I meant to take all sorts of photos while dissecting the alien baby poo eggs. I really did. The thing was, they were just too delicious. Anytime I was anywhere near the fridge, where they must be kept chilled, I was too busy scarfing down these delicious hunks of goo to bother taking a photo. Perhaps it was the fumes, or the endorphines. Perhaps I must build up tolerance to such things before I am ready and able to push my will upon the situation.
Regardless, my girlfriend introduced me to alien baby poo eggs. She brought one in her purse that had – alas – been out of the fridge too long. It was dried up, and hard to chew. When we cracked the brittle outer shell, the poo eggs were all wrinkled up, pressed against the tiny pods where the protoplasmic bones of the baby fetus that pooped all that brown goo.
I did my best, and thought little of the stuff.
I was fortunate to encounter a rare artifact dealer who had a small supply of the alien baby poo eggs. For a fair price, I took home the whole box. I’ll miss my left hand, but it was a small price to pay for the rare pleasure of alien baby poo eggs.
I cracked the shells. I peeled back the bloody veins. I ate the alien baby poo raw. Every day, for a week, I filled up on the alien baby poo. Cracked eggshell littered the apartment. Discarded veins twist around each other in the kitchen sink. My fingers on my right hand – the only one left – are permanently stained brown from the resinous poo.
The babies, ripped from their placenta, litter the trash can. I can’t look at them. They seem to have eyes. They seem to hate me.
I wish I could stop. I can’t stop. Tomorrow, I’m going back to the dealer. I hear he’s looking for lucky human feet, a rare commodity on another world. I don’t want to know what he does to trade for all these alien baby poo eggs.