EVIL OMELETTE: THE HATCHLING

The following is an excerpt from Evil UnLtd Vol1: The Root Of All Evil

The Hatchling sat tucked up in darkness, curled into a cosy foetal position and sucking at his stub of a thumb. There wasn’t much else to do in here but brood. To brood and to dream of his next delicious taste of freedom.

What went on inside the Hatchling’s egg was shrouded in mystery, speculation and a lot of icky fluids, including a substance very like albumin and a semi-sentient membraneous goo that did much to safeguard the embryonic occupant from intrusive scans. The shell itself was dense and obstructive enough, but this membrane could cleverly rearrange its cells so as to selectively filter any active signals, sometimes choosing to absorb all directed energies and so return a frustrating blank, or sometimes reflecting wavelengths according to its own whims, bouncing back images designed to toy with the minds of those foolish enough to pry. Standard soundwaves were generally granted permission to slip freely back and forth, allowing the Hatchling some useful contact with the outside world and occasionally affording him some worthwhile listening material to help alleviate the boredom. It was rarely much, but then again it was invariably more stimulating than most commercial radio stations and came without all the aggravating  jingles.

To the Hatchling, his complex and singular life-cycle was something of an exercise bike: an endless series of revolutions that never seemed to get him very far. The question of which came first, the Hatchling or his egg, was one of life’s imponderables and so he refrained from pondering it. Mostly, he contemplated his navel and all the havoc and destruction he might wreak when he was next outside.

That, and the delights of discovering whatever little details had changed about himself with each emergence.

Luckily, despite the often prolonged periods of confinement, the Hatchling rather enjoyed brooding and found that although a great many of his thoughts were the same, he was fond of each and every one of them and there was a degree of amusement to be had in seeing them dance around in circles, as thoughts tended to do in such cramped quarters.

As to which stimuli might prompt him to break out, the possible causes were many and varied. On this occasion, Dexter – for whom the Hatchling harboured feelings that were close to filial, but without his species’ usual desire to eat the paternal parent – they weren’t that close and anyway, his biological ‘dad’ having had the misfortune of being one of those extremely rare males to have survived the mating process, the Hatchling’s patrivorous appetite had already been sated – had lodged a quiet request that he, the Hatchling, bust out at a prearranged time. The Hatchling’s body clock was more accurate than most oven timers and he knew that the moment was fast approaching when he would be ‘done’.

The Hatchling’s nascent stomach growled in anticipation, eager to grow and be filled at the same time.

If people wondered at the Hatchling’s persistently aggressive behaviour upon hatching, then they ought to try being shut up inside an egg on a diet of fat-and-protein-enriched yolk. Despite the permissiveness of the membrane when it came to sound, it wasn’t as if he could send out for pizza, even though he found  himself within earshot of too many TV ads boasting about deep pans, free delivery within a specified radius and a mouth-watering variety of extra toppings. A growling stomach was just one of the items he would attend to once he was free of his shell.

As luck would have it, it was on that thought that the Hatchling’s bulbous chick-like eyes opened, still seeing nothing in the liquid gloom, but sensing the onset of change.

There was no more time for brooding. It was time to get out of here and start making some serious omelettes.

SAF

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