the womb's undoing

The Womb’s Undoing

* * * * * * * * * * *

The Rooney quadruplets grew infamous for malevolence in Texas. But the borders of that state cannot contain their brand of madness.

When summer comes they’ll cause the Global Reproductive Crisis; a relatively swift extinction, unless somebody stops them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Elective hysterectomy is a devastating weapon. Beatriz Pfister used it to spoil Hank’s ejaculations. Now he’s dead. She’s elderly; no friends, no male companion.

One last true connection just might keep her from the casket.

So, when Deacon, Austin, Dustin and Justin—porn addicted, all—advance on Pfister’s home to launch a copycat assault, she risks an intervention that should have saved the World, but instead it fills those boys with rage befitting dogs of war.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Local law enforcement gets a tip from some musicians: The strangest hostage situation, ever, is occurring. A frail and feeble senior has been forced to wear a t-shirt, and it’s more obscene than tops they’ve seen on groupies, or on hookers.

When Chief Jimmy Ali suspects the brothers Rooney are involved, he exhausts the precinct’s resources, betrays the public trust. Still obsessed, years after jailing the quadruplets as juveniles, he’ll twist evidence, manipulate witnesses, and kill to secure their convictions.

The wettest dreams invading his sleep feature lethal injections.

Cortez, Melvin and Salvador get sidetracked while strategizing about how to handle the hostage crisis that’s unfolding in the Rooney quadruplets’ garage

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“What should we do?” Melvin asked, spitting out a fingernail.

The musicians watched the garage door from a nearby curbside. Shadowy shapes grew and diminished against a steady light source within, visible through a row of windows, up high, that permitted privacy. Although the dire circumstances of the woman inside demanded nothing other than compliance, they were feeling that a heroic rescue might suit this situation more so.

“We’ve got brains enough to trick them with.”

“Yeah, but trying and failing? Against these guys? We won’t be able to live down that sort of stupidity.”

“It is a big risk.”

The musicians grew silent, staring through the windshield. Physical injury’s odds were being left out of the discussion, and each one of them recognized it. Verbally, they couldn’t have justified such bravery. Great harm awaited.

“Taking a hostage, though? That just doesn’t fit in,” Melvin said. “If they’d called us up and we backed out on the agreement, then you’d almost have to applaud them for it. But this is more like they’re off on a crime spree.”

“Even if she’s their mom—and you can’t trust them one way or the other on that—I’m pretty sure, going by what I heard on the phone, she’s not being treated so good.”

“But is that any reason for us to try and be heroes, though?” Salvador asked.

“In case she’s in on it?”

“There’s always that chance, yeah. But I’m wondering if she’s even worth saving. We have to seriously ask ourselves, could a halfway decent human being have given birth to these guys?”

“Judging her by how they turned out, we should probably change our thinking. Flatten her skull with a sledgehammer instead.”

The suggestion lent a brief glint to each eye.

“Well, I’m all for getting excessive, but we can’t do that if we’re missing critical information. Rule is, you can only fault their mother for how they turned out if she neglected to feed them with her own two boobs.”

“Mel, that’s bullshit,” Cortez said. “You need the total picture. Genes. Child-rearing.”

“Nuh-uh. Trust me. Everything is nipple-centric.”

“I think you’re a little misinformed about how milk works.”

“Actually, the milk itself doesn’t matter that much. It’s all in the giving of the nipple.”

“So if a certified psychopathic female breast-feeds a future serial killer, she’s been no influence?”

“That’s right. The world’s at fault.”

“You must’ve been nursed with something sour,” Salvador laughed.

“Say what you want about me, but not nipples. They’re the hinges our civilization swings on.”

“Shut up, guys. We’re running out of time here. Either we come up with a plan, or we stand down.”

the bandmembers report the hostage situation to a skeptical Chief Ali, and the officers who arrested them for being Islamic jihadists

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Can I just repeat two words for you?” Cortez asked. “Sex abuse. A senior citizen might be going through that, right now, while you’re grilling me on little details.”

“Mister De Soto,” the chief sighed, tiring, “a fifty percent chance of abuse is half a chance, isn’t it? I’m not sending out detectives to investigate your untrained observations. Telling me it’s true changes everything. We’ll put you back downstairs, devote one hundred percent of our energy to seeing she’s safe, and pick up again with you three when we’re finished. So go ahead and make that happen.”

“I can’t.”

“But don’t you even care if she was tied up, though?” Melvin asked.

Ali meditated on the subject for a second. “Could be they were just playing Cowboys and Indians with their grandma. Did you see blood, weapons other than toy guns, or anything at all we might consider evidence of a life and death struggle?”

“No. But she was wearing a t-shirt with semen receptacle on it.”

Upon hearing this, Officer Beznicyk reassumed his original position, attempting to make sense of Melvin’s testimony.

Chief Ali, being equally intrigued, scrunched up his face and leaned with an ear. “What’s this you’re saying to me, son?”

“The words, semen and receptacle, in that order.”

“Printed right there? On the shirt?”

“Yup. Right where her tits would’ve been.”

“She didn’t have tits?” Officer Ardeneaux asked.

