The Sloppy Baby by Kofi Akan Brown
Slop donned the Buck-Buck Food delivery backpack, then adjusted the Buck-Buck cap in the mirror. He looked like a deliveryman, well enough. Next, he tucked his energy pistol into the back of his pants, then double checked to make sure it was there. He couldn’t ever be too cautious, despite what some of the best in the business say. But they never made the same mistake he did. There was one time he’d forgotten to bring the gun, so he had to fulfill his hit with a large kitchen knife. It wasn’t pleasant shoving that blade into the man’s throat and listening to him gurgle. The squirming was the worst of it. And the running droplets of bloody spittle were too much. It was an uncivilized way of doing a hit; only a cruel beast would end someone like that. It was because of that failure that he was given the nickname ‘Sloppy Killer’ by his competitors in the assassin business. Not the best title, but he deserved it. A bullet to the head is more merciful. No suffering.
Slop went before the small altar in his home, its image depicting a tree marked with blood. He bowed his head and offered up a wordless prayer, hoping for success and a quick kill. His priest had told him multiple times to stop being a hitman, but money was a good caretaker, like a mother who never abandoned her child in a time of need. A terrible analogy. He was never the poetic or imaginative type. But the little bit of imagination he did have was this: if he could start it all over, all the way back to being an infant, he’d take it in a heartbeat. He should’ve never taken that stupid first contract to shoot an athlete. Now he was trapped. At least infants don’t have to do anything but sleep, eat, and use their diapers. Then he’d grow up and choose a different path. But it was twenty-three assassinations too late for that.
There was a knock on the front door. Slop checked through the peephole. A woman of too pale a complexion with too wide a smile stood in the hallway in a black suit. This wasn’t the first time she had shown up, nor did it feel like it’d be the last. She kept trying to sell him something new every few days. Last week, it was a youth serum. Two weeks before that, it was a Zedarsin meditation program. Her pestering was getting more stressful than his job. Slop opened the door.
“Hello,” the saleswoman said. “How are you doing today, Mr. Gon?”
“I’m well. Miss…”
“Miss Yulla. This is the sixth time we’ve met.” Yulla chuckled, revealing her pure white smile. “I’m surprised you haven’t remembered it by now.”
“I’m not good with names,” Slop said. He slipped out of the apartment and locked the door. “I have to get going now. No time to talk.”
“Are you sure you don’t have time to discuss my product?” Yulla asked, standing right behind him, breathing down his neck. “I’m selling baby carriages this time.”
“I don’t have a baby.”
“Not for your baby. But for you. You’re my baby.”
Slop turned back and gave a confused look. “Are you flirting with me? I’m not your baby.”
“I do not have sexual interest.”
Slop shook his head with a scoff. “Whatever. Just leave me alone. And stop coming to my door. I don’t want anything from you, and I never will.”
Slop left the apartment and climbed onto his motorized bike. He rode through the crowded city streets beneath the roar of flying vehicles. The planet Illian never looked as filthy as it does now. It was all due to tourists dropping food, drinking cups, condom wrappers, and all other trash spilt over the streets. People were never respectful when visiting other worlds; that was the common trait amongst the people in the Galaxy. Disgusting. Thunder cracked, rain fell. Slop adjusted his hat to shield himself.
Slop arrived at his destination and rang the buzzer to the apartment complex. No answer. He rang it again.
“Who is it?” the woman on the other end asked.
“It’s your food delivery. I have your noodles from Buck-Buck.”
“Come to the sixth floor and go to apartment nine. There is a lift you can take.”
The complex door’s buzzer went off and it unlocked. Slop entered the building then took the lift upstairs. The elevator’s lights flickered as the machine rocked side to side. It stopped, the doors opened. He exited the waiting-for-death contraption and walked down the metallic hall to apartment nine. He rang the doorbell. A woman in a white suit opened it, her top button undone. Behind her were shirtless men covered in oil; they were snorting lines of a purple powder and laughing to themselves, their noses bleeding onto the purple carpet. The woman closed the door a tad, blocking the men from view. She removed her wallet and handed Slop a stack of paper Units. There was no effort to count them.
