|“Are you Angelina Jolie, because you look like a bone collector?” said Mattie J.T. Stepanek.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Lara Croft slowly drew out one of her holstered pistols, careful to not let sticky dart load misfire.
“I’m Mattie J.T. Stepanek, one of the greatest American poets of the 21st century, at least according to Oprah. Can I read you a poem I wrote for you?”
Lara aimed it at Mattie his left knee. “God, I wish I could make you crippled physically. I mean, you obviously are emotionally. Go ahead, read your poem.”
“My penis has purple veins and a heartsong. It can make your heartsong into a drum machine. Will you see me in the morning? I promise we won’t be boring. We can do it in this wheelchair. I promise not to pull your hair.”
The dart stuck onto the tombstone of Mattie’s forehead. “You might not get my phone number but you could win the costume contest tonight.”