The Day of the Wild Babies
A couple days ago I got into a subway heading to one of those underground places and I spotted a picture of two babies on a throw away diaper advertisement.
I suddenly was overcome with a feeling of déjà vu. It reminded me of the Day of the Wild Babies.
It was six years ago. I was in an expensive three piece suit and had the world by the tail. My limousine was in for repairs, so on a lark I decided to take the city tube. I forgot where I was going but it was probably either to buy soy bean futures or to close a drug deal.
I got into the train and looked up. Staring me in the eyes were the orbs of six dozen wild babies—each with a mother in tow. I turned and tried to jump out of the train, but I was too slow. The door slammed shut, ripping all the eyelashes from the left side of my face.
I turned back around and there were the babies—the wild babies. They eyed me the way a pack of wolves eyes a wounded rabbit. The emergency button was just beyond my reach. I let out a scream, but it was an empty gesture. The babies were upon me before the train had even cleared the platform.
The horror, the blood shed, the guts spurting. And then there was the drool. It was too painful even now for me to talk about coherently or in any detail. But the Day of the Wild Babies was a day I will carry with me to my grave.
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Submission Name: The Day of the Wild Babies
