Perhaps the official
will be impressed by an equal display of surliness. "The last time a man
put his hands on me, I tore them off and fed 'em to his momma," you
threaten. You try to follow this up by slapping his hands off your
shirt, but your arm muscles are about as toned and thick as flan.
Luckily, he didn't see your attempt because he's wearing dark glasses
indoors. He does let go of your shirt anyway, so you assume that your
remark found its mark. You sit back down and prop your feet up on the
table as he begins to pace around the room, glaring at you. Or at least
you think he's glaring at you. Those are some dark glasses. You begin to
plot your next witty retort as the cigar-smoking official returns to the
table. He begins to speak, and you prepare to shut him down with the old
gem, "yo mama."
"So," he bellows, "you're the infamous ‘Hand-Feed-Momma Killer?'" All of
a sudden, your earlier remark seems somewhat less clever. Perhaps you
should cut your losses and go for an insanity plea. You bite onto your
shirt sleeve and start shaking your head vigorously. It doesn't have
quite the effect that you were hoping for.
"Nice try, HFM Killer, but we're onto your tricks. Tryin' to leave the
country, eh? Runnin' off to the relative safety of your home base in…"
he consults his dossier, "Paradise Island? Man, what a dive. Anyway, I
don't care how bad your taste in safehouses is. You ain't gettin' off on
no insanity plea on my watch. No, I got something real special in mind
for you." He walks out the door and leaves you with a few minutes alone
with which to kick yourself over your poor choice of words.
When he returns, he has
an angry-looking old woman with him. "You remember victim #14: Martha
Vanderstein, right? Of course you do, you sick bastard!" Thank god, this
woman will recognize that you aren't the HFM Killer and this whole mess
will be cleared up. Unfortunately, it is not to be, as the woman's
cataracts are as thick as soup, and she simply assumes that you're the
right man. And so, she and the cigar-smoking man administer some poetic
justice, cutting off your hands and making you eat them. As luck would
have it, that toy ring you got from a box of Crackerjacks was a choking
hazard, and so you choke to death on your own barbeque-slathered ring
finger.