We both meet in a public place and you conveniently leave your ax at home. I leave in one piece and call my mother to inform her I’ll live to see another gay. Two weeks later we meet at a secret predetermined place in disguise as Batman and Robin (I'm Batman, obviously). We have wild unprotected superhero sex and then never speak to one another again, until 15 years later when I show up at your work with an awkward teenager peppered with acne. I tell you he's your son to which you deny ever knowing me. I make a scene in front of your coworkers and demand a DNA test to which you succumb, because I threaten to return at random for the next 20 years without notice, accompanied by small animals and lawn gnomes.
You take the DNA test and find out that the strange greasy boy is in fact your spawn. You cry. I hand you tissue. You curse. I threaten to wash your mouth with soap and water. You pull at your hair and lament to the Gods like a Greek woman. I offer to sacrifice a lamb in your honor. You ask if instead I could do away with the boy. I slap you across the face and gasp at my violent and deadly reflexes. Finally you walk over and acknowledge your son.
You look him up and down as you slowly accept your new reality. It's not pretty and it smells like Cheese-Its. I'm not pretty either. I've probably gained like 50 pounds since you last saw my once sexy figure in black leather assless chaps with bat symbols littered over the crotch region. Also, after a horrific mechanical bull riding accident I have developed an exaggerated limp. You're convinced I could play Quasimodo in a low budget musical production of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
You can't imagine anything more horrific than your new pimply son and the frightening return of me, the kinkiest most unforgettable one night stand you ever had. It's all too much for you. You start taking stock of your options. You can either man up and pay child support for the next 5 years or you can kill us both and discreetly dispose of both our bodies in your backyard shed, which happens to be housing an award winning collection of perennials and ferns.
I begin interrogating you on your current status and bank balance. Are you married? Widowed? Complicated on Facebook? Do you have enough bling to support my pubescent bastard? These are pressing questions and I’m not getting any younger with my hip replacement surgery coming up in July. You politely inform me you are single and financially secure. Phew!
“Don’t worry” you tell me, motioning for our son and I to sit in the back of your eerie white van. “I’ll take good care of you. Everything will be okay.” I am relieved until I see you reveal a semi-automatic rifle from behind your back. I try to run, but it’s too late! I am now smeared across the amateur paint job inside your creepy child molester van, along with our son who screamed a full octave higher than me before taking 8 bullets in the chest.
You heave a great sigh of relief. Now your only concern is burying our bodies beside your prize winning Geraniums without disturbing them. Perhaps you could repot them and transport them inside the house for a few days. It’s definitely a good alternative to consider. After some brief brainstorming you realize what inconveniences double murders are and also how hungry they make you. After you identify your raging cravings as Mexican, you head over to Taco Bell for some bean burritos and cheesy fries. They’re delicious.
We could also just go see Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol. Your Call.