This ficlet is bizarre, even for me, and was spawned by a protracted series of e-mails with my galpal Kerttu about Riddick's origins and numerous unanswered questions. How did he wind up in a dumpster, an abandoned newborn? What was his upbringing like? How did he become Richard B. Riddick, and what crimes did he commit?

Herein are my answers to the first question. More answers may follow, the Muse willing...

I only claim rights to the neurons and electrons I composed this with.


Pickings

The old man was scrounging through the dumpster behind the liquor store and the free clinic when he heard it: a faint sound like there might be a kitten trapped under the rubbish. He renewed his efforts; fresh kitten was a delicacy he hadn't had in a while.

This was one of his favorite sites for picking; the clinic threw out all kinds of potentially useful things, and the package store often set out bottles of flat sodas or discontinued mixers and once in a great while, a cracked bottle of hooch. He came by most every day to scavenge, although today he'd been late because of the crime scene... Of course, the clinic's flotsam would be coming to an end, at least for a while---a Nekro hit squad had gone into the clinic a few hours ago, and afterward, two body bags came out: Dr. Bamberger and a woman patient.

The little mewling noise again--he uncovered a plastic trash bag, one side clumsily torn, though not on anything he could see nearby. Gingerly, the homeless man reached for it. He recognized the biohazard bags the clinic used...maybe a kitten looking for scraps had gotten into it?

No, by Jove, there was a baby in there! Still warm, too! Better than a kitten, any day...

Carrying the bundle back to his squat, he stoked a fire in an old industrial drum. He usually subsisted on what he could rummage from restaurant dumpsters--it wasn't often he could look forward to something freshly cooked.

Pulling his meal-to-be out of the wrapper, he took it over to the rain barrel to rinse it off. It was obviously a newborn--still a bloody mess!--and even he had certain standards.

As he plunged the infant into the cold water, it began to struggle and wail--unexpectedly, and so vigorously that he almost lost his grip on it and let it sink into the brimming container.

Damned if the little morsel wasn't alive.

Gloomily, the aging derelict lifted it out of the water and blotted it dry--there were several gore-streaked towels in the clinic bag. Probably the lady patient the Nekros killed had been this one's mama. He guessed Dr. B. had wrapped it up and tore that hole in the bag so the kid could breathe. Then Dr. B. had thrown the woman's baby out with the trash before the Nekros killed them both.

What the hell was he supposed to do with this thing? He didn't have any baby bottles, that was for sure, although there was a small water bottle with a nipple cap. No mama's milk either, but there was some powdered non-dairy creamer Feeney's Diner hadn't missed. He mixed it up in the sports bottle with the water from the rain barrel.

"You got two choices, take it or leave it," he told the infant, who glared at him and began sucking on the improvised teat. It didn't seem to be doing too poorly.

Phooey! He'd just have to make do with those stale donuts...it wouldn't be polite to eat a person who was still breathing.