Chapter 9: The Federal Reserve Money Printing Machine Roars in My Womb

CSA-05 descended into the meltdown bells of the Wall Street exchanges.As Eleanor inserted the feeding vessels of her mechanical womb into the Dow Jones index terminals, amniotic fluid was flowing down the telegraph wires and into the tap water pipes of every home in America - those who drank from it would suddenly recite The Wealth of Nations and go on a war-bonds-buying spree.

"Mom, his umbilical cord is attached to the Federal Reserve vault!" CSA-01 snapped the bloodied umbilical cord with his teeth, spilling not blood but miniature stock certificates, "crying three times a minute, each time triggering a 2% fluctuation in the stock index..."

Eleanor lifts the newborn under the glass skylight of the NYSE dome, and the midday sun penetrates the baby's translucent mechanical heart, casting coded, blood-colored patches of light across the trading floor. The brokers in tuxedos suddenly began to twitch, their pupils surfacing the real-time NASDAQ ticker-they became human K-charts.

"Families, today is the Double Eleven Sale." She ripped open her blood-stained maternity dress to the modified telegraphic live camera, "Unleash the baby cry stunt if you break a million likes - the first cry shorts railroad stocks, the second cry triggers cotton futures, and the third cry..." she suddenly shoved her nipple into CSA-05's mouth, "making the Lincoln clone ejaculate and die on the spot!"

The bounty instantly topped five million ounces of gold. As the baby let out its first whimper, a holographic video of Lincoln masturbating in the White House cellar suddenly played on all the trading screens. The second cry rang out as the Southern plantation owner's will was automatically changed to the Eleanor Book of Succession. The moment a third scream ripped through the air, the Washington Monument collapsed, revealing rows of CSA clone incubation pods inside.

"Wonderful?" Eleanor handed the baby to CSA-02 to nurse, the bottle the child was holding filled with nitroglycerin, "Now shelving a limited lot - my colostrum!" The milk she squeezes out smolders on the auction hammer, corroding the pattern of the Federal Reserve seal.

Suddenly, Lincoln's mechanical double crashes through the bulletproof glass and enters. Twelve metal tentacles protruded from under his suit, each linking to the safe of a bankrupt bank. "It's time for your womb to be nationalized." Laser scalpels popped out of the tentacle tips, "Pursuant to Section 2140 of the Anti-Human Capital Act..."

Eleanor copied the nursing pillow and slammed it, which exploded not with cotton but with uncirculated U.S. currency, and CSA-03 took the opportunity to climb up on Lincoln's shoulder and paste baby poop into his pupil-recognition system, "Uncle President, Mom says your iris data...is worth the auction price of three concentration camps!"

As Lincoln's tentacles begin to slaughter the audience indiscriminately, Eleanor lifts up the trading floor. Underneath was actually a stock graveyard spanning a hundred years - the shredded sheets of Black Thursday 1929, the computerized remains of the 1987 crash, the wills of Lehman Brothers in 2008, all submerged in her amniotic fluid.

"Baby, show your uncles a trick." She wrapped the umbilical cord of the CSA-05 around Lincoln's neck. With each cry of the baby, the umbilical cord contracted a new Dow, strangling the president's mechanical body with sparks.

The live feed suddenly goes black, only for Eleanor's sneer to come out, "And now a plug for a commercial - a 300% annualized yield on an investment in 'uterine securities', collateralized by your wife's fallopian tubes! "

As the NYSE collapses into rubble, she sits in a pile of gold and rummages through her diary. The charred pages showed the new rule: "For each CSA series you nurse, your true age will increase by twenty years." While her reflection in the mirror suddenly turns into an old crone, the CSA-05 in her arms begins to grow in reverse, mechanical fingers penetrating her shriveled breasts, "Mom, my Initial Directive #666 is...Suck the financial credit out of all mammals."

Three hundred miles away, Sherman's army was transforming captured Confederate generals into human meat ATMs. Each corpse has a QR code affixed to its tongue, which can be scanned to access a live replay of Eleanor's delivery room - and the video plays are draining the reserves of banks across America at a rate of 2,140 per minute.