|Glue Stick Surgery
Author: Zaedah PM
Fortunately, I have one thing most potentially exiled boyfriends don’t; a prop master.Rated: Fiction K - English - Words: 411 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 3 - Published: 03-11-09 - Status: Complete - id: 4917561
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I owe this to Piratesmiley, who writes such wonderful Studio 60 stories. Hey, I didn't want you to feel alone in this category!
Ficcy for the episode '4 A.M. Miracle.'
Glue Stick Surgery
I like babies. It's not immediately apparent in the context of my resume but it's true. Generally. I mean, you need to soften an audience, bring out a newborn. You want to incite a studio riot, slay an infant. I've been know to manipulate viewers' emotions with a well placed toddler and a binkie.
I like babies. Just not ones without heads.
Five seconds into the gruesome discovery of what the nameless Real-Baby's sitters have wrought, I can hear the "I told you so" in perfect Jordan-pitch bouncing through my cranium. Which is still mercifully attached, unlike the $500 headless corpse whose name is something of a misnomer. Thankfully. She won't find this funny and my destiny now includes a couch.
Fortunately, I have one thing most potentially exiled boyfriends don't; a prop master. Decapitation is no match for a guy with a soldering gun. Honestly, he could use a purple glue stick and silly putty, as long as the patient leaves the pseudo-operating room in one ridiculously expensive piece. A bit of clever reprogramming and I've officially falsified fatherhood. All in all, or at least as far as Jordan'll know, it's been a successful first attempt at paternal caregiving. Sure, had robo-baby been alive, I'd be ordering a tiny pine box while Jordan orders a Tiffany urn for my ashes. But look at all I've learned; I now know to avoid any proximity to 18th century French guillotines and have weeded out the more destructive babysitters.
On principle I disapprove of spending five Bens for something fake, unless we're talking 'enhancements.' So maybe I had it out for the pretend kid since it emerged in a screaming heap from Jordan's Prada bag. Still, when the greasy man hands me the plush body that's been reunited with its fairly bland face and the chip's been set to 'Danny is Daddy Material' mode, I feel a smattering of pride over the little survivor.
Now if the techno-surgery can just hold together long enough to win me a few promised bucks from my girl, I swear to spend every penny on a certain unnamed baby I really like.