After his kerfuffle with Edison, my dearest Nikola moved out west. I have neither the constitution nor the funds to accomplish the westward journey. I have come to the realization that I may never dine upon sweet Tesla's discarded follicle leavings. I am growing a baby made of hair inside of my body. Has my tracheobezoar grown as big as it will grow? What will become of my child?
I lay nude, broken-hearted upon my latticework of old potato sacks and pigeon feathers. My attic lodgings overlook the busy city. I see the people animating their limbs, lurching down the street, their shadow beasts following closely. Why is it so easy for these soulless mechanations to find love and so hard for me? I see them frolicking about the city, dancing and exchanging fluids. I must press on. There must be other men worthy of my tedious attentions. I cannot give up on my hair baby. I will find him a new father.
I begin my love safari at the local slaughter house. The strong odor that exudes from butchery inflames my sexual fortitude. I hide within the midden pile watching the man-beasts brain and dismember creature after creature. The elderly heffer's lulling eyes as the hammer-man ends its existence unleashes memories of passions past. The final guttural squeal of the hogs sounds of my mother being taken upon by lover after lover.
My life-mate must be here. The one with which I will share my body, inside and out, exists within these blood stained walls. I can feel it. But I look and look at the shambling men working the killing floor. They are all shimmering transparencies of life. They are nothing but reflections of demons trying to be people. These are not men! I will smash their mirrored lies with my rage made manifest!
My. . . . AAAAAHHHHH!!! The brain-worms have begun their daily feast. I can feel them dining, I can hear their conversations. Brain-worm stock market, brain-worm politics. brain-worm world affairs. These aristocratic brains-worms are one of the most potent of my many banes. The pain fades, my scream went unheard, disguised by the final, desparate cries of hundreds of beasts.
I must make certain that these murder-men are not up to the fatherly snuff. I creep along a row of hanging cow quarters, gently gliding behind my quarry. A large, shirtless, burly Spaniard works the ham hocks like an aged pro. He does not sense my presence. I slide on my belly behind him and breath deep of his scent. The smell of the butchery has filled his every pore. I am enticed. I reach out with my pinching fingers and gently pluck a single hair from the Spaniard's back. His head turns abruptly, my body turns with it. His eyes do not spy me taking shelter beside his hip. He returns to work and I slide back behind the hooked meats.
I place the greasy back hair onto my tongue It is sour. I swish it about my mouth and swallow. The hair makes its way to my baby, my sweet tracheobezoar. I will let him decide if this Spaniard is to be his new father. I wait for several moments and no response. What is wrong my baby? Suddenly my throat lurches and my stomach is emptied of it's contents. Half digested apples and pigeon meat litter the floor of the slaughter house. And atop the steaming pile, a single hair.
It seems that this Spaniard did not meet my sweet child's ridiculously high standards. I will continue my searchings, brain-worms or no! A baby needs a father and a mother needs a husband. I stealthily shamble out of the meat factory, unfulfilled but more determined than ever. I will not give up on my hair child until it is forcibly removed from my cavity or either I or everyone else is dead. All of the options sound lovely.