Humor | Fiction
My Toddler Hired a Hitman to Take Me Out
I have three Ms. Rachel episodes to meet his demands, or else
In the wee hours, I woke with a finger pulling up my eyelid.
“Huh? What’s happening?” I murmured woozily. I was tired, so very tired —
A wave of ice-cold milk hit me in the face.
“You don’t speak unless I ask you a question!” An unfamiliar voice barked.
And I was awake.
I wasn’t in bed. I strained to see who spoke, but milk and a bright light obscured my vision. My wrists, I realized with horror, were tied to the arms of a wooden chair with… what was that?
The red string from my son’s pull-along toy? The wooden duck hung taut at the end of the string, dangling from my left wrist.
I felt bile rise up the back of my throat.
What kind of monster uses a child’s toy to tie up their victim? What was going to happen to me?
“Who’s there?” I stammered.
“I didn’t ask you a question, Mama.” The voice, male and calm, said.
I clamped my mouth shut and attempted to squint beyond the bright light. I could just make out two shadowy figures huddled together, speaking quietly in urgent tones.
Was it my imagination, or were they both very short?
One rose abruptly, doubling in height, and walked toward me.
He was dressed in a black suit with a skinny black tie and crisp white shirt. Looking down, I saw the light reflecting off his black patent leather shoes. He had black sunglasses and looked like, let’s say for brevity’s sake, actor Jason Statham in any of his roles.
He crossed his arms and stood staring at my face. I felt milk roll off the tip of my nose. He spoke flatly:
“Ba daba doo wanna da bada Mama.”
What the actual fuck.
What strange circle of hell was I in? What was going to happen to —
“Ba doo dah me-me dada mama nah nah.”
I gasped. No, it couldn’t be.
The second figure inched closer, revealing the unmistakable silhouette of my 18-month-old son in the fleece dino footies I’d zipped him into before night-night.
“Cy? Cy! My sweet baby boy! Everything’s going to be okay!” I tried — and failed — to speak as though everything were normal.
Just a regular Saturday night, tied to a chair in an unknown locale, no biggie.
“Ah bee bay-bee donwanna.” Cy’s plump hands gesticulated wildly just beyond the light.
“Run run Cy! Run to Dada sweet boy! Mama loves you!” I cried, the words coming out in bursts. Normal evening my butt. Cy had to escape!
“He won’t be doing that, Mama,” the man in the suit said slowly.
“What? Why are you calling me Mama?”
“Little Cyril here asked for my help.”
“You know my baby? This is a nightmare,” I said, “I’m dreaming.”
“No nye-nye. Noooooooo,” Cy made his “noooooooo” face, waggling his eyebrows. The adorableness of this face contrasted terribly with the scene unfolding, yet my heart still squeed.
“He doesn’t want to go night-night,” the man said.
“Who are you?”
He paused and looked at Cy. Or at least I think he did. Stupid sunglasses.
Cy’s feet were getting wider apart. The footie jammies were so slippery. He lost his balance and landed on his bum. Cy clapped his hands.
The man nodded. “Cy called and said he needed my help.”
I looked around as far to both sides as I could. “Steve! Steve! Steve!” I yelled my husband’s name.
“De naw eeyars,” The man muttered. Cy grabbed both of his ears and cooed.
“You’re not listening, Mama,” the man said, “Use your listening ears.”
“Nodada nodada nodada nooooooo,” Cy said.
The man stepped forward and lifted his hand. I flinched, but Cy tugged the man’s pant leg and a professional glance passed between them. Although he walked on his knees, he looked wise beyond his 18 months.
“You’re right,” the man said. “She’ll listen soon enough.” Out of nowhere, he smashed a gloopy handful of steaming hot Kraft Gourmet Mac and Cheese in my face.
“Yowzers!”
“My client has a list of demands.”
“Client?”
“Yes, dummy. Your sweet baby boy is my client,” he said impatiently, like why was I so slow to absorb that my son had hired a hitman to tie me up in a chair?
“He’s been calling all the time,” the hitman said, “I don’t know how you didn’t notice.”
“On my phone?”
“No, dummy. On his phones.”
