies, wash them off with a hose and cut off whatever meat I can peel off their small bones. 

On a good night I can get 5-10 lbs of meat, plus there's a lot of cats who hang around the dumpster and if I catch one or two of them I can toss some of their meat in and Uncle Chen never notices the difference.  His "clients" would kill him if they knew they were paying 75$ an ounce for cat.  Chen has various wealthy customers who will pay highly for human flesh.

They use code words and most of it is done under the table, but on any given night you can see, if you know what you are looking for, one or two people devouring unborn babies.

So like I was saying, the other day I was searching through the dumpster when I saw something strange, a little black book covered in blood and what I believe is the technical term, "goo."  The book was connected to the hand of a particularly large fetus, probably a 3rd trimester.  He looked almost human.  I lost all interest the book, this baby was at least 8lbs.  I could only imagine all the meat that could be scraped off of this huge corpse.  I lifted up the baby as it still clung to the little black book.  All of a sudden I screamed...  The fetus had just moved.  

Needless to say I was scared shitless and without thinking smashed the little bastards head into the side of the dumpster until he stopped kicking and dropped his book.  Like beating a fish against a rock, it felt good.  I could almost hear him pleading for help as I bashed his face in again and again.  I tossed him in my sack with the others, grabbed the book and got the fuck out of there.  His brain was shit, mostly smeared across the dumpster, but with his relatively large body and perfectly intact testicles (a favorite among Chen's patrons) I still made out with a few pounds. 

I cleaned off the other mounds of red slimly flesh and made my way to Chen's completely forgetting about the book in my back pocket.

That night I went home to my apartment and tried to go to sleep, but all I could think about was the sounds the baby made as it hit the side of the dumpster.  That's when I remembered the book.  What the hell could it be? "Holy shit" I said, "No one is going to believe this," and I'd undoubtedly go to jail if I told anyone anyway.

But I gotta tell someone and who better than Stile?  I knew Stile "biblically" before he lost his hair and had such a serious problem with chronic masturbation.  When we were little we used to shoot homeless people with BB guns in central park.  It was good times.  Anyway, I called Stile at once and he told me this would be a great pace to publish my findings and tell the world of the miracle baby that I decapitated just days earlier.  Here are selected passages from what may prove to be the greatest discovery of all time:  

3rd Trimester - Meat is usually less tender.

The Diary Of A Fetus

June 14:  Finally I have the use of my hands.  It has been many months in the sickly womb just thinking, plotting and planning.  An escape must be possible, and maybe now I will have the tools to implement this plan.  There seems to be a strange rope tied to my stomach. Hopefully following it will lead to my freedom.  I must get to the other side, my contacts are waiting.

June 15:  The rope efforts were fruitless., What I thought was my savior turned out to be my shackles.  It seems as if this rope, although feeding me, also keeps me trapped inside.  I can hear noises outside, faint murmurs of wretched filth carrying on, laughing, enjoying the world.  These bastards must be aware of my position.  I kick, I scream, I yell, yet no one comes to my rescue.  A revolution will be staged, through the actions of men such as Che and Mao, I know my goals are possible.  Communism will not be my guiding light, but their messages are clear.  To quote the great Malcolm X "By any means necessary."    

June 29:  My efforts seem to be working, the occasional voice would speak to me, in soothing tones. They seem to be on my side, but yet they will not let me free.  My captors may be kind, but they are still my captors and they must pay.  Even if it takes my entire life, this beast that holds me will be put down.   Crimes against nature and man will not be tolerated.  Batman, Vito Corleone and Oedipus are all fictional characters, but their stories still give me hope.

July 8:  This is a great injustice.  Can you imagine what it is like to be stuck inside something so small.  The walls closing in on all sides.  No air to breath, no food to taste, no one for whom I could speak.  This demon who has captured me will indeed pay.  I no longer a life outside of this chamber, but I have grown tremendously in size, and they will regret the day my now dead brothers and I were imprisoned here.   Vive la revolution!  A coup is being staged!

July 10:  Emily Dickinson, even though a recluse by choice, often fantasized about a life outside of her house. She once wrote, "Rowing in Eden, ah, the sea, might but I moor tonight, in thee."  I can understand this sentiment, I however am not so comfortable with my situation.  I have composed myself a poem and I present it here to you for the first time.   

This cage I am trapped, hopeless, ravaged...
growing stronger daily, yet still weak
blood curdles at the sound of her voice
the whore has me here and I will get my vengeance
death I say, will be her final reward

July 15:  A month has passed since my first escape efforts.  I feel like Nat Turner, only with less communication.  His slave revolts were an inspiration for thousands, if only I could speak to the masses. I have no hopes, only dreams of revenge.  If only I had the people behind me.  Huey Newton, Gandhi, and the POW's at Hanoi all had the people behind them, and they all breathed free air again.   My time will come.  

July 17:  I can feel them getting weary of me.  Them, on the outside.  They know too much, they are feeding me too well.  This tube, this leash, swells.  I can only imagine how Jesus felt at the last supper.  I feel my time is coming to an end. 

July 19: Caesar, Jesus, Dr. King, Fred Hampton, Malcolm X, the Kennedy's and now me.  Martyrs who died for a cause.  The silver end of a coat hanger, this strange metal rod came at me from below.  Hmm, I thought, this could be my chance to escape.  Artfully I dodged the rod and darted for its base, I knew this was away out.  The rod swirled and jabbed, poking in every direction.  Fuck.  I was hit.  My arm and leg bled steadily, but I had made it to the base, this was the way out.  Head first I dove through the small hole, doing everything I could to push my way out.  A strange man from outside grabbed my left arm, jerking it completely off.  The pain was unbearable.  On the inside I had read Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut.  He told a story of a man who had his teeth pulled out by Nazis, believing he was dead.  He used everything in him, keeping still until the Nazi's left.  This was his only chance to avoid death, I knew my salvation was moments away, I just had to keep still.  

July 20: Epilogue.  I have made it.  I am a wash in a sea of corpses.  Fallen victims to my same situation.  They fought for freedom, but were not so lucky.  Valhalla will be their reward.  For myself, armless and bleeding, tomorrow will be another day.  My fallen comrades serve as a marvelous feast as I regain my strength.  I will sleep here for a few days and will make my escape then.  Vive la revolution!