Drunken Baby – A Villain’s Beginning

Read Part One: Birth of a Hero!

Wash­ing­ton DC – Hyper Lucy’s Super­mar­ket,  2.15PM

Look, pal, we ain’t don’t got none of the things you wanna buy in this here store.” A store man­ager of the Hyper Lucy’s in Wash­ing­ton is talk­ing down a cus­tomer want­ing to pur­chase break­fast cer­eal. The store is all out though, and has been for weeks. “You want that, you’re gonna have to go some­where else, buddy. Some­where else that ain’t not this store.”

Two cus­tom­ers hurry from the back towards the man­ager. “Sir, sir!” they cry, “there’s some­thing awful happened round the back aisles of your shop!”

Can’t be no worse than what I got hap­pen­ing in front of me now, can it?” says the man­ager, turn­ing away from the breakfast-desiring man, “I’ll come look at what it is or ain’t what not to be.”

He walks down the centre aisle, the two cus­tom­ers stick­ing back at the entrance and watch­ing him. Fear meta­phor­ic­ally oozes from their pores. Shlurp. Like that, but not.

The man­ager rounds the corner. “Well, God damn,” he says. “Earl,” he yells, “Got some­body done gone left a baby here again.” He can see the carry case lying on the floor, whatever it holds turned away from him. He gradu­ally walks towards it, coo­ing gently “hey there, little fella, or ain’t you a fella per­haps, and a girly instead? Don’t make no dif­fer­ence to me, we just gotta get you out of the shop and,” he pauses as he reaches the car­rier, kneel­ing down to turn it around, “let’s just take a look at you, eh?”

The baby is fat.

A scream echoes around the build­ing, the man­ager runs back to the front of the store, pant­ing and out of breath. His face is red. “Earl,” he yells at the guy behind the counter, “put that phone down and call the cops instead. This ain’t not just a dumped baby we’re deal­ing with.”

Twenty minutes later, the cus­tom­ers and staff are hav­ing their state­ments taken by police. The man­ager is stood by the door talk­ing to the officer in charge. “You did the right thing, call­ing us,” the cop says, “some people try to handle situ­ations like this them­selves. Gets messy.”

I ain’t no fool, sir,” says the man­ager, “I been brought up right and I know when some­thing is too much more’n I can handle.”

That’s good. Good head on them shoulders, I can tell.”

In the back of the store a SWAT team has grouped down amongst the aisles, weapons ready.

Joe, Car­los, I want you two circle round the other side, move up ahead of it, keep its atten­tion. Me and Jim here will move up behind, get this thing sur­roun­ded, grab him and bring him in. Any questions?”

What do we do if we think we’re in danger, sir?”

Joe, you’re new, but I’ll tell you the same thing I tell all my men. You get into a bad situ­ation, you trust your gut.”

Alright, sir.”

Let’s go, boys.”

Thirty seconds later a shot­gun blast is heard.

Car­los! Oh Christ! Carlos!”

Move!” screams the cap­tain. Him and Jim round the corner of their aisle. “Grab the carrier!”

Jim dives at it and wraps his arms tight around the handle. “Got him, sir! Got him!”

The cap­tain runs over to Joe, who’s kneel­ing next to Car­los’ body. Blood is sprayed over the freezer coun­ters next to them.

I couldn’t take it, sir. I thought I saw some­thing, I pulled the trig­ger. I couldn’t take it. I lost it, sir. Oh God, Carlos.”

Son, he knew the risks when he signed up to this op.”

Fif­teen minutes later and a body bag is being wheeled out of the store. The carry case has been slung in the back of a police van. The man­ager and officer still stand out­side the door.

Thing I don’t under­stand, sir,” says the man­ager, “is how does a kid get that messed up in the first place?”

Well, that’s the worst one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve heard a lot of the­or­ies about it. Some folks reckon they’re born like that, oth­ers that they’re cursed by witches or God or the devil or whatever. Wanna know what I think?”

What do you think?”

The officer pulls a lighter from his pocket and a pack of cigar­ettes from another. He pulls one out, places it in his mouth and lights it. He takes a long drag “Me?” he breathes out, white smoking wreath­ing his face, “I blame the parents.”

In the police van, sat in his carry case, a fat tear rolls down the chubby cheek of Fat Baby.

Read Part Three: When an Unstop­pable Force meets a Fat Baby!

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