I’ve been told that, once upon a time, they used to call little kids “cute.” But that was before millions were killed in the toddler uprising.
Most people thought that terrorists were responsible for the first major attacks, but then someone noticed small groups of toddlers at each of the disasters and posted a compilation video of news footage they’d spliced together. After that video went viral, parents began noticing their kids huddling together at playgrounds and using hand gestures they’d never seen before. But it was already too late.
If you had to blame something or someone, I guess the real culprit was Mother Earth herself. Changing climate conditions somehow led to a mutation in the CDKN1C gene of every human born, a gene originally credited with Beckwith-Wiedemann (or “big kid”) syndrome, where a child’s body and organs grow at an alarming rate. Right around the time that scientists discovered this gene was the same one responsible for the IMAGe (or “little kid”) syndrome that severely stunted children’s growth, doctors reported a frightening increase in CDKN1C gene mutations. What we didn’t know at the time was that Mother Earth didn’t think in terms of either “big” or “little.” All she could think about was children and death.
While these gene mutations were stunting the growth of children across the globe, they were at the same time causing accelerated growth in their frontal lobes. In other words, even though these kids stayed small, they quickly became too smart for their own good. Imagine a genius’ brain stuck in a two-year-old’s body, with a two-year-old’s temperament, and a two-year-old’s insatiable desire to make everything “mine.” Multiply that by almost 400,000 a day. “Terrible twos,” indeed.
Fifty years later, here I am, watching over a shipment of explosives meant to level the largest crib in North America. It’s run by a little snot that goes by “Alexander,” and our sources say that he’s making a play for the entire continent. He’s just crazy enough to make it happen. But we won’t let that happen, even if it means wiping out every toddler from sea to shining sea.
Some of the older folks call us monsters for “taking care” of toddlers. The ones who usually get the most bent out of shape are the old ladies who used to “babysit” the little devils (which always makes me laugh, because that’s what us in the resistance call “interrogation”). These same old ladies say that toddlers used to be “so sweet and so innocent,” but I’m sure that’s just because they’ve never been shot by one.
I have. Twice. Point-blank from behind. I’ll never turn my back on another toddler as long as I live. Which may not be that long; their numbers grow stronger every day, while us “grown-ups” keep getting killed by the thousands because so many aren’t willing to fight back.
Well, I am. Which is why I’m barreling down the road with such a dangerous cargo. My crew and I scraped together enough explosives to blow a crater the size of Disneyland in the heart of Alexander’s cute little empire (I’d sure like to see him learn how to walk away from that).
Some say that it’s hopeless, that we lost this battle long ago when parents began to cave in to their toddler’s every tantrum. But even if we don’t make it out of this one alive, the toddlers will know that our threats are serious. We’re in charge, and we’re taking our world back.