There was an egg on your bed.
Or How I Stop Worrying About Demon Clowns and Learn to How Hatch One.
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It is a truth universally acknowledged, that if you say, "It can't get worst," it can and will get worst.
You could list the things that went horribly wrong that day. From the fact that your alarm farted and died, and that your phone has not charged or that your car decided to choose that day to declare it wanted an oil change.
Never mind the meeting in ten minutes. Never mind the fact that it was a million dollar contract on the line and that you can't be late. Never mind that you also have to face a sexist dinosaur, sneering at your incompetence in his cheap suit and balding head and his equally sexist but sleazier partner who thinks it's funny to ask you to make tea when you are the fucking administrator and this is some discriminatory bullshit, and you were banking on this deal to rub it into their greasy faces.
At least the client was accommodating – you can tell from the sympathetic look she gave you that she'd been there before. Didn't stop her from getting a 7% discount because you stormed into the office with a bird's nest for hair and gasping like you had to run for twenty blocks. (It was half a block but any running counts as twenty blocks for you).
You could handle that.
What you could not handle was coming home, sweating like a pig – because you skipped showering – starving because in your stress you forgot to eat to find a large, slimy alien egg pulsating grimly at the foot of your bed.
The thing, egg, thing, egg, was the size your torso, glistening with slime and seem to pulse with life. It stares at you like it belonged in you room, taking a spot on your floor, stinking the air with its sliminess.
Before the words "What the fuck?" finished in your head, your phone, the dead one that still remain dead cause you don't want to see the emails and messages from your irate boss, vibrated to life.
You realized you don't even have to do the Seven Stages of Supernatural Detective Work to know who was on the line.
"Hiya, [Y/N]! Congratulations!" Came the raspy, sing-song voice of the demonic clown you (fucked) loved.
"What the fuck, Pennywise?"
"[Y/N]! No swearing in front of the baby!"
You splutter incoherently. Cause it was an egg and it was certainly not a baby and what the fuck, baby?
"What the fuck? Baby?" you repeated, staring at the egg.
"Aw, I thought you'd be happy, sweetheart! It doesn't happen very often, but you and I made an egg together! Isn't it exciting! Normally, I'd keep eggy down here but the last time I suggested that you stay down here you said you'd never stay in a place that has so many diseases and I thought our baby shouldn't too! So I brought it to your place,"
Your brain acknowledged that there were words coming out of your speakerphone. Words like 'made an egg together' and 'sewers are bad for babies' and ' keep egg at your place' but your mind decided it liked the idea of ascending into the higher plane of existence where your soul scream for hours, way, way more.
Ignoring your silence, Pennywise presses on, "I know eggs isn't a human thing but don't worry, just keep it warm and safe and it'll hatch on its own. I'll come over later, got a snack here that's just waiting for me! I promise to bring you some, kiss, kiss, hug, hug, [Y/N]!"
Then your phone hum and die as you stare at the egg, your mind still in the higher plane of existence.