Birth of a Contestant

My mother didn’t pack a nighty, slippers or her toothbrush in her overnight bag waiting for the delivery of her first daughter. Me. She packed a make-up kit, hair spray and a tease comb.
She sat up and grabbed the little one, fresh and bloody, before the doctor could even spank her.
“They’ll be plenty of time for that later in those sex bars she’ll work in.”
Mother always prided herself in her clairvoyance, or in this case, her confidence as a role model.
The doctor tried to move in with his stethoscope to get a heartbeat, feeling a bit uncomfortable because the baby showed all the signs of a blocked air passage. Classic signs. He was pushed backwards into a rolling cart by the bare foot of the new mother. She was too busy for vital signs.
“Move it Buster, get your filthy hands off my investment!”
There was no time for the pop of champagne, flowers, hugs of congratulations, tears of joy, because eye liner needed to be applied, hair spray needed to be sprayed on the female.
“God awful little amount of hair. We’ll have to look into weaves, Joe, hand me the phone, I’ll call Doris to make an appointment.” Joe was an orderly that mother worked into a slave in the past two hours.
Momentarily, half the hair was teased out in clumps on the floor. The doctor begged the mother to let him cut the cord, but she wouldn’t let him near the baby, wielding a scalpel she grabbed from the instrument tray earlier, feeling deep down inside that it may come to this. Right again.
She gnawed at the cord with her teeth and ripped it with a gush of amniotic fluid spraying the bed.
“So, there,” she screamed at the surgeon. “How hard was that? And you wasted all that money going to medical school. Money you could have spent on a good set of teeth. Look at you.”
She had a clown-like circle of blood around her mouth and scarlet stained teeth that made her look like a mental-case movie star wannabe overly-prepped for an audition of “Whatever Happened To Baby Jane.”
She rubbed blusher so vigorously into the baby’s cheeks it must have unlodged the fluid and tissue that was blocking her passage and she began to cry wildly. The doctor’s clasped his hands and breathed a sigh of relief. But mother wasn’t pleased.
“That will be about enough out of you, young lady,” the baby’s screaming making it hard to get a good clean line with the lip liner. So, she grabbed a wad of gauze, balled it up and jammed it in that wailing orifice.
This caused the baby’s eyes to bulge, smearing mascara in abstract blotches across her delicately veined eyelids.
“Oh, Christ, now look what you did.”
She ripped a sliver of gauze from the baby’s mouth ball, spit on it and rubbed and rubbed this bouncing ball, bobbing head of a baby with the vigor of an electric floor sander.
The doctor stepped in to object, but was pulled back by the nurses, who just wanted this over with so they could go eat lunch. But, lunch would be delayed this day and for several days to come lunch would be served, for this crowd, through IV tubes.
The proud mother, having buffed and polished her prize to her satisfaction, finally smiled at the baby, looking pretty as a picture in a little black bra and panty set, garter belt and baby stockings.
“You don’t know how long and hard I searched to find these things. I must have spent half my pregnancy scouring the pedophile web sights, trying to find a decent vendor that was willing to ship to a P.O. box. And they claim technology’s making life easier. Ha.”
Pleased with the final results, she lifted the baby up for a final setting with the hair spray and BOOM!
The particles of spray met with a loose stream of oxygen from a faulty canister next to the bed, wheeled over to HELP the distressed baby. Some HELP.
Was the oxygen canister there to HELP the poor baby when it flew through the air, all made up for the life ahead.
Was the oxygen there when the new little girl baby bounced and skidded on the tile floor, sliding crotchless panties first, into a pile of hungry nurses in various states of decimation.
Well, Some HELP that is.
There were pieces of the puzzle, that would make up the picture of this life to come, scattered all across the delivery room. Red baby spike heels in two separate corners (hard to come by), pain killers in liquid vials rolling gently across the cold floor with a tinkling of accompanying syringes, a pricing guide for White Babies On The Black Market, Dragon Lady press on nails (extra small) and a birth certificate filled out. Fitz baby. Baby’s name line – BLANK.
Time of birth, BLANK. No one conscious enough to fill it in. So, no one really knew, at what time, in this place, the Mystery Fitz baby entered the world. But they were pretty sure, from the looks of the outfit, that it was a girl. Either that or a lonely boy running from the law.

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