with force through my kitchen window
burns my damn kitchen down
It was a hot Sunday evening. My friends and I were wasted. We had planned on watching movies but we got too drunk. Jess teetered back and forth in the corner like a cheap skyscraper in a hurricane. Charlie was in the kitchen cooking bacon, for some reason. Dan was catatonic on the couch.
I remember stumbling towards the kitchen and slamming into the wall with impossible velocity. Jess howled with laughter and I told her to shjyut uhhhp. She laughed even harder until she choked on liquor and started coughing. In hindsight someone probably should have helped her out but Charlie is the Designated Lifeguard and he was busy with the bacon.
Suddenly, there was a sound like shattering glass as glass was shattered out of the window above my sink. The object responsible had built a velocity even greater than the tackle I had just thrown the wall, as evident by the sheer damage it did to my floor on impact.
Charlie screamed in fast-motion and turned in slow-motion to see the disaster unfurling behind him. I heard Jess's coughing Doppler effecting behind me as she sprinted across the room towards us. Dan's eyes creaked open like a vampire's coffin. I don't think I reacted at all.
We all simultaneously realized that it was a small baby doll that had just committed a B&E and was now embedded halfway in my kitchen floor. I was immediately overwhelmed by my drunken compatriots shouting every thought and theory that entered their brains; brains that, at the moment, were essentially three marbles bouncing around in a bowl.
But in my brain bowl, there was only one marble: a marble of pure rage. Rage at the fact that substantial property damage had just been inflicted onto my home by a baby doll falling from the sky. I flew into a furious whirlwind of cursing and red-facedness, channelling long-dead orators and vicious wordsmithing bastards in my verbal crusade against this intruder made of plastic and fluff, and I held nothing back.
Something I said, I'm not sure what — perhaps the phrase recycled into a knife block, or donated to the Goodwill via Revolutionary War cannon, or maybe children don't deserve toys — something I said must have, I guess, "annoyed" the baby. Long before I was prepared to finish ranting, the baby interrupted me by ripping itself out of my floor and flying back through the window. There was a beautiful moment of peace. I started ramping up for the rest of my monologue.
Then the doll flew back in, this time, covered in flames. When it hit the floor it didn't embed, no, this time it bounced. It caught the floor on fire and then bounced off the wall and the ceiling and caught them on fire too. Charlie screeched and threw the pan at the baby, showering the kitchen with freshly prepared food and grease which, you guessed it, caught even more of my kitchen on fire.
We had to talk to some cops and some firemen about what happened because it turns out I don't own a fire extinguisher, smoke alarm, water hose, or even a large bucket, so we had to call for help. Luckily the fire didn't really make it outside my kitchen, so it's only the room where I store and prepare all my food that's out of commission (notice that part's in present tense because my kitchen is still fucked).
We tried explaining what happened but no one believed us. The doll had been completely destroyed in the inferno. The firemen could tell something weird happened in the kitchen with all the odd spots the fires started, but wouldn't believe that it was a bouncing flaming baby doll that caused it. The cops were basically convinced we were so wasted we cooked a baby doll as a joke and almost burned the whole house down. That's when we realized: you can't trust a cop for shit.
Today, theories about the Meteorite Baby are still woefully inadequate. They range from the doll falling from space and having alien intelligence, being a spirit conduit for an ancient and powerful lich, being some sort of experimental government weapon, and being a demon that had been recently banished from heaven. I'll let you decide whose theory is whose.
• The doll pictured is *not* the actual doll. Due to the sudden nature of the event it was not properly documented. It's pretty close though.
• Dan, to this day, argues about whether it should be called "Meteorite Baby" or "Meteor Baby," based on the dictionary definition of yadda yadda whatever. No one else cares, but we're pretty sure he's wrong.