Fate seemed kind when Harry met Sally, as two budding lovers proudly partook of each other’s pecan pie. The cherubs aimed, fired, and seemed to hit their mark as arms and forks crossed the table to feed each other morsels of sticky dessert. The moment was beautiful. Their love was unalloyed, pure gold.

Never mind Harry’s lewd thoughts as his partner licked her lips free of crumbs that he envisioned as poop flecks farted with intent in raucous, feral debauchery. Never mind Sally’s slow, deliberate chewing and tongue work to entice her partner’s lust, or how, while savoring her piece of pecan pie, she could only think of cream pies, of slow-flow cum seeping like rich honey from her pretty, puckered butt hole. Never mind all that. After all, this was love.

Thus began their journey of living happily ever after until the end of their days.

But fate is a fickle mistress, even if Sally may not have been (at first), and so those first appearances of undying love between her and Harry…well, they crumbled to dust.

For a long time, the amorous pair remained pure, enjoying a healthy relationship built on foundations of trust and fidelity. But even the best of foundations can snap under pressure, dissolving at the base where acidic pools of resentment have seeped through the cracks.

Things are PERFECT! Sally’s mantra.

Things could NOT be BETTER! She hammers it in, hoping one day it’ll stick.

The truth is, Sally sometimes is left second guessing, wondering often, constantly actually, if Harry (now her husband), would be a better version of himself if he had Tom Hanks’ voice, Tom Hanks’ face, Tom Hanks’ demeanor—that he’d be the best version of himself if he was Tom Hanks.

To be perfectly frank, wondering about the body-and-soul swap of her neurotic husband with a down-to-earth type—a mellowed-out Tom Hanks, to be precise—didn’t enter into it. For Sally, there was no wondering required, no supposing she may be onto something. She was outright convinced that her husband would be the best version of himself if he weren’t himself at all but was, instead, Tom Hanks.

Even so, at the best of times, Harry and Sally were content. And anyway, that nagging doubt—okay, let’s face it: doubtless conviction—about how things could have been so much better (Tom Hanks, et cetera, et cetera), despite all that, Harry and Sally were happy.

Probably.

More or less—certainly less when regarding Sally.

Let me put it this way: if it weren’t for the startlingly lifelike Tom Hanks automaton that she kept in the basement closet, fucked in the middle of the night with suppressed moans of elation, Sally would have slit her wrists ages ago. Wearing nothing but a bitter smile, she would have focused her last living moment scrawling out a doodle of her husband, using the dark ink of her spilt blood to create an image of his gormless, stupid fucking face, that idiotic grin and frizzy hair, those kind, dumb eyes that she loathed more than everything else in this world apart from his disgusting touch. If it weren’t for her covert excursions to engage nightly with her Tom Hanks fuck puppet, Sally would have, using her last seconds of consciousness, positioned her bare ass over Harry’s mouth so that when she croaked, leaving this cruel world behind, her stool would let loose over his fast-talking lips (for if she cannot shut Harry up in life, at least she can find peace in death).

This is what Sally would have done, had almost done, but, in the end, did not need to do because she joyfully fucked her Tom Hanks automaton in the dark privacy of her basement closet.

Okay, so Harry and Sally didn’t live happily ever after. But they lived, which is more than an automaton can say, even if it’s startlingly human, awash in a mucoid deluge of cum, and looks just like Tom Hanks.