Strange Baby part 7

‘Uh hum.’ A soft voice begs her attention. She looks up into the pale grey eyes of a sandy haired, long faced man in his fifties. Sallow skin hangs from his cheekbones, ending in a moist rubbery mouth, alien to affection. They are alone in a musty hallway, half in shadow from the mid-morning light, Angelica rising from a plain wooden chair.
‘Miss Sanders?’ he offers a bony hand.
‘Y...yes.’
‘Dr.Ranzig...we talked on the phone.’ He notices a brown envelope protruding from her handbag.
‘Ah, I see that you have brought the amount we agreed on.’ His voice is bedroom slippers on loose gravel, coupled with a manner more correct than his intentions. ‘Then we can proceed,’ he continues, showing her into his office, whilst tugging at his white coat (badly in need of cleaning).
As agreed, as agreed? Angelica puzzles silently. Another game. I probably phoned him last week. Everything happens last week in this world. It doesn’t matter, just get it over with.
It won’t work you know.
It’s got to.
You don’t think an old fart like that is any match for me?
He’ll get rid of you. I don’t care how, then this nightmare will end.
That’s no way to talk about your little bundle of joy...but it does mean I can have some more fun.
What are you going to do?
You’ll find out soon enough.

Angelica suffers it all - the questions about her health, the unsavoury explanations of the procedure, complete with guided tour of the various instruments and machines (Dr.Ranzig is especially proud of his super duper sleep machine and snazzy sucker -second hand but fully renovated. And equally proud of his ability to wield them in her cause).
‘Absolutely safe,’ he assures, with a creamy grin. ‘Qualifications and experience enough to fill a whole wall. You’ll sleep for a while, then when you wake up it will all be over.’
Angelica knows she is doomed awake or asleep.
Something terrible is going to happen...maybe it’s be better if I never wake up...yes...kill us both you greasy pervert.
Her rancid saviour can barely disguise his delight as Angelica slips off her underwear and, wincing, lifts her legs into the stirrups of the operating chair, exposing herself to him.
‘Just a light anaesthetic,’ he coos, placing a mask over her face. Angelica splutters a little as the strange filthy air fills her throat and lungs, deadening her senses slowly. Not difficult to see why you were struck off, she slurs in her mind. Too familiar...what sort of familiar...the penetrating kind?...what are you going to do with me you...you filthy bastard? So be it...just destroy...this creature inside me...
Not much of the mothering instinct I must say.
I want you out...out...of my body...even if I have...to die for it.
A bit premature with the amateur dramatics aren’t we. I haven’t gone to all this trouble to end up in a suction bottle.
‘Deep breaths my dear...good...good, fill those pretty lungs of yours,’ the grimy doctor mutters, his eager hand stroking across her breasts. He clamps the mask onto her face, turning her head to one side so that she can breath freely, checks her pulse then moves around standing, transcendent between her legs.
‘It is seldom that one has the privilege of witnessing such perfection,’ he sighs. ‘The pretty youthful bloom.’
Skeleton fingers shakily tug at Angelica’s silky labia, lowering his dizzy head, inhaling deeply, with a contented murmur, like a connoisseur of fine wine.
‘Excellent bouquet.’ Spreading her lips wider, allowing his tongue to delve inside with accustomed ease, withdrawing only to sigh,
‘Ah...a fine vintage... very good year...full bodied...faint hint of caramel...with the unmistakable tangy after-taste of the occupied womb.’ He straightens, with a satisfied grunt. ‘You have, of course, the leg man,’ he announces, as if giving a lecture to eager rain-coated students.
‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs, stroking the shiny skin of Angelica’s thighs. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with such a standpoint. Then you have the breast man,’ he continues, nonchalantly tickling her defenceless breasts.‘Exquisite,’ moulding his bony digits around the soft mounds, assaulting her nipples with brittle tweaks.
‘And, of course, the face man,’ reluctantly loosening his rheumatoid grip, to clumsily caress her exposed cheek. ‘I must say, with such outstanding physiognomy, who can blame him. But, dear sirs, the true seat of a women’s beauty is undoubtedly her vagina...that succulent, fragrant orifice of infinite delight.’ Dr Ranzig sighs deeply at his own eloquence then, with a bow to his invisible audience, promptly drops his trousers and underpants.
So that’s what he’s planning. Dipping his wick before the main event, the dirty bugger...well he’s in for a surprise.
‘You will agree with me gentlemen I’m sure, that we have here an excellent example...delicious...irresistible!’ Peeping Tom penis twitches in merry agreement from under his shirt-tails. ‘So, without further ado we shall proceed. Our sleeping angel will never know; likewise that heap of unwanted tripe in her womb. Everything finds its end in the suction bottle.’
He steps forward, preparing to penetrate, but is halted by the amazing sight of the long silver suction cannula rising up before him, performing a slow seductive dance upon the plastic connecting tube, as if some invisible fakir is tooting away. It shivers, shimmies then, with an elegant dive, bores its way into the doctor’s startled phallus. Further and further it goes, the suction machine chugging menacingly into life, our soiled practitioner yelping in agony like a whipped puppy, suddenly made lame by a mysterious force. All he can do is stare and scream as his rattling nemesis goes on, surging and sucking, to empty his bodily cavities one by one. His abdomen undulating in futile resistance as bowels, liver, kidneys and all the rest are transformed into a muddy sludge in the suction bottle. Dr.R. wails, flapping in helpless stupefaction as the plucky sucker snake makes havoc in his chest; irritating lamentations giving way to blubber blood protests, once his lungs are vacuumed away. His heart, thumping to the last, quickly follows into the impossibly full suction jar. The silver killer moves further up through the neck and still higher, gleefully extracting the doctor’s sick creamy brains then, last but not least, his dulled eyeballs, plip-plop, through the tube, emerging (miraculously whole) in the shuddering bottle, dancing a fancy tango upon the tepid, gruesome soup!
There is nothing left for Dr. Ranzig’s plundered carcass but to keel over with a terminal clatter onto the faded carpet. In the ensuing stillness, the anaesthetic mask springs from Angelica’s face.
Nice one. Now that’s what I call poetic justice. Let’s see what the sleeping princess makes of it all.
Minutes later Angelica stirs. ‘Wha...where...oh...is it over...is it all over?’
It sure is...let me demonstrate.
The silver suction tube suddenly springs upright, as the motor of the suction machine revs up and, in a magical moment, reverses its power, forcing the liquified Dr.R. out the way he came with incredible force; the gleaming wand swirling around, spewing a gory brew in all directions, splattering the walls and furniture then, with a savage plunge, covering the floor with an impossible, ankle deep layer of Bordeaux coloured tapioca. Angelica watches in drowsy disbelief as two grey eyeballs (still stubbornly intact) fox trot past her.
‘What the hell has happened?’ she gasps.
A slight change of plan. It was him or me...no contest.
What have you done to him?
Let’s say that it will go down either as a tragic accident, or the most determined case of suicide on record. In any case we’d better scarper before the Old Bill gets wind of it.
What?
Run. That means you!
Angelica struggles dizzily out of the chair, wading queasily through the slippery sludge. ‘My knickers...my bag!’ she cries.
You can’t be serious? Move it!
Angelica runs squeamishly out of the room, the hallway, onto the street, running without knowing where to go, oblivious of flickering faces, snatched words, nameless streets and houses; up concrete stairs covered with Autumn leaves, through the open door into the waiting lift, rising homeward.

