Ah, Pitt. Hatin' on the wimminz again.
Last night, after drinking a bottle of rubbing alcohol, Pitt stared at the bedroom ceiling. Cigarette smoke curled from the butt in the astray beside the bed. His pregnant wife snored gently beside him.
Pitt's brow was furrowed at something just out of reach in his mind. Pitt remembered, vaguely, that he hadn't been able to get an erection since that one time in the truck stop bathroom down in Crawford back in '08. "Ah,
Juanito", he said to himself softly, remembering.
His wife stirred at the sound, and moved away from the smells of old cigarette smoke and alcoholism on his side of the bed. Pitt looked at her, slowly moving from point A to point B in his mind. It took a few minutes, but Pitt realized that the baby could not be his. After all, you can't shoot pool with a rope, can you?
"But who, who, who is the baby daddy?", Pitt asked himself, almost rhythmically, as he stared at his sleeping wife darkly.
Could this brown-eyed devil be Baby Pitt's real daddy?