Nature gave a known biter personal knives. This feels negligent.
October 31, 2026
Meatball was pissed.
Not mildly inconvenienced.
Not regular baby fussy.
Pissed.
The kind of pissed where every available service has been offered and rejected, yet management remains responsible for producing an immediate solution.
She had eaten.
She had been changed.
She had been held.
She had been rocked.
She had been comforted.
Nothing worked.
She screamed.
She cried.
She fought sleep like unconsciousness had personally offended her.
I kept cycling through the standard questions.
Is she hungry?
Is she tired?
Does her stomach hurt?
Is she uncomfortable?
Is she simply committed to ruining the evening?
All possibilities remained under active investigation.
Then I discovered the problem.
Teeth.
Not theoretical teeth.
Not “she may be teething soon” teeth.
Actual tiny teeth beginning to break through her gums.
My sweet baby had produced weapons.
Who Approved This Upgrade?
Giving teeth to a baby who already bites my face, nose, mouth, hands, and fingers seems irresponsible.
Who approved this upgrade?
She didn’t need additional equipment.
She needed de-escalation.
This child was already dangerous with gums.
She could clamp down on a finger with enough force to make me wonder if I’d have a finger remaining when she released it.
Now nature had looked at her existing record and said:
You know what she needs?
Knives.
Personal knives.
Built directly into her mouth.
No background check.
No training period.
No signed agreement stating that these new tools would not be used against management.
Just teeth.
Released directly into the community.
I would like to speak to whoever authorized this.
The Evidence
Once I knew what was happening, the entire evening made more sense.
The screaming.
The biting.
The refusal to settle.
The rage every time something touched her mouth incorrectly.
At one point, she bit down on the shield of her pacifier and immediately discovered that the pacifier had betrayed her.
Her own decision hurt her gums.
Naturally, this was my fault.
She looked at me with the absolute devastation of someone who had been attacked without warning.
Ma’am.
You bit it.
I witnessed the incident.
The suspect is you.
Again.
This family remains plagued by individuals who commit crimes against themselves and then report them to me for resolution.
Miniature Valak
Then I looked at her in her little sleep gown.
Cute little face.
Sweet little cheeks.
Dark, furious eyes.
New teeth preparing to emerge.
And it became obvious.
Now she’s basically a miniature Valak.
Cute little sleep gown.
Sweet little cheeks.
Personal knives in her mouth.
The Nun, but make it six months old & cute as fuck.
Send help.
Or a priest.
Actually, maybe send both.
The help can hold the baby while the priest addresses whatever ancient force convinced her that sleep was optional.
Yeah, maybe send the priest.
I have concerns.
She is still adorable, obviously.
But so was Annabelle before everybody started dying.
Emergency Exorcism Procedures
I tried everything.
Rocking.
Holding.
Patting.
Walking.
Comforting.
Negotiating with someone who does not understand language but remains extremely confident in her position.
Eventually, I gave her a bath.
The warm water helped.
Then came skin-to-skin contact, because sometimes the only acceptable treatment is being returned directly to factory settings.
Slowly, she calmed down.
The medicine had time to work.
Her body relaxed.
The screaming stopped.
She settled against me.
For a brief moment, the demon vacated the premises and left behind my sweet little baby.
Then she finally fell asleep.
Case closed.
Crisis resolved.
The priest could stand down.
Or so I thought.
Something Was Moving
Once Meatball was asleep, she started doing that jumpy little REM-sleep thing babies do.
A twitch.
A wiggle.
A sudden arm movement.
A tiny sound from somewhere deep inside whatever strange dream babies have when their life experience consists primarily of milk, ceiling fans, and being betrayed by their own hands.
Then she started turning.
Not fully rolling over.
Just rotating slightly.
A little quarter-turn.
Pause.
Another adjustment.
Pause.
One leg moved.
Her body shifted again.
She was slowly rotating herself in her sleep.
Not rolling.
Not repositioning.
Rotisserating.
Like an extremely small chicken attempting to cook evenly.
I watched her complete another tiny quarter-turn.
Then it hit me.
Oh my God.
I have another haunted chicken breast.
The Original Haunting
For those unfamiliar with the established household lore, Fat Fucking Whore—FFW—is the original haunted chicken breast.
By day, she is a cat.
Allegedly.
By night, she transforms into a suspicious poultry-shaped creature that appears in dark rooms, silently repositions herself, and occasionally looks like she has been summoned by forces nobody remembers contacting.
Big Bertha by day.
Haunted chicken breast by night.
Horny roach by circumstance.
We already had one.
The position was filled.
No additional haunted poultry was requested.
Yet there was Meatball, twitching and turning in her sleep like FFW had personally trained an apprentice.
Same franchise.
Different haunting.
FFW is the haunted chicken breast with hair.
Meatball is Haunted Chicken Breast Jr.—smaller, louder, and now equipped with teeth.
Apparently, This Is Contagious
I do not know how the haunted-chicken-breast condition spread from the cat to the baby.
They are not biologically related.
To my knowledge.
But I cannot rule out household exposure.
Perhaps it is environmental.
Perhaps the haunting travels through shared blankets.
Perhaps FFW performed a ritual while everyone was asleep.
She has always seemed capable of minor witchcraft and tax fraud.
Whatever happened, the symptoms were unmistakable.
Unexplained nighttime rotation.
Suspicious twitching.
Poultry-shaped sleeping positions.
An unsettling ability to appear both precious and possessed.
The evidence was overwhelming.
Haunted Chicken Breast Jr. had entered the chat.
Mother Has Entered the Oven
As I watched Meatball slowly rotisserate, I realized I was freezing.
Not chilly.
Freezing.
She was bundled comfortably, rotating herself toward even warmth while I sat nearby losing circulation in my extremities.
And apparently, I needed to go in the oven too.
At that point, the household contained:
- One haunted chicken breast with hair.
- One miniature haunted chicken breast with new teeth.
- One exhausted mother requiring immediate reheating.
The entire family needed to be placed on a rotisserie.
Low heat.
Slow rotation.
Cook until emotionally stable.
Unfortunately, emotional stability has an internal temperature nobody in this house has ever reached.
The Morning After
By morning, Meatball was back to being a baby.
Mostly.
She still had the teeth.
She still had the attitude.
She still possessed the ability to bite first and ask absolutely no questions later.
But the tiny demon from the night before had retreated.
The sleep gown was once again just a sleep gown.
The dark eyes were sweet again.
The personal knives remained under construction.
Nothing was technically resolved.
The teeth were still coming.
The biting would continue.
The priest remained on standby.
But we survived the night.
Meatball got some sleep.
I eventually became warm enough to remain among the living.
FFW continued haunting the house without acknowledging her obvious role in this situation.
And our family expanded its poultry department.
No lesson was learned.
No demon was permanently expelled.
Nature gave a known biter weapons, and the rest of us have been advised to remain vigilant.
Same house.
Same chaos.
Same haunted chicken breast.
Junior edition.
-EC 🌈
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