I thought I’d finished with you.
You ought to be grateful. He was going to rape you. I just made it clear to him, that’s my privilege.
You’re a monster, a brutal monster (stamping out of the lift).
Some gratitude. I save your honour and get popped at.
You’ve got to be stopped (slamming the front door).
There you go exaggerating again.
You killed Gail, you killed Toby and God knows how many more, unless I stop you (pulling open a kitchen draw, extracting a long carving knife).
You’re planning something, aren’t you?
I’ve got to destroy you, whatever the cost (heading for the bedroom).
Enough of the melodrama, please.
Whatever it costs (lying on the bed, breathing deeply, exposing her abdomen).
You won’t do it. You ain’t got the nerve.
Make it quick...one stab (holding the knife in both hands, the deadly tip quivering close to her heaving belly).
You’ll chicken out!
One stab (raising her hands).
Cluck, cluck, cluck.
One stab...now!
Angelica thrusts the knife, eyes clenched tight against the pain...that doesn’t come. From deep inside her womb two rubbery baby hands shoot out, stilling the blade one millimetre from her skin, in an iron grip.
‘Bastard!’ she shouts, pushing with all her might. ‘Let go! Let me finish it!’
Cursing, moaning, trying to wrestle free...but she’s no match for her foetal opponent. One tiny hand plucks the knife from her, flinging it across the room, it’s long blade thudding into an innocent wardrobe, whilst the other hand wags an admonishing finger.
Uh uh.
Then both hands recoil with lightning speed inside her. Angelica jumps from the bed screaming, running wildly back and forth, desperate to stop this madness, bouncing like an hysteric pin ball, between the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, turning suddenly, seeing the answer.
‘Yes...yes!’ she pants, rushing through the living room, wrenching open the glass door next to the window and, with barely a whisper, flinging herself from the balcony.