A guy and a girl were out on a romantic date. After dinner and a movie they drove up to makeout point. Just as things were getting hot and heavy, the love songs on the radio were interrupted by an important bulletin. A dangerous killer had escaped from a local penitentiary. He is very dangerous, and a killer, and he has a hook hand, that’s how you know it’s him, the report said. The guy and girl laughed because they were nervous, and then they continued kissing with their mouths. A moment later there was a scratching noise at the door. The girl didn’t like it, but the guy tried to brush it off, explaining the noise away on an animal trying to come in from the cold. It is July, the girl insisted. The boy drew her into a deep kiss. There were more scratches at the door. After almost a half hour of scratch-laden kissing, the girl was just too creeped out, and asked the boy to take her home. When he pulled up at her house and went to open her door for her, he found a hook attached to the handle. He tried to hide it behind his back, but the girl had seen him hiding something and demanded that he show her what it was. Reluctantly, he revealed the killer’s hook hand, which was probably, they both agreed, what was making that scratching noise. The boy was angry. “He fucked up my paint job.” The girl just made a face. “I don’t care if that hand belonged to the King of England, a hook hand is just gross.” The boy threw the hook hand into some bushes of a neighbor’s house, and then leaned in for a goodnight kiss. But the girl had already backed into her doorway. “I don’t think so,” she said. “You were just touching that gross hook hand.” Surprisingly, years later, when the guy was making a list of all the girls he’d ever kissed, he almost forgot to add that girl.