by Strand, Jeff
I woke up out of a dream and glanced over at the alarm clock. 2:21 A.M.
I couldn't fall back asleep.
Killing babies all day was wrong.
No. No, it couldn't be. Mr. Twitcher was a decent man and one hell of an entrepreneur. Chopping those newborns in half with his machine was right and proper. Anybody who said otherwise was just trying to cause a ruckus.
You know that isn't true. Those babies don't deserve to be severed like that, their corpses discarded like useless refuse. You've got baby blood on your hands, and someday you'll have to answer for it.
I put in an honest day's work.
You put in an honest day's baby murdering! Those babies could've been future doctors. They could've written classic works of literature, or brought the world laughter or fashion sense. But you had to go and chop 'em in half, you sadistic bastard.
"Stop it!" I screamed. "Stop it! Stop it! Leave me alone!"
I was suddenly glad that I lived alone, since that kept me from having to explain why I'd shouted, "Stop it!" at my own brain. I pulled the blanket over my head and squeezed my eyes shut, but sleep wouldn't return.
Six years of working for Mr. Twitcher.
Eight hours a day, five days a week, doing nothing but chopping babies with his miracle machine.
Was I a monster?
My stomach hurt.
I lay there, miserable, until the alarm went off at six-thirty.
The next day was almost unbearable. I watched Garry grab an infant off the conveyer belt and wondered if its mother was part of the picket line. I wondered if the poor thing was terrified out of its mind as Garry strapped it to the slab. I'd never really considered that the wails of the infants might be signs of terror — I figured babies just cried a lot — yet now I couldn't help but believe that the child was aware of its own mortality, its own violent demise.
Sammy, who we called Fat Sammy even though he was only moderately overweight, pulled the main lever back with both hands. I watched as the giant blade sliced the baby neatly in half through the belly button. Then I scooped the pieces into the bag, sealed it, and wiped up the blood, feeling almost as if I were hiding the evidence of a terrible crime.
I opened the lid of the disposal unit. The final step of my job was to toss the infant into the unit, bag and all. The remains would be thoroughly ground up, and then the semi-liquid substance would be sucked through a tube into the crematorium, where it would be burned to ashes in batches of ten. The ashes were then scattered to the wind. All in all, it was a very efficient process.
The next baby squirmed so much that Garry could barely hold it. Fortunately, he got it onto the slab without incident — Mr. Twitcher didn't like Droppers.
That unfortunate, innocent creature. It will never get a chance to grow up, to laugh, to lose its first tooth, to even grow its first tooth, to have a birthday. Chopped in half as its mother lies on her bed at home, weeping, asking God how He could let this happen . . .
I realized that my eyes were beginning to moisten. I frantically blinked the tears away, hoping nobody saw.
What was happening to me?
My world, once as comfortable as a pair of well-worn socks, was a spiral of confusion. I didn't know right from wrong. Good from evil. Heaven from Hell.
The enormous blade slammed down, halving the infant with a splatter of crimson, ceasing its cries forever.
And I gasped.
My fingers trembled as I stared into its dead eyes, its lifeless gaze. I hurriedly put it in the bag, facedown. I took hold of its left foot, which wore a little pink bootie.
No, not its left foot. Her left foot.
What was her name? Charlotte? Vanessa? Tina?
I bet it was Tina. She looked like a Tina.
Some drops of blood hit the cement floor as I tried to get Tina's lower half into the bag. "What the hell are you doing, Joey?" Garry called out. "Be careful!"
I mumbled an apology and got the rest of the baby in the bag. I sealed it and shoved the whole thing into the disposal unit, feeling amazingly queasy.
I knew then what had to be done. I had to talk to Mr. Twitcher. I had to find out why.
Though he was a stern man, Mr. Twitcher always had an open-door policy for his employees. Few ever took him up on it, because he wasn't the kind of person you would invite to dinner or chat about last night's television programs with, but his office door was indeed ajar as I approached it after the lunch whistle blew. I knocked.
