A scientist exists in a far off world, a world like ours but a thousand years into the future. He is experimenting. He has
his ingredients:
1.The faeces of a cow that he has fed nothing but Indian food for 3 years.
2.The hair infested vomit of a flea-ridden street cat.
3.The sweat of the fattest man in the world, mopped from the folds of his hairy, unwashed backside and squeezed it into a bowl.
4.The heart of a cannibal from a girl he stole at birth and raised in his dungeon, making her eat nothing but raw flesh off human bone.
5.Finally, he took the brain of his younger brother. A boy he drove to savagery and murder through years of torture and experimental surgery.
He takes the ingredients to the top of his mountain lair at the turn of midnight. A full moon beams through murky violet clouds, lighting up the witches pot that he uses to churn and boil his mixture whilst reciting ancient spells and curses. Slowly the skies overcast with the dim, purple veil of cloud and thunder rumbles and lightning cackles.
“MWAH HA HAAAAA!”
The potion squelches and pops in the reflection of his jar-bottom glasses as he laughs at Thor’s bolts of fury, striking the ground around him, sizzling at his feet, illuminating his madness for all to see.
The man is a lunatic, a psycho. He knows it. He takes a dirty syringe from the recesses of his white lab coat and slips the tip of it into his ghastly, squelching concoction. He sucks out a full tube.
Now he walks to his
basement, coiling around the cold, winding staircase that cuts deep into the heart of the mountain. He keeps his maniacal eyes on the oozing needle for every step.
Inside, his basement reeks of bile and sewage. It is crammed with cylinders leaking multi-coloured fumes from bubbling formulas of gunk and slime. Glass chambers clamber the walls, where inhuman creatures float lifelessly in murky liquid with tubes passing in and out of their bodies. He walks through them all, unconsciously weaving his way between, his eyes on the needle all the time. He reaches a titanium volt, encased in the back wall.
Slime drips over his hands as he twists in the combination and pulls open the heavy door. A blue light meets his psychotic eyes and he stares at a new glass cylinder before him. Inside it, floating on the pockets of air being blown from the base, is a womb. He cut the womb from a bound and gagged witch through what he deemed the most accessible route. She was awake the whole time, vomiting and screaming through the pain. He loved every second.
Unceremoniously, he arcs his arm over the top of the cylinder and dips the syringe into the water. Then he stabs into the womb and, with a malevolent grin, injects the concoction of sick, excrement, sweat, grime, heart and brain into the womb. Now he stands back and watches in awe as the uterus swells and gags on the foul slop slowly dispersing inside. Nine months later, The News of the World was born.