I was the child of an extremely rich family running a boat rental business out of New Orleans. My father, a superman-esque figure, used the local river which was owned by a much richer gentleman.
I had just gotten back from a boating trip around one of our personal rivers when my mother came running onto the dock screaming, “We’re losing the business! We’re gonna lose the business!” As it turned out, my father had not paid to use the local river, and the gentlemen who owned it was not too keen on trespassers.
My personal boat driver—who had ran other businesses off of the rich man’s river—claimed that this has happened before, in fact, it had happened countless times. He explained that the way they had avoided the rich man’s legion of lawyers was by receding into the city’s back-alleys and simply waiting to lose the lawyer’s attention before returning to the river and continuing business. Truly an amazing business strategy.
Meanwhile, my father struggled to pick up or interact with anything, his superman-esque physique weighing on him heavily as anything he touched immediately broke under the immense pressure of his muscular hands. My mother grew depressed, unable to physically love her husband. The two came to an agreement: they would form a polycule.
My mother would go on to marry a second superman-esque figure, my second father. He was like my father in many ways, except in one: he had a Hitler mustache. He had a son of his own, who was much younger than I was. My biological father and new father would oftentimes wrestle against each other to display their immense strength.