"Come right in," he said.
I pushed the door open all the way and walked inside. Mr. Twitcher sat behind his desk, peering at me through his spectacles. He was an elderly man, nearly bald, with a crooked nose and thin mustache. He pushed some papers aside and folded his hands on his desk. "Welcome to my office," he said. "Please have a seat."
I nodded and closed the door behind me.
"I'd prefer you left the door open," said Mr. Twitcher. "I can't very well purport to have an open-door policy for all employees if the aforementioned door is closed, now can I?"
"Of course not. Sorry, sir," I said, opening the door just a crack. I sat down on a chair in front of his desk, hoping that nobody would walk past the office as we spoke.
"So what's on your mind?"
I wasn't quite sure how to tactfully bring up the subject, and so I blurted it out: "Why do we kill babies?"
Mr. Twitcher seemed nonplussed by my query. "Ah, the real question is, why wouldn't we kill babies?"
I waited for him to elaborate. He did not.
"It's just that . . . I like my job, of course, but I can't help but think that we ought not to chop up infants."
Mr. Twitcher frowned. "Why would you say such a thing?"
"Well, they're innocent babies."
"Innocent? Since when does innocence provide value? That's nonsense, hogwash, and poppycock. Tell me, what has a baby done for you recently?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Of course nothing! Have you ever changed a diaper?"
"No, sir."
"Well, I have, and let me tell you, it's an unpleasant process. Babies do nothing but cry, soil diapers, and spit up. I defy you to name one other thing that a baby does."
I considered his challenge for a moment. "They coo."
"Coo? You think that cooing is a benefit? If I wanted to hear something coo, there are plenty of better sources than a baby, trust me on that." For a moment I thought that he was going to banish me from his office, but to my surprise, Mr. Twitcher smiled. "You're not the first person to bring these concerns to me."
"I'm not?"
"Oh, no. Far from it. There are plenty of individuals who feel that my baby-chopping operation is questionable at best. You'd be amazed at some of the names I've been called."
"Such as?"
"Baby Killer, for one. But I don't let it bother me. I hold my head up high as I walk into my factory each morning. For I know that I am in the right. Cooing aside, babies contribute nothing to society."
"Not as newborns," I agreed. "But when they grow up —"
"Oh pish-posh. I've heard that argument a hundred times. Let me ask you something. Are you a hard worker?"
"Yes, sir."
"And do I pay you a fair wage?"
"Absolutely, sir."
"Well, let's imagine that I hired you expecting a hard worker and paid you a fair wage. But for the first twelve or thirteen years of your employ, you did nothing at all. Would that be a sound business decision for me?"
"I guess not."
"You guess not? You know not! Yes, babies eventually become productive citizens, but until that time they're the epitome of laziness and wanton consumption. By the time they're ready to contribute, it's too little, too late. That's why I chop them, grind them, and burn them. Do you understand?"
"I think I do."
"Excellent. Feel free to stop in with any other concerns. My door is always open."
I walked to the lunchroom, feeling at peace with the world. And for the next few months,
I was one of Mr. Twitcher's best employees. Garry and I even beat the baby-chopping record. Only by three, but we still beat it!
Sometimes I'd make a game of it, tossing the halves into the air and trying to catch them in the open bag. Unfortunately, Mr. Twitcher didn't approve of horseplay in the factory, and we were both reprimanded.
Then one day we came into work and saw a great big tent next to the machine. Well, not a tent exactly, but rather something covered with a huge white sheet. Mr. Twitcher stood in front of it, proudly, and gestured for us to gather around.
"Behold!" he shouted, tugging off the sheet. "My Miracle Puppy and Kitten Dicer!"
It was truly an impressive machine. The steel gleamed in the fluorescent lights. Unlike the Baby-Chopper's single slicing implement, this contraption had no fewer than eight blades. Awestruck, everybody moved closer to get a better look.
