Hello boys. Look at me. I am single. There used to be more people in this room, but I got rid of all of them. For you. Now I am physically single and ready to command your full attention.
I am also romantically single and desire a boy. A healthy boy with a soft neck and a faultless criminal record to match my own. That’s right, I have not committed any crimes. Or have I? No, I have not. But have I? No.
I am on the nation’s most wanted list. This designation is unrelated to my status with the FBI and instead indicates my merits as a romantic partner. My clean criminal record and also my soft neck are very desirable. Your heart is fluttering in agreement. My heart is not. I have incredible cardiovascular control. This is why I can pass any lie detector test, a skill I need not employ if the question is if I have committed any crimes and I reply “No.”
When you become my number-one boy, you can expect an abundance of romance. There will be “thievery” (when I steal your heart). There will be “arson” (when I set fire to your loins). There will be “smuggling huge amounts of narcotics because I am in too deep with Peru’s Shining Path guerillas” (when my eyes look really pretty).
For example, we can go on international trips. You will take my suitcase and circumvent airport security as I distract TSA with my boundless charisma and carefully-crafted disguise. When they ask you why you’re carrying twenty-five hundred thousand dollars in cash, tell them how generous I am at gift-giving and how lucky you are to be my partner, not in crime, but in affection and devotion.
If they say “OK, that checks out, but what about these four machetes?”, remember that you have the right to remain silent. Do not fret. You will not be quiet for long. At our first conjugal visit, I will have you screaming throughout the night. And then you will suddenly fall silent. They say you’ve found The One when you can be comfortable in silence together, which incidentally applies if one of us is dead.
In short, it’s cuffing season, my number-one boy. Now that we are bound by our mutual romantic interest, why don’t you help me remove these pointless, court-mandated handcuffs. After all, these hands are meant for holding knives! Excuse me, I meant to say that these hands are meant for holding! Knives. Just hold hands with me and I’ll put down the knife.
—V. Liu
