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The muscles in the little volunteer’s lithe arms flexed against the taut leather straps, each healthy fiber articulated in a biological spasm of fear. He thrashed on the gurney, arching his back in a final helpless act of rebellion.
Terror glazed his beautiful chestnut eyes before rolling in the back of his head until, finally, the anesthetia delivered him to a fitful oblivion. The doctors finalized the preparations. The little angels trembled with excitement.
Their filthy dream was coming true.
It was a revolutionary idea, one that moved the good people at the foundation to action. The request was unprecedented but simple: A healthy boy child.
Now everything was almost ready.
Wheelchairs rolled and back and forth in a mechanical dance of approval. Leg braces clattered with tribal excitement. Syringes squirted in the air with jubilation. An inchoate moan of anticipation filled the sterile white room. Sickly chops were licked. The convulsions were orgy-like, but these little angles didn't have lust in their hearts -- they had revenge. Cold and black and consuming. Revenge.
They lumbered toward the boy. The doctors cautiously backed away.
They wouldn’t need those quilts anymore, or the pity. They’d always have this memory to keep them warm.
The little angels smiled. Their wait was over. This was their time, but, alas, it was running out...
Date Written: April 16, 2004
Average Vote: 4.3333