September 28, 2007
Margo Atwater’s ‘The Return’
“You don’t have to be so melodramatic,” I groaned. “You’ve been gone for, like, a week.”
“More like two weeks, if you’re ignoring that part where I came back,” Margo said coyly.
“I’m not.”
“Huh.”
We shared an awkward moment, until she finally got up and hugged me. I stood like a lump, because happy as I was to have her back, the full effect of finding out I have an illegitimate daughter had just slapped me in the face like so many gigantic, pump-action ejaculating dildos.
“What’s wrong?” Margo asked, rubbing my back.
“I just found out some really weird news,” I said.
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter.” I shrugged. I didn’t want to tell her. She’d leave again.
“Come on, Girthy,” Margo said softly, sitting down on one of the kitchenette stools while grabbing my hands and swinging them around like a retarded grade-schooler. “You have to let me in, in more ways than just one.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I sighed. “I’m the one with the huge cock.”
“Yeah, well, there was that one time when—”
“I asked you stop bringing that up,” I said. “That was the second-biggest mistake of my life, after all this stuff with Sarah Goss.”
“Oh, Girth,” Margo said sweetly, “good effort, but you’re so fucking full of shit.”
“I know. Wait—what?”
“It doesn’t matter, though. I get it. Well, except all that stuff about curing her by fucking her.”
“Yeah, but this is way worse,” I confessed.
“What, the strap-on thing?”
“No, no—well, yeah, but also this other thing.”
“What is it?”
“Well, apparently…I have a daughter. A 15-year-old daughter.”
“What the fuck?!”
“I didn’t know! She meant nothing to me! It was years before I even met—”
“What are you going to do about it?”
I shrugged. “This private detective guy tracked me down and says the daughter wants to meet me, but I don’t really have to.”
“You should.”
“Fuck you—”
“But—”
“How do I even know she’s mine? He gave me some paternity test result that could be faked, for all I know!”
“You don’t want to at least talk to her?”
“Why should I? She probably just wants money.”
“Like you have any!”
“I stole a bunch from those Nigerians, remember?”
“Oh yeah. Hey, can I borrow fifty bucks?”
“I don’t want to meet this girl, Margo,” I said. “I’m scared…”
“Of what?”
“Of…I dunno, I’m not a dad. I barely had one, I don’t really understand chicks—”
“That’s for sure.”
I glared at her and continued. “I just don’t want to ruin her life.”
“Girth.” Margo put a hand on my shoulder. “She’s 15. There’s no way you can ruin her more than her mom already did.”
I shrugged. “Fair enough. I guess I’ll call that private detective guy.”
I dug out Morty Melendez’s card and dialed the number. “What?!” a sweaty-sounding voice demanded, breathing heavily.
“This is legendary rock star Girth McDürchstein,” I announced.
“Right…?”
“I want to meet my daughter.”
Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 28, 2007 9:56 AM
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