Reminds me a little of when my great aunt Pegstone got pregnant, or it wasn’t really how she got pregnant, that’s her own god damn business, but what matter’d was ‘ol Pegstone, or Stoneshine as Martin called her, and Pegasus as I called her behind her back, and Stallbladder as Ruppi said, but what matter’d was that she got pregnant in the wrong place.
See. normally a baby jr. gets grown in a sack just as happy as could damn-well-right be somewhere curled up in the intestines surrounded by nutrients and cushion, but poor Pegpebble gets grown up somewhere up here (Marcus points to his liver), too close to the heart, so where as typically child-baby gets to hear the soft bass-y thrum-thrum-thrum of his dear mother’s heart ‘ol Pegstones heart was practically banging against the Doodlebaby’s poor unripened head, and the child decided to find another place to rest and went about odyssey-ing around the torso.
Now at first ‘ol Pegwillow, that’s what Jersey calls her when she ignores her problems, just lets the little guy play. See when they’re that young they don’t have any hard edges and their bones are like rubber bands so it wasn’t any problem of pokes and prods or pains, Pegstone would just have her bulge in a new spot every few hours or so.
But finally that baby had to come out. And, naturally, there are few natural exit routes from the body save your three favorite orifices. So what they did was pack ‘ol Rudy’s belly, that’s what Krissy called Pegstone’s belly, with chocolate cake, to bait the little baby in there, and then poor Pegstone had to cough that little baby-baby up like it was a whole tit of chicken that went down the wrong pipe.