“Here,” the woman said. “Keep the change.”
Slop removed his backpack and pulled out the bag of noodles he prepared. He used to be a chef at Buck-Buck; their recipes were encrusted into his memory. “Here you are. Can I have the order code?” Slop pulled out his digital pad from his pocket.
“Fifty-seven.”
Slop typed in the code. Success. It went through. “Thanks.” He squinted his eyes, then leaned in a little bit. “You’re Councilwoman Onia, correct?”
“I am.” Onia handed him more money. “Don’t tell anyone what you’ve seen here. Alright? It wouldn’t be good publicity if they found out my…recreational activities.”
“Seen what activities?”
“Smart man.” Onia smiled. “Well, thanks for the food. Impressive delivery time, too. Keep it up and you’ll go far.”
She closed the door, but Slop blocked it with his foot.
“There is something I want to ask you,” Slop said, slowly pushing the door open. “It’s about a policy you’re making. It’l be quick. I promise.”
“Ask.”
“What will you do about trash piling up in the streets? The cleaners won’t stop their strike until their pay is increased and they receive their health care benefits. All the contaminated air is making me a little sick, too. Will you give them what they want?”
Onia smiled her fake smile, the one she always did on television. “I’ll increase their wages and provide them with the benefits they deserve. Like holidays. Holidays are great, no?”
“Alright. But what about their compensation for injuries?” Slop slowly reached for the gun tucked in his pants, pretending to scratch his lower back. “You know their injuries are permanent, right? The other day, a woman was attacked by a bunch of thugs who broke her leg. She can’t afford to pay off her medical bill.”
“If I’m being honest, I think it’s all exaggeration. Who breaks their legs cleaning the street? And why would someone attack a cleaner?” Onia laughed, covering her mouth. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s just that it’s all whining and wanting to feel more special than they actually are. You work in the food business. Now that is a dangerous profession. You could chop off a finger or burn a hand. Someone could even mug you during a delivery through some shady neighborhoods. You face customers every day who may be deranged and violent in their rudeness. I should know. My mother ran a restaurant and delivery service, and let me tell you: it wasn’t easy.”
“Did you ever work with your mother at her job?”
“Yes. Every day when I was growing up.”
“Did you ever get an injury there? Anything permanent?”
“No.”
“How about on this job?” Slop gripped the hidden gun. “Ever get a permanent injury doing it?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Now’s your chance,” Slop informed. “One of the street cleaners wants you gone. Permanently.”
Thunder cracked. Slop whipped out his pistol and aimed it between Onia’s eyes, pressing the muzzle against her skin. The trigger was pulled. An energy bullet left the chamber and tore through its target. Smoke rose out of the Councilwoman’s forehead and the back of her skull. Her body fell onto its back, forming a pool of blood. Before the drugged men could realize what happened, Slop stormed the apartment and locked the door. During the roaring of the storm, each man was given a bullet through the chest. They went limp. Blood leaked onto their legs. A perfect job with no witnesses, just how he liked it. But there was no time to appreciate his craftsmanship. Slop needed to leave in case someone heard through the storm. There was a knock on the door. Slop peered through the peephole. It was the saleswoman again. She must harass this apartment, as well.
“Gon, let me in,” Yulla said.
How did she know he was here? That was impossible. It must be one of the oiled-up men; he must have the same name as Slop. It wasn’t like it was too rare.
“You didn’t listen to my stroller offer,” Yulla said, knocking harder. “If you buy one now, it’ll be free of charge.”
