OK, so you and I are having lunch in sort of a weird new restaurant that includes a guy in a clown suit who entertains the customers by playing seriously romantic tunes on a violin as he roams the dining room floor. He doesn't smile even though his makeup indicates that he is supposed to be happy happy. Somehow the strange combination is meant to be ironic, but it just doesn't work.
We go to eat there for the first time mainly to watch this failed attempt at being hip, which we heard about from friends. We order and as we wait for our meals the clown plays "Let's Face the Music and Dance."
But then you notice that my eyes and the clowns eyes lock. You hear me utter, "Oh crap!" I turn pale, shove the table back as I pull out and run. You never knew my aging, portly out-of-shape self could move so fast. I'm out the door.
The clown yells, "Willis! Stop!" And from out his absurdly puffy costume he produces a sophisticated looking firearm. He bolts out the door in pursuit, pistol held high over his head. His comic oversize shoes prevent him from running too fast.
For about 15 seconds not a sound is heard in this eating establishment, but then the slow murmurs start and build to a sound like that of an air hose in action with nothing to fill, and you realize all eyes are on you.
About five minutes later the clown returns, empty handed. His fake nose, fake ears, hat, and wig have all fallen off. Streaks of sweat are traced on his facial greasepaint. He looks like our worst hideous nightmares of what clowns can be. He is panting, and pissed off.
The clown resets the chair I tipped over, plops down in it, crosses his arms with his elbows on the table, leans close and stares at you. In the distance you hear sirens. He presents you with some sort of official looking credentials and badge, representing some kind of national security agency you've never heard of with an acronym like the NSGV or something like that.
Then he reaches in his clown pocket, pulls out about a half dozen Morty Comix, and carefully arranges them on the table so you can see each one. "We intercepted these in odd places, like in gas stations, cafe menus, dead phone booths, you know, the usual place lowlife scum spies pass coded messages. Which is, in fact, what these are."
Meanwhile, the local police arrive and they appear normal except they are all wearing styrofoam Abraham Lincoln stovepipe hats. They see the clown and become very agitated and hesitant. None of them come close to him, but instead the one who seems to be in charge whispers into a radio communication device. Before you know it a man who looks exactly like Richard Nixon, dressed in an old-fashioned gangster pinstripe suit, complete with fedora, walks in the room and says to the clown in a commanding voice, "I'll have those Morty Comix now, Mister."
The clown starts to reach for his gun, but before he even touches it he is surrounded by officers who quickly draw their weapons and in an unified precision aim right at his heart. So he slowly rises and calmly announces, "You win. Let Hercules himself do what he may. The cat will mew and dog will have his day."
There is always a bigger fish.
The styrofoam hat law enforcement officers allow the clown the leave quietly, but seconds later another set of sirens are heard in the distance, coming closer. The uniformed guys look at each other and the Nixon guy says, "Jeez, it's the REAL cops!" and they all run away, forgetting the original purpose of their mission.
So you are left sitting at a table with six Morty Comix and the sirens are getting closer. You have about 2 or 3 minutes to either cut and run or stay and deal with the authorities. What would you do, and what happens to the comix?