"So we're killing puppies and kittens now?" Garry asked.
"We certainly are! Lots of them! And I'll give an extra day's wages to the first person who can tell me the best part of my new invention!"
I immediately raised my hand. "It can chop eight at once!"
Mr. Twitcher shook his head. "No, no, no, no. One at a time. That's the only way to do it, Joey, one at a time! Who else has a guess?"
There were other guesses, none of them correct. Mr. Twitcher grinned. "It won't kill them right away!" he announced. "Eight blades of the sharpest steel, but they won't damage any vital organs! The canine or feline will remain alive to die a slow, agonizing death as we watch!"
Everybody applauded.
"That would've been my next guess," Garry muttered, although I doubted his honesty.
And so Mr. Twitcher expanded his empire. We chopped and diced all day, and though I couldn't explain it, another mild sensation of guilt began to wash over me during the following weeks. I started to wonder if I was sick. Perhaps I had a brain tumor, or something even worse.
I went to the doctor and had a full physical examination. He assured me that I was perfectly fine.
So what was wrong with me?
I lay in bed, again unable to sleep. I thought about the last puppy. It wore a collar that said "Woofy" and had held onto its chew toy until its final moment of life. I couldn't get the image of the puppy's soulful eyes out of my mind. Why? Why did this torment me so?
And the truth instantly became crystal clear.
Killing puppies was wrong.
Killing kittens was wrong.
And, yes, even killing babies was wrong.
There was no moral grey area here. Every single weekday I walked into Mr. Twitcher's factory, and I did terrible things. Ghastly things. Unforgiveable things. I was worse than the mugger who stole an elderly woman's purse. Worse than the vandals who covered exquisite statues in spray paint. Worse even than the businessman who cheated on his taxes.
In fact, I was worse than the first two put together.
Well, this was going to stop. The next time a precious kitten was dismembered, I would not be the one to pull the lever to release the stainless steel blades! Tomorrow morning I was going to march right into Mr. Twitcher's office and tender my resignation.
I felt as if the weight of a thousand anvils had been lifted from my shoulders. I now understood the sense of happiness, the bliss, the feelings of self-worth enjoyed by those who didn't murder babies and kittens and puppies as part of their daily employment. I was one of them now. I was pure.
I almost got out of bed and marched to the factory right then and there, but nobody would be at work in the middle of the night and my moral victory would go unnoticed. Instead, for the first time in my career, I showed up to work fifteen minutes late.
"Where've you been?" Garry demanded. "We've got a baby backlog!"
"I don't care," I said, calmly.
"What?"
"I don't care. I'm not killing any more babies."
With some effort, I climbed on top of the Miracle Baby-Chopping Machine, standing on top of the slab, although not where the blade could get me. Climbing on the equipment was strictly forbidden, but I just didn't care anymore, not even when I saw Mr. Twitcher come out of his office to see what was going on.
"There is evil in the world," I announced. "We may think it exists only in faraway lands, but it exists right here in our own town. In fact, it exists underneath my very feet. I've been walking around with blinders on, but no more. No more! Only yesterday I was like the rest of you. I gave no more thought to chopping up a baby than I did to eating a bagel. And that is deplorable. More than deplorable. Yesterday when I looked into the mirror, I thought I saw a man, but instead I saw a beast!"
"Get the hell down from there!" Mr. Twitcher shouted.
"I will," I said. "I will get down. In fact, I will get down from this whole appalling operation. Because no matter how you justify it, it is flat-out wrong to murder babies just because you don't like them. And the same is true for puppies and kittens. They may not pay taxes, but they have almost as much of a right to live as we do!"
I gazed into the faces of my co-workers. I knew they did not believe me. They thought I was a madman.
But you know what? That was okay, because I didn't speak my words of wisdom for them. Nor did I make this speech for the babies of the world, nor the puppies, nor the kittens.
I did it for myself.
I climbed down from Mr. Twitcher's machine and walked out of the factory, forever.
