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Babies for a Lamborghini: A Modern Morality Tale

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I was sitting by myself at my favorite restaurant.

“Hi, I’m Julie and I’m here to serve you today!”

I looked at my waitress. Cute, young. Irrepressibly but artificially cheerful. I sighed. I thought who knows but that she has a kid at home and has to put on that show of canned informality in order to get decent tips? So I smiled and looked at the menu she handed me. Hmmm. What will it be for lunch today? My usual–a hamburger with blue cheese and bacon? Or should I get the seared tuna, cheddar cheese melt?

I casually glanced at some diners at the booth across from me. The four of them were deep in earnest discussion, unaware of my eavesdropping. A man and a woman sat with their backs to me, their faces invisible. Across from them were two women. The one to my left, whose face had the stolid and inflexibly fixed, angry expression of a woman guard at Buchenwald, said not a word. She only glanced at her companion once in a while as she munched on a huge Rueben sandwich. Sauerkraut juice ran down her plump chin.

The guard’s colleague was doing all the talking. I looked at her as closely as I could without appearing too obvious. She had on a bilious green suit that gave her pinched and rather emaciated looking features a yellowish, unhealthy hue. Her pronounced high cheekbones and sallow, wrinkled skin gave her a ghoulish look that was accentuated by the harsh down-lighting. She gestured frequently with skeletal hands, punctuating her conversation with winks meant to convey mutual understanding and conviviality. But the winks only served to accentuate the lifelessness of her hollow eyes.

Ah. Specimens. They were discussing getting and selling specimens. I fixed my gaze on the menu while casually tuning in.

“Yes, Julie,” I said to the returning waitress, “I’ll have the seared tuna melt along with a glass of iced tea.”

I was curious. What kind of specimens? Sea creatures? Rocks? Exotic orchids? Insects from the Amazon?

The Walking Dead woman in the green suit continued negotiating about the specimens with the people across the table. I was suddenly startled into sharper awareness. The Planned Parenthood representative—for that was what she was—was explaining.

Well, of course; of course. We can change the type of abortion we give our clients, make them “less crunchy” so that you can get an intact specimen. Our surgeon is perfectly willing to change his modus operandi in order for you to get what you want. We can skip the usual vacuum technique that results in mashed up specimens that are not worth anything to you, to a method that will deliver a fully intact specimen that can be of more use to you. The patient need never know. After all, there’s no more pain involved in one technique than another. She will not be paid, of course, for her contribution to research.

She continued.

Well, yes. I guess we can settle on a price of about 100$ per intact specimen, though I will have to talk with my superior about the deal. In the meantime, if you two could just email me four or so paragraphs explaining what you want in detail, that would be terrific.

I felt as if I were dreaming. My inner voice asked, “Is this really happening? Are those people at the lunch table really discussing prices for baby body parts over glasses of iced tea, Chablis, chicken salad and Reuben sandwiches?”

My mind reeled. Dear God. It just can’t be. The tuna, which Julie had set down before me, swam in the salt lake of my tears. Dear Jesus, I thought. The little ones. God the Father. The little ones. The Kingdom of God.

I looked around the restaurant. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The servers appeared to be floating six inches from the carpet. Soft notes from MUSAK sounded in the background. I heard the clatter of dishes and tableware. The other diners continued to talk in low voices. Somewhere a baby was crying. A young mother was taking her little girl to the restroom. All the small things, the ordinary, everyday routines of the restaurant gave the ghoulish conversation a warped sense of normalcy.

Julie came back to ask how the tuna was.

“It’s fine,” I said in a low, mechanical voice. “It’s just fine.”

The stolid blonde Valkyrie to the right of the Planned Parenthood representative had an engagement ring and wedding band on her thick finger. She continued to look at her companion once in a while. Her friend in the green suit continued negotiations.

The Walking Dead woman piously raised her bony hands like an acolyte gesturing toward Heaven. A mask of holiness camouflaged the stony expression beneath, stealing across her face like the phony faces Hollywood actresses put on when portraying nuns. She was not, she said emphatically, in this for the money. Oh, no. No, no, no. No. But you see, we do have expenses that accrue from obtaining these body parts, and in order to make it worth our while, the price does have to cover those expenditures. Experienced surgeons don’t work for free, after all. And then there’s the rent and utilities to pay.

Expenses, expenses! There are always expenses!

The people across from her agreed. Oh, yes, we certainly do understand where you are coming from. That’s why we suggest a price of 100$ per specimen. But you do see, we would like the thymus and liver to be perfectly intact. Crushed parts just are worthless to us. You understand.

Oh, indeed, she replied. And you know, about that price of 100$. Now I’ll have to check around and see if that’s standard. Each specimen may cost more than that. After all, I do want a Lamborghini. Ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha. She finally stifled her chuckles. Yes, I do want a Lamborghini.

Once again, she gave a macabre wink along with a ghastly smile that didn’t disturb in the least the rest of her flinty features.
The male buyer laughed, throwing his head back at the humor of the joke. “Don’t we all,” he said, laughing out loud. “Don’t we all want a Lamborghini!”

They shook hands all around and rose from the table. The man said he and his companion would certainly be in touch. They all left the restaurant. The MUSAK played on.

Julie returned to my table. “Is everything OK?” she asked.

“I’m OK. I’m just suddenly not feeling too well.”

I pushed back my chair and stood up.

“No thanks, Julie. Don’t pack the tuna for me to take home. I don’t think I could eat it.”

–Fay Voshell is a frequent contributor to American Thinker. Her morality tale is a semi-fictionalized account based on a real video that recently surfaced. In the video, a Planned Parenthood representative discusses the sale of baby body parts with two people who secretly recorded the conversation. A link to the video may be found here. The author may be reached at fvoshell@yahoo.com



 

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