Red Eggs

How Arnold loved the sauce freshly sizzled and piping hot, straight off the frying pan. About five jellied eggs was all that was needed for a thick, zesty broth. His guests loved it, too. He could have gotten away charging a lot more than ten dollars a jarful, but it didn't really matter all that much.

Two eggs would flavour an omelette for breakfast, and the aforementioned five could make an extraordinary pasta sauce if one added a little basil, salt, and pepper. Come dinnertime one could mix them into anything from salad to soup. It didn't matter if they were boiled, diced, fired, or baked; they still tasted heavenly. Like a perfect mix between a tomato and good, young veal.

Arnold scooted into his favourite comfy chair, huddled up with an extra large mixing bowl of pasta. Red sauce dribbled from his chin onto his ruined shirt, staining the once beloved garment further. Flavour came bursting from the melted remains of the foetal eyes smashing between his molars.

It was a perfect afternoon, a perfect day, and a perfect life. Well, as far as Arnold concerned himself.

He’d have to rub her again that evening. Every other day she needed to be rubbed, otherwise the eggs wouldn't make. Around twenty minutes of non-stop rubbing usually did the trick, but on colder nights this number could rise to almost an hour.

The sun started to set on that chilly October day. Arnold estimated that she’d need to be rubbed for about thirty or forty minutes. Arnold stretched as he shifted from his comfortable sitting position to a standing pose. Judging by the groans, he’d need the heavy-duty gloves and goggles for this one.

“Lord please give me the strength,” Arnold said to himself as he fumbled with his black trunk of equipment.

The groans grew in volume as Arnold approached the cellar with his equipment. They were especially loud now that he was out living room, which he had specially padded to keep out the noise.

The sounds continued to rise from the cellar, and were like a mixture of a young child bawling in pain and a furnace expanding from its own heat.

She had grown at least six times over since Arnold first bought her. She was more or less a fat lump of off-white flesh, groaning over her own existence. Beady black eyes peered back at Arnold, as if trying to intimidate him.

She had been somewhat cute when he first bought her. She was just a tiny thing, cooing softly whilst cuddling against his chest under his smoker’s jacket. The man in the ‘fake Rolex salesman'-type getup called her a wonder pet. A creature that needed almost no care, just water and whatever table scraps you had leftover.

He never mentioned how much she’d grow. Now she sat in that cellar all day, eating what little leftover pasta or soup he had to throw to her. However, the salesman didn't mention the eggs, either. They appeared underneath the creature daily, golf-ball size and usually forming in batches of ten or so at a time.

Arnold couldn't recall what possessed him to eat one of the eggs. Curiosity, perhaps? The smell?

Nonetheless, Arnold had become addicted to those little crimson gels. Occasionally a foetus looked out from its jelly womb, up at Arnold. If Arnold didn't know better, he’d have said that the foetuses wore an almost frightened expression, as if they knew their fate.

The creature gave an agitated moan as Arnold began to work his gloved hands over what appeared to be her abdomen. The now overweight Arnold grinned to himself, excited over the yearly block party coming over tomorrow. He couldn't help but thank the horrific creature he worked over for making him the host, as it was his ‘amazing home cooking’ that won the whole neighbourhood over.

The creature began to let out an atypically guttural moan. Arnold grinned ear to ear as reddish liquid began to pool under the pasty blob. There would be plenty of eggs for the block party.

The next morning, Arnold went down with his bucket and gloves to start harvesting. He wore a boyish grin as he trotted down the steps, ready to become the talk of the town. As he shifted the creature over to begin collecting, Arnold saw something that truly frightened him.

The eggs weren't there.

He decided to play it cool, and gave the creature a more vigorous massage.

It was mere hours before the party was scheduled. Arnold went down to check on his creature. He once again trotted with his big metal bucket to scope up eggs.

Once again the eggs were absent.

With thoughts of humiliation on his mind, Arnold flew into an unbridled rage. He pounced the creature, pounding her abdomen in blind fury. The skin of his knuckles broke on the surprisingly tough flesh of the beast, yet he continued to pound on the creature like an enraged gorilla.

He continued to beat the flesh until large, violet bruises formed. He continued to beat the creature until her groans turned into eerily human shrieks of agony. He continued to beat the creature until he felt a slight prick on his ankle.

Arnold looked down at his leg to see a dozen eyes, blacker than the darkness of the cellar, peering up at him. He could feel several sliding up the leg of his pants, with each one pricking him with increasing intensity.

For once, the cellar fell silent. The creature did not moan as her children ate their fill.