“No, she had ‘em. I meant, …if they mattered.”

Ali and Ardeneaux peered at one another weirdly.

“Those things always matter, Mister Fowler,” the chief boomed, taking great umbrage. “I’ll not have you sitting there defeminizing anyone.”

“I was only trying to say her tits’d been through the wringer.”

Ali had just begun to catch his breath, the better with which to school Melvin on respecting elders who may have breast-fed no less than ten ravenous infants, when Beznicyk said: “Sounds similar to the Hot Skank tank tops my neighbor started wearing right before her divorce.”

the band visits their comatose bassist, Dell, in the hospital; and, although they’re mostly focused on emptying the vending machine, avoiding his doctor proves impossible

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Looking up from yet another creme-filled cupcake, Cortez spotted Dell’s doctor through the door connecting this room to the rest of the ICU. A slim, built-in window above the knob framed a portion of the specialist’s head and shoulders. He remained there, swaying, perhaps delaying.

His hair, caked with pomade or putty, had been pulled into spiky tufts, and was all mussed; the half hour he’d spent styling it, pathetically evident.

Still, somewhere in the Children’s wing, a cancer-stricken lad who’d scrapped his dreams of joining a boy-band was wondering if chemotherapy works against jealousy. And all because he’d seen this particular doctor walking the halls.

Dr. MacDillo finally entered Dell’s room, his ultra-fashionable haircut radiating palpable waves of mid-life insecurity, and lonely nights yet to be cured by the purchase of a convertible.

Cortez and Melvin began coughing to conceal their laughter; and the muscles in Salvador’s face gave way, his smile widening to reveal chewed-up cheese-flavored crunchies among the teeth. Powerlessly, he began cackling, turning his friends’ stifled giggles into lung-emptying chuckles.

“Be sensible, gentlemen,” the good doctor urged them, doing his best to appear mystified by the outburst. “Comport yourselves.”

Though it took minutes, and multiple failures within that span for the musicians to settle down again, they grew silent soon enough.

“You three need to be mindful of the fact that this is a hospital,” MacDillo scolded. “The humor we encourage here is the kind that can heal, it is life-giving. If there is some great part of you, anyone of you, that believes comic relief can be mean-spirited, do not pass that on to the patients. You will be robbing them of the chance to be one of the miracles we have here.”

“Miracles are rare,” Melvin groaned as he rose from his chair, sickened by the doctor’s preachy tone. “Mirrors, on the other hand?…” And here he paused to glare at MacDillo’s frosted tips conspicuously. “They’re everywhere. That’s a fact most of society is mindful of.”

Briefly, the two shared eye-contact with an intensity that prizefighters practice.

Melvin pulled away first and, just prior to entering the in-room half-bath, pointed toward his own mirrored reflection and said, “See that? Nothing weird about me.” He closed the door, and could be heard laughing about it all, over the sound of piss hitting toilet water.

Shoving both hands as far into the pockets of his white coat as he could, and moving not an inch to be of any benefit to Dell, MacDillo appeared to be protesting the practice of medicine for the moment.

“Rolled out of bed late this morning?” Cortez asked. “Toweled off and ran?”

“No,” he replied curtly.

“Got stuck on the Psych Ward?” Salvador pretended to guess. “Tussled with some nut jobs?”

“At this point, it would have been nice.”

“Felt up a nurse?, …and she fought you off with a defibrillator?”

“Despite the perversion implied by that excuse, I’d feel fortunate to offer it.”

when Beatriz befriends the Rooney quadruplets, she assumes the role of honorary grandma, and makes them write letters of apology to their mom

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Warmed by their willingness to follow orders instantly, Beatriz took pity and granted them access to the full spectrum of human deception. Apology, although the last five letters of the word itself can be misleading, is not derived from the world of science; and Beatriz believed that inaccuracies would be crucial to the success of this experiment.

Precise language and flowery sentiment were expendable. The boys, being at a double disadvantage in these areas, were permitted to wing it without regard for the reader’s ear. Working together, they would write a single letter on loose leaf, darkening it to the margins with falsities galore. Then, instead of writing three others, she would help them to rearrange the original letter’s words so that four seemingly distinct letters of apology could be delivered.

Beatriz was banking on the fact that, once reduced to tears by the first of these, their mother would stop reading and leave the others in pristine condition, unsmudged by salty waterworks.

What follows are reproductions of those letters, which Irene Rooney submitted to the court as sole examples of “personal growth experienced by Deacon, Austin, Dustin and Justin while residing with Beatriz at Caramatchie Avenue”:

Ma,
This is because there’s things we always should have said, but didn’t. If it felt like we never meant to be kind, well, we’re just boys anyhow, and never stopped to wonder what can make a nice lady cry. We ain’t never held nothing against you, really. You did your best, and it’s up to us now just to admit that. We hope you’ve been getting a lot less sick. We’re becoming a band now, and we’ll pay you money someday.
Love,
Deacon

######

Ma,
You did your best, and you never should have stopped to wonder if it felt like we never meant things we said a lot. What? Well, anyhow, boys can make a lady cry. We’re becoming a band now, and it’s nice just to admit that. And we’ll pay up. We’re just. This is because there’s to be money someday. We didn’t hope you’ve always been kind to us. But really now, we ain’t never held nothing against you getting sick less.
Love,
Austin

