TINMAN

Sadly, Mark was born without a heart. Doctors x-rayed that poor kid more times than Lois Lane’s pretty pink panties were scanned by Superman’s lustful eyes. And every x-ray showed there was not a heart to be found in his entire body.
It wasn’t hiding behind the liver, suffering from radiophobia. It didn’t move into the lungs, trying to get a breath of fresh air. It wasn’t philosophizing with the brain, or kickin’ it with the feet. It wasn’t doing it’s Porky Pig impression of Elvis at the p-p-p-pelvis, either. It wasn’t in the eyes, as Mark had hoped, looking for love. And it hadn’t already found love, because it wasn’t getting kisses at the pecs, nor was it in the throat doing a bit of necking. Mark was too square for his heart to be hanging out with the hips, and too dull for it to be at the funny bone, so doctors didn’t even bother to look there. Mark had thought it might be at the kidneys, doing a bit of babysitting, but doctors guessed it wasn’t responsible enough for that yet. It wasn’t playing peek-a-boo at the poop chute, murmuring out the mouth, or getting bent at the knees.
They searched far and wide, high and low, but couldn’t find his heart anywhere. Mark then knew that there was only one direction for his life to head in. He spent every day of the rest of his life being the most heartless bastard that’s ever lived.
By the end of his days, just the mention of his name would cause women to spit, babies to cry, the elderly to shit their pants, and small pets to run away whimpering.
Mark was a fucking jerk.