Everybody has secrets; those dark corners of your past that keep you up at night, praying that they belong to you, and you alone. That no one else will uncover them. Whether you stole a DVD from Best Buy as a kid or you’ve hunted men for sport, you’ve got something in your past you want to stay buried. Unfortunately, that won’t always be the case.
You invented a machine that fixes horribly misshapen penises. It’s an incredible piece of technology, but you’re not exactly eager to go public with it. That is, until thirty years from now. The president is in a car accident. He absorbs most of the impact with his pelvis. It’s your time to shine.
As a child, you were once tricked into swallowing a Hot Wheels car, which remained in your stomach for years. You never told a soul, embarrassed as you are by the story, and assuming it long gone. Until today, that is.
You were the one who cut Mike Sommers’ brakes before the big soap box derby! You’re the reason he broke both his ankles, which led to them healing wrong, which led to his feet permanently facing backwards. After all these years, it was you all along!
In the middle of your big campaign for Governor, it would sure be a shame if the press discovered that you’d been secretly raised by Mole Folk in the sewers of St. Louis. A shame, indeed. Although, no one really needs to know, do they? We could make this all go away for you. But be warned: the price may not be one you’re willing to pay. That is, unless you’re willing to part with your first edition copy of Mitch Albom’s Tuesdays with Morrie?
You used to run with a bad crowd. Sure, you had good times. You laughed, you loved, you stole the Hope Diamond. But now someone’s been picking off your crew one-by-one. Could it be your old rival, the Viscount du Pont? Your son, now a better thief than you ever were? The INTERPOL agent you humiliated mid-heist, thereby ruining his career, who swore he would one day pick off your crew one-by-one?
There’s a man buried in your yard. You had no choice but to hide him, you tell yourself. You were cornered. But still, it haunts your dreams. Worst of all, your guests are beginning to notice the screams rising up through the dirt. Perhaps they’ll have to join him, though you’d hate to ruin your azaleas again.
Unbelievable! The critics are savaging your latest work. You poured your heart and soul out, and this is the response you receive? What have they done of value? Who would miss their bitter souls? You mutter all this and more as your arrange their bodies in your latest exhibition. Oddly enough, it becomes critically lauded. Unfortunately, the federal agents who just showed up at your door don’t seem to care.
You had a perfect life. You still do, in fact. But he never will. You hit that poor boy with your car and you kept driving. You were ten states over before you even stopped crying, but you knew you could put it all in your past. Until now. Who could it be, leaving you those voicemails? “We know you killed him,” they warn. “You killed the road boy! The boy who always sat in the road!” But why haven’t they simply called the police? And why does their voice sound so far away?
Ten years ago, you shot your husband’s clone. Or so you thought. Something feels off, lately, and you’ve begun wondering if you shot the right man. Of course, you never want him to know what you suspect. But then perhaps you should have checked for eavesdroppers before calling your sister last week.
You’ve been kissing every street sign in town. Every night, you get out of bed, put on your finest suit, and walk around the city, leaving each street sign with a gentle peck. For forty years you escaped capture, until your son opens that box you keep in your closet. Horrified, he looks through the polaroids within: you with a Madison Ave sign, you with a stop sign, you with a deer crossing sign, each marked with a telling pair of lips. Your lips. You’re the Sign Smoocher. He faints.
You’re D.B. Cooper. It was you the whole time. You’re eighty years old and you stole $200,000 and that’s about all there is to it.
Looking through medical records, your children discover that they didn’t have the parents they thought. No, their mother wasn’t their mother at all. Instead, they sprang fully formed, armor included, from your forehead. They’ll never look at you, or your forehead, the same way again.