######

Ma,
We ain’t never held nothing against you, and now we’ll pay you money someday. We hope it’s never up to us just to admit that. We’re just boys anyhow. Well, we really never meant to be kind, and stopped a lot to wonder what can make a nice lady cry. We’re becoming a band now, but didn’t. If it felt like there’s things we always should have said, this is because you’ve been getting sick less, and you did your best.
Love,
Dustin

######

Ma,
We’re becoming a band now. But we stopped to hope you’ve been getting sick less. Really. You never did your best, and we ain’t never held nothing against you, admit that. This is because it felt like we didn’t never meant to be kind. Well, we’re just boys anyhow, and it’s up to us now to wonder just what can make a nice lady cry a lot. And we’ll pay you money someday if there’s things we always should have said.
Love,
Justin

Mel and Sal leave the Rooney quadruplets’ hostage tied up in the garage, and abandon plans to rescue her; with the Rooneys locked outside, sitting in the driveway, a route of escape through the home is the only option.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Melvin unlatched the glass, and was figuring out how to jiggle the screen free, when a woman wandered into the room. Finding them there unexpectedly, she yelped; in and of itself, normal home-invasion behavior, but her next move was less than stereotypical. She didn’t lunge for something sharp.

“What’ve they done now?” Irene asked, dragging out syllables with a southern drawl. Her appearance, from the neck-up, called to mind a clown sucked dry of all vibrancy; curls the dullest red, and skin just a little less pallid than your average cadaver.

Instantly relaxed by the woman’s quick if general comprehension of their presence, Salvador sank against the wall with rounded shoulders. “A few things we’d rather they hadn’t,” he exhaled.

“Sounds about usual. I figured something’s afoot, especially with the mess they made out there.”

“Oh, that.”

“We had a plan, but it blew up in their faces.”

“Just desserts, I’d wager. You boys old schoolmates? Come seeking what revenge you can?”

“Not hardly, ma’am.”

“They your boys?” Melvin asked.

Irene might as well have been backhanded across the mouth. Her head swung right, then came around again, lips all twisted up and ready to make way for curse words. Instead, she said, “Whatever they’ve done, I don’t condone it.”

“So you share a family tree, but differ philosophically.”

“We’re here together and keep apart. Simple as that. Using words I didn’t doesn’t give it any special meaning.”

“No, of course not. We get it.”

“Get what?” Irene replied, stretching her neck, giving in to irritability.

“That there’s some distance.”

“Some? Some? Some makes it sound downright comfortable. Some’s enough to get a warm glow from. Distance I’m working with is worse than when they were embryos and I didn’t even know they were growing.”

“Ah.”

The musicians thought they sensed a tender moment of parental regret, and the unconditional love of a mother for her deeply troubled sons: “You miss them, huh?”

“There’s days it’s only the embryos I’m choked up over. Maybe I backed the wrong horse on abortion all those years ago. Brought those boys into this world, and been dying a little inside ever since. In my worst moments, I start wishing for a chainsaw to go and make changes with.”

The realization left Irene in a state relative, but not equal, to bereavement. Whatever measly measure of zest-for-life had been holding her upright, it couldn’t keep her from slouching. She began patting herself down, then pulled a toothpick from one of her plaid apron pockets and displayed it, in much the same way a magician will hold aloft, for far too long, an ordinary object earmarked for disappearance.

Irene was using the toothpick, in part, to announce a time-out, to recover from the sore subject. That she began digging aggressively, and with more elbow grease than seemed safe, endangered two things: her lower gum line, and the musicians’ belief that they were still somewhat welcome here, for she beheld them wide-eyed the whole time and may have been snarling. Unnerved, but balancing delicately on the line that separates guests from trespassers, they played up undying if silent interest in her bid for whichever morsel might be adding to motherhood’s unbearable burdens.

…

“Aha! Hmmmmmmmm,” she said, finally inspecting the offender. “Pesky little peanut sheath. Hate the sheath. Love the peanut.”

“It’s only normal.”

“Sure is.” And here she changed inflection: “However things might seem around here.”

“They seem fairly standard,” Melvin assured her, forcing it.

“Dishonesty doesn’t warm my cockles.”

“Also normal. Very normal.”

Irene leaned in, bending to catch Melvin’s lying eye. “This family’s warts would make Charlie Manson weep for Jesus, so don’t pretend it’s all hunky-dory.”

“Ma’am, if there’s anything strange or disturbing about what you’ve said, or the things you’ve been through, we’re missing it, ‘cause you sound just like our mothers,” Salvador lied. “Only one thing in this house that is a little off, and it’s the one we’re guessing you don’t know about.”

“What’s that, the window you all can’t open? It’s broken?”

“The hostage in your garage.”

“Wha?!” Her freckled hands flew into the air, propelled by fright. An instant afterward, she was getting her bearings, fishing for facts: “Is it breathing? Is it bleeding? Are you sure it’s not a manny-can?”

“It moves.”

“And it smells all too human.”