Hotel Baby

I am staying in a beautiful fifty-story hotel. I get in late after a night drinking single malt scotch and playing a board game in the lobby with old friends. When I return I remember that I left the baby in my apartment. I feel horrible and guilty. I look in the bedroom and find it lying on the floor, still alive. The baby is as small as a coffee mug. Instead of a face it has a folded mass of skin with two bright black eyes. It doesn’t speak. It seems to grow in size. I pick it up carefully and immediately it starts to poop all over me. I get into the shower with it and wash it off. Later I am cooking and it crawls between the fridge and the stove. I pull the fridge away. It is covered in grease, scratching against the wall. Frantically, I pick it up, check for burns, then take it to the shower again. It is clawing at me with its little thin hands, pooping itself, and growing in size.