She knocked. And knocked. And knocked again. Slop backed away and paced around, racking his mind on what to do. He could put a bullet in her. But someone may see. He didn’t want a second nickname; that would be too much. On the other side of the dining room was a balcony. He hurried to the sliding glass door, then pressed his face against it, trying to see outside. There was another balcony to the left of Onia’s apartment. He could try hopping from balcony to balcony; it would be like one of those action movies he saw when he was little. It was that or go to prison. Not much of a choice. Slop climbed onto the balcony edge and balanced himself on the slick metal railing. He glanced down at the clogged street below as emergency services rushed into the apartment. Fear struck, followed by bravery. Slop jumped. He landed on the second balcony, twisting his ankle. He lay on the cold stone for a moment, gripping his injury with clenched teeth. Rain pattered onto his face. He hobbled to his feet and searched through the apartment.
A man and a woman with small black horns sprouting from their heads were watching television. Using hairpins from his back pocket, Slop picked the sliding door’s lock, then reentered the complex. The man stood up and searched through the kitchen fridge. Slop snuck behind a half wall separating the dining room and living room. There was a knock on the front door. Slop quieted his breath and listened. It was the police. It had to be. Slop peered around the wall.
“Hello,” Yulla said. “I am here to meet someone.”
“Who are you?” the woman asked.
“I am Yulla, the Saleswoman. My baby, Gon, entered your apartment through the back balcony. I wish to take him home.”
“I-what are you talking about?”
The saleswoman pointed at Slop and smiled. “There he is.”
Slop snuck out of the building again and the woman screamed. Slop climbed onto the edge of the balcony and jumped to the next one. And the next one. And the next one. He entered a dark, empty apartment through an open door. It closed on its own. Slop collapsed onto the wooden floor, catching his breath. He rolled onto his side, facing the bedroom. A scream caught in his throat. Inside the room was a pair of glowing yellow eyes matched with a bright smile. The light flickered on. Yulla slid across the floor as if it were ice, her body stiff as she held a briefcase. She stopped inches away from Slop. Their eyes locked.
“P-please, go away, Miss Yulla,” Slop begged. “Go away! Why won’t you leave me alone?!”
“Your priest sent me to raise you right. Now come to Mommy so we can go home.”
Yulla placed the briefcase on the floor and opened it. She removed a miniature baby stroller and placed it on the floor. It grew to normal proportions. With gentle arms, she scooped up Gon and held him close to her chest. Gently, she kissed his forehead. Slop noticed that his surroundings were growing. His hands and legs shriveled into fleshy fat lumps. His clothes were far too large. Clumps of hair fell out. Words became impossible to form, but concepts remained with him. Fear. Sadness. Crying. Crying. Crying. Play. Tired. Sleepy. The soft darkness that covered him was peeled away, revealing a massive woman’s kindly face. Gon giggled and rubbed his tired eyes.
“Hello, Gon,” Yulla said. “Time to take you home, baby.”
Yulla placed Gon in his stroller and wheeled him out of the apartment. Police stormed through the hall, phasing through the pair as they passed by. None noticed them. Yulla entered the lift with another man. His stroller contained twins. Gon yawned, then kicked his feet and placed his hands in his mouth.
“Your children are adorable,” Yulla said. “What are their names?”
“Wolin and Hatti. Yours?”
“Gon.”
“How old is he?”
“A few minutes. I birthed him on my own.”
“He’s…uh…he’s big for being a few minutes old. How are you standing?”
Yulla gave a prideful smile. “You wouldn’t understand.”
The lift stopped on the ground floor. Yulla bid the man farewell as they departed. She went outside into the rain and strolled down the street. The world darkened into a void. All beings vanished as she continued her walk. Gon giggled in the shadows, clapping his hands. When the void lifted, they were on a moon suspended over a blue gas giant. Ahead, rising into the sky, was a swarm of floating strollers filled with sleeping babies. Gon pointed, babbled, then yawned. His eyes lit up with wonder.
“You’ll like this place, little one,” Yulla said, picking Gon up and bouncing him in her hands. “I’ll show you and teach you all sorts of wonders across Penmoa. The Galaxy will be yours, and you’ll love it. And I’ll always love you. I will make you higher than a mere killer. You’ll be a god amongst mortals, a master amongst servants. You will be like me, son.”
Gon giggled himself to sleep.
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Kofi Akan Brown 2026
Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com