I wasn’t loving this new nickname.
The hitman started counting Cy’s phones off on his fingers. “His cell phone. His landline. His car phone. His banana. His hand. Dada’s wallet. He’s talking to me.”
“I, uh, thought he was pretending.”
All that time babbling to a banana, Cy was talking to this guy?
Was there a gas leak in the house?
I had to take each piece of information as it came and keep my cool, keep the hitman talking. At least I hadn’t had any more food dumped on —
And again with the milk.
“Okay. So here’s the deal. I speak toddler. Fluently. I know, I know,” the hitman said, holding his hand up. “Let’s just fast forward to the part where you believe me and don’t die.”
“I can do that,” I whimpered.
The hitman took a piece of construction paper out of his pocket and unfolded it slowly. I could see it was indeed Cy’s “writing” — the paper was covered in whorls of ballpoint ink and pen stabs. Cy had gotten so worked up over the missive that he’d etched the dining room table with each stroke.
“These are Cyril’s demands,” the hitman cleared his throat. “First, no more inside jokes with Dada. They make Cy feel left out.”
My head was spinning. Almost every interaction with Steve was an inside joke. “Do you have an example?”
“Drama Llama.”
Cy nodded. “Nodammawamma!”
“What?” I asked, “I thought you loved Drama Llama!”
The hitman said, “Yes, of course, he loves Drama Llama, dummy. He doesn’t like the way you guys talk to each other about him with all these inside jokes. Like, why is he from Medford? What’s the orange line? He’s a toddler, he doesn’t know what the MBTA is or how much it sucks. Why would Cyril care that Drama Llama isn’t allowed in any Dunkin Donuts because he’s liable to start drama? And don’t get him started on Drama Llama’s Medford accent. It’s offensive.”
“Okay,” I said, “But I didn’t make any of this stuff up. This is Dada’s department.”
“You’re the messenger, dummy! Dada’s too sensitive to survive a kidnapping!”
“I get it, I get it. No Drama Llama jokes. Is Angela Lambsbury fair game?” I asked.
The hitman looked at Cy, who shook his head. “No, dummy,” he said. “Angela Lansbury died before Cy was even born! Why would he care about your little jokes that Angela Lansbury is haunting a lamb lovey until she posthumously wins an EGOT?”
“I don’t know,” I said sheepishly. “I didn’t think he’d mind. He always smiles and hugs her.”
“Well he does mind,” the hitman said. “And he’d like you to call her “Lambie” from here on out and make sure she only speaks in ‘baahs’.”
“That’s kind of boring,” I said.
“That’s what my client demands! Can you do that, or would you rather die?”
“Okay okay. Lambie. Got it. What else?”
“No more kissing Dada. Only Cy can give and receive kisses.”
Oof. “Not even when Cy’s sleeping?”
“Especially when Cy’s asleep. That brings me to Cy’s final, most important demand: No siblings, ever.”
I had an in here. There was no way I was ever going through all that pregnancy crap again.
“One and done! I promise, baby! Just you, me, and Dada forever!” I yelled to Cy.
“Are you sure about that?” The hitman brandished his knife. He held it to my throat.
“I swear! I swear!”
“Then wrap it up or snip it, or I’ll snip it for ya!”
“Again, I feel like this interrogation would go further if you talked to Steve….”
“You think he listens?” The hitman and Cy cackled.
The hitman threw a handful of condoms at my face. Cy nodded, satisfied, and knee-walked back into the shadows.
The hitman didn’t move.
“Are we done? Will you untie me now?” I asked.
“Not so fast,” the man said, “Meow meow meow meow meowwwwww!”
“Mee-yow!” chirped two cats in unison.
Et tu, Mingus and Mahi?
I wasn’t going through this again.
“Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeveee!” I summoned all the strength I had and pushed all my energy outwards, my arms and legs pulling off the arms and legs of the chair, the chair tipped to one side and —
Darkness.
Light crept in with a splitting headache. I was in our bed, exhausted. I heard Cy calling from his room. Steve snored next to me. I “caressed” him on the back, hard.
“He’s up,” I said.
“He’s up,” Steve said, still dreaming.
Dummy.