Line them up in perfect rows, one by one, then sell them off to those who proposed respectable job offers. The market demanded it. The wife demanded it. First it stood for the simple monetary value, yet soon it also brought along with it the stingy feeling of respect: one day beaming bright in her like the morning sun yet somehow dimmed the next. It was not enough that the eldest son was a well respected politician, nor did she seem to recall one of the younger, a famous movie actress. To be fair, she did not remember most of her children, not due to some sort of horrifying mental disorder but merely to the fact that she had an unhealthy amount under her ever widening belt. One baby a day, she had insisted. Sex was almost a daily routine in the broken household. Throw the blood red rose petals onto the bed in an attempt to jive up what romance was left in the two's relationship, throw our bodies onto the sheets in turn. The beginning was slow, their climax an accomplishment, for a minute later, a baby was seen supported in the fragile hands of the woman. The couple dare not question where these bundles of joy (so to speak) came from, rather it was accepted, at least on the wife's part. The husband never questioned the practice. Boy, girl, it need not matter. Sometimes the duo even forgot to check.
This had gone on for a year, a baby born daily. The house, elegant in all respects if you could ignore the quite literal piles of babies, would have been a nice place for a child to grow up in. Yet no one enjoyed it for long, not even the parents, who were blinded by the need for frantic reproduction. The houses next door were, admittedly, less elegant, but quieter Happier in every respect. A house in possession of a white picket fence stood silent next to the house in which the fiend roamed. Children could be seen running in its yards, never once considering their futures; the moment they lived in was gift enough. And the mother saw this everyday as she cradled a baby, everyday as she sipped her coffee, recovering from the generic sex of the late night hours.
And never once did she considering presenting her children with such a life.
In this world, there was no set amount of time in which a baby could be brought into the earth, it was merely coaxing, sex, birth. A continuous dance. A set of steps that the couple had trampled upon for months at a time. The children grew quickly, more like objects than actual children of any heartfelt value. And the talent agents would pour in. Oh, they'd come. Knock on the door, a ring of the bell, who is it? They always targeted this house. They knew that the children born here were of great talent, whether in the field of baseball or medicine. They always would be. Except one day, it was no talent agent who knocked on the door of the devil, it was a woman in a business suit bearing an ID.
As the mother was lead out of the house in her burning silver handcuffs, all she could do was laugh at the hilarity of it all. She didn't deny her child manufacturing ring, she lead the agent right to the scene, into the house, realizing she had no choice in any event. The badge on the visitor's printed beige suit was clear, gold letters sang "Child Protective Services" as the police car's sirens reflected off of her chest. But the badge unphased the mother, who bucked and howled like a tied bull as she coped with her current situation with heartless chortles. As she stepped into the car to be delivered to jail, her husband soon following her as he donned the same silver handcuffs, she smacked her lips in memory of the money that would await her upon her arrival home.
Meanwhile, a man in a stained, grayish suit stepped to the house with the white picket fence. He knocked gingerly on the door, and waited for any sort of reply. He was in no means connected to the police, nor would he ever want to be in his line of business and he fiddled with his crusty thumbs as the house moaned painfully under someone's feet. Slowly, the door tiptoed open, and a wrinkled, half alive woman poked her head out. Her face was ridden with sleep deprivation and the dying will to live.
She was the type that you could just look at and tell that she had no reason to live.
He ruffled his inexpensive suit, took two looks to both his sides, and whispered.
"I am here to inquire about your son and his talent in engineering..."
Fun with Virtual Families It never ceased to amuse me how a) you could just keep pushing and pushing your couple to have children; it was admittedly hard but possible and b) you could literally just sell your children to random people who walked up to your door, claiming to be talent agents.