Please don't call me a hero. I'm just a regular man whose eyes opened just a little bit wider that day.
I kept in touch with Garry. He told me how Mr. Twitcher unveiled a third machine, this one capable of stretching a panda bear to twice its normal height before the cuddly creature split. Garry's eyes gleamed as he described the device, but my own eyes were unimpressed.
Because I won't torture an innocent panda bear. I'm not that person anymore.
Sometimes in life, you have to take a stand for what you believe in. That's what I did that warm August morning. And you can do it, too. You may not save any lives, and you may not make the world a better place, but if you can stop yourself from making it worse, then you've done your small part to help.
Me, I can look in the mirror again.
And I like what I see.
THE CARVER
Though Frank always thought that using those trace patterns to carve impressive jack-o-lanterns was cheating, he had no such reservations about using them on humans.
"Why are you doing this?" his victim wailed.
It was the sixth or seventh time the man had asked that. Frank wasn't sure why he cared. Frank knew that if he were strapped to a chair with a trace pattern taped to his face and a madman slicing at him with a scalpel, the motive would be irrelevant. Maybe the man was just trying to fill the awkward silences between screams.
"I'm doing this because I'm insane. Doesn't my mad cackle make me sound insane?" Frank asked, knowing perfectly well that it did.
"Please . . . just let me go!"
"That would be kind of silly. I went to a lot of trouble to get you. You resisted when I tried to put the burlap sack over your head. Remember that? You bit me on the finger. Right here. You didn't quite break the skin but you came close. After enduring that, why would I just let you go?"
The man began to weep.
Even though he fully and cheerfully identified with the label of "psycho sadist," Frank didn't like it when they cried. Screaming was awesome. Choking and gurgling were also nice. But when his victims cried, there was always a tiny part of Frank that thought, Am I doing the right thing? Could I somehow put my cutting skills to better use?
He always got over it quickly, though. "Stop crying," he said.
"Please," said the man, still crying, "my wife is pregnant."
"Is she?"
"Yes."
"Why aren't you wearing a wedding ring?"
"I'm allergic."
"To what? To gold?"
"Yes."
"I think I've heard of that, a
ctually. But how come I've been tracking you for the past couple of days, and I've never seen you hanging out with any pregnant women? You tried to pick up that one lady at the bar, but I didn't really get a 'pregnant spouse' vibe from her. I mean, I couldn't hear the whole conversation, but she did kind of shake her head at you a few times and then leave with a different guy. Based on what I observed, if you really do have a pregnant wife, then I should be mad at you, and torture you longer and more ferociously."
"Please . . ."
"You already said please. Manners don't help."
"I didn't do anything to you."
"You're right. You didn't. And if I kept shouting 'Revenge!' the whole time I was cutting you, that argument would have some substance. But since I've given no indication that my actions are vengeance-based, it was a pointless thing to say."
"I'll do anything."
"Like what?"
"Anything."
"Would you stab a baby?"
"What?"
"If I brought a baby in here right now, would you stab it? Not dozens of times; just one really good stab. Maybe in the soft part of its head. Would you do that?"
The man didn't answer.
"Hey, for all you know I've got a newborn in the next room and this could be your key to freedom. Would you, or would you not, stab a newborn baby in the soft part of its head if I promised to let you go?"
The man was silent for a long moment. "Burn in hell," he finally said.
Frank desperately wished that he had a baby in the next room, so he could bring it in and see if the man would really stab it. But he didn't have one, and he didn't have any way to get one outside of fathering one himself, which would take too long.
"That's a no, huh?" Frank asked. "I can respect that. If I were in your position, I'd be all like 'Bring that baby in right now! Hell, line ten of 'em in a row and I'll stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab . . . uh, was that nine or ten? I think it was nine. Stab. But you're a better person than I am."
Frank slashed the scalpel across the man's chin. The man winced. Frank wished he'd winced louder.