Babies Come From Wal-Mart

A serious and disturbing look into our sad near-future

Prologue

"Mommy."

I softly yank the bottom of her green flowery dress again, calm and intent on gaining her attention. She's quite tall by my standards (about five-and-a-half feet) and I can't reach far enough to really get her to listen to me. Her sugary brown hair meets her shoulders and shakes when she giggles, and her blue-green eyes occasionally glance at my waiting grey ones. She's on the phone, speaking to my Aunt Valerie, I believe. The conversation weaves in and out of giddy laughter; they frequently bring up a popular television show named "Sanske Divinity". My mother says a few big words I don't know, and after a quick pause she bursts into laughter. I tug harder. She gently shoos me away, but I'm determined to ask her this question – it's of dreadful importance. However, in all of my six years of precious life, I have never had any remote form of interest in their seemingly dull topics, and I quickly loose interest in waiting, abandoning my mother's dress in search of something more interesting to do. But my question stays deadlocked in my mind.

My new black jeans make a rather loud shuffling noise as I toddle into my room toward the toy robot nestled in the confines of my unmade bedspread. I greedily snatch it up and plop down on the blue-green carpeting. This eight-inch action figure is, without a doubt, the most engaging and feature-heavy plaything I have ever fiddled with. The utter realism of this thing is astounding; I set it down and watch in awe as it senses my presence, automatically activating and glowing with soft blue luminance. It walks freely on two thick and detailed metal legs, whirring and shifting with the mannerisms of a dinosaur; it has no arms – several long, shiny metal tentacles sprout form its dark blue torso, flailing around and interacting with everything they touch; the scarred dark blue paint on its boxy torso compliments the glowing tubes protruding from its form, flowing with the thick neon liquid that it needs for fuel.

It fluidly stomps across the carpet, its infrared "eyes" and sensory tentacles cleverly observing its surroundings. The toy begins to scamper out of the room, and I gleefully follow. The fat white "WAL-MART" Logo stamped on its back makes me remember the happy corporation that makes this amazing toy and so many other things. Everything. It is the WAL-MART that rules over us with an iron fist; it makes our meals, keeps us safe, drives me to school, and even tucks me in at night. I'm much too young to grasp the situation at large, but all I know is that the WAL-MART is utterly God. I scurry after the toy robot and, after several twists and turns down the hallway, I abandon the machine and turn my attention back to my mother. She has hung up the phone.

"Mom!" I throw myself into her waiting embrace, and after a few seconds, I decide to reveal to her my inquiry.

"Um, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, sweetie. What is it?"

"Where do babies come from? Alex said that they came from all the moms everywhere! Is he right?"

"Oh no – your little friend doesn't really know, sweetie."

"Well then where?"

She sighs and holds me close. I'm uncomfortable.

"Babies come from the WAL-MART, sweetie."

I'm halfheartedly surprised. "The WAL-MART makes babies too, mommy?! How…?"

"Um… well, it's hard to explain, really…"

"But I want to know! Really, I do!"

"Well… um… actually, sweetie… I think you may be ready to go to the WAL-MART and see how they make things."

My eyes widen and I gasp – what a sight! To actually witness the manufacturing of everything that runs my daily life?! I am truly blessed!

"We get to see them make the cars and robots and things?!"

"You bet."

I fall back into her arms, overcome by happiness. "Babies too, mom?"

"Yes, babies too."

I smile and run off, elated. What a day! What a sight I would see! But in moments I rapidly forget, and I begin to search for the little blue WAL-BOT, which had scampered away and hid under something, I suppose.

My innocent mind is ignorant to the objectionable fact that the WAL-MART is manufacturing people.