Butter Pecan

So, this is scheduled to be my second submission, barring my finishing ‘Clinic Case Files 2’ prior to this one’s end. It also has the distinction of being 99.9% fictional. It’s genesis was reading one of the major Loving Wives authors lamenting, in his prelude, that many people had stated that there were “no new ways to discover your wife was cheating on you”, which he took as a challenge. His way was new, and unique, and he presumably passed the mantle on. Challenge accepted!

I freely admit that the characters in this story ended up dictating how the story ended; I started it with a different ending in mind, but in the end, this is the ending that came out. I make no apologies for that; if someone wants to end it differently, you’re welcome to write an alternate ending. However, don’t write the ending in the comments. WRITE IT and submit it, all I ask is that you be otherwise true to the characters.

For those who’ll criticize the long stretches of dialog banter between characters, with little external description of the events, sorry; it’s just my style, and I find banter a bit better. I also try to squeeze in humor, and try to make the words the characters say reflective of a real person. If I fail to provide sufficient description, well, use your imagination to build the scene around them.

I’d like to thank Todger65 for his help editing this. He found many mistakes, and helped me correct them. I then promptly went through and rewrote it slightly, which introduced more. Perhaps you can tell where he cleaned up my praddle and made it readable, by comparing it to other sections? Regardless, any and all faults are mine.

For those who would otherwise complain, please do what I did here. Come up with your own original story, and share! I like reading new authors, when I get the time, and while until recently I’ve always left only anonymous comments when I commented, I felt that I owed those who kept me entertained (or enraged me with their efforts!) a duty to try to entertain them for once. Enjoy!

‘Butter Pecan’

“Hey, do you want some dessert? I’m going to get something from the kitchen.” I asked my wife of 13 years, Marie, taking my arm from around her where she was leaning on me as we watched the TV.

“No, I’m good, baby. Well, maybe another glass of the vino!” the five foot six bundle of beauty giggled, waving her glass around at me from the sofa as I stood. I took her glass and winked at her as I went towards the kitchen, happy knowing that later tonight, I was very likely to get lucky. Not that there had been much doubt about it, since I’d come back only five hours earlier from a three week business trip, the longest trip I’d ever had to take during our 13 year marriage.

It had also been the longest time we’d ever been apart since we met and started dating, back in college, her a junior and I a senior, 16 years earlier. I’d learned very early on that wine was the secret of Marie’s libido. None, and she was a normal woman, with a normal libido. A little, she got flirty. A lot, and she would pass out. But in between ‘a little’ and ‘a lot’ was a magical place of a highly sexually charged woman, capable of putting to shame Scheherazade of 1001 Arabian Nights fame. She’d already been making subtle signals that three weeks was too long…

Pondering my lucky stars to have found this woman, I walked into the kitchen and refilled Marie’s wine glass. I then thought about what I wanted for a snack, and realized I wanted something cold and creamy, ice cream. It’s one of my secret vices, perhaps my only one, but I worked hard, running 4 miles every single day, to work off those calories. My vice wasn’t alcohol. It wasn’t cigarettes. It wasn’t gambling, or porn (well, ok, maybe a little porn), and it wasn’t any other drug, other than Marie herself. It was Cookies & Cream Ice Cream. I put a small bowl on the counter, grabbed the scoop, and opened the freezer door. I looked, grabbed the Cookies & Cream, and then froze in place as firmly as the ice cream, contemplating life, the universe, and everything.

You know that old meme about men holding the refrigerator door open while they stare into it? That was me. You see, there wasn’t just one tub of ice cream in the freezer. There were two. My beloved Cookies & Cream, suddenly more dear to me than the woman who had a moment before been the love of my life, and the other.

Butter Pecan Ice Cream.

The thoughts that went through my head at that moment started at “What the hell?”, progressed to “She’s trying to kill me!” to “Oh my god, she not only killed me, she killed our marriage.” Just like that, I knew my marriage to that bitch, that cheating whore, who I had loved more than life itself, until I opened the freezer door, was over. You see, Marie doesn’t like ice cream; she likes sherbet, but for some reason detests ice cream. She never buys it, not unless I’ve specifically asked for it.

And yet, there was Butter Pecan sitting in our freezer.

Did I explain that I have a severe allergy to pecans (and a number of other tree nuts, like walnuts)? I didn’t? My bad. I have a reaction that causes anaphylactic shock, severe anaphylactic shock, in less than a minute if I ingest certain nuts. Pecans are most definitely in that category, and when we had been married only a year or so, I nearly lost my life from anaphylactic shock after having a pork chop at one of our local higher end establishments. The pork chop had been dusted with ground pecans, to give it extra flavor during grilling, but it hadn’t been listed as having that. I hadn’t had my EpiPen (my mistake, I know), but luckily one of the other patrons of the restaurant did have one. But it still took long enough that the hospital kept me for four days to examine me for neurological damage and I’d even gone into secondary anaphylaxis in the hospital. Marie had been there; she knew it; she’d held my hand the entire fucking time I’d been in the hospital, except for when the nurses, or her bladder, had forced her away for a few minutes. Since that day, I always, and I mean always, have an EpiPen within 10 feet of me, if not on my person.

But there was someone else we both knew that loved ice cream, too. And his favorite flavor? I’ll give you a guess. Jonathan Williams. Jonathan fucking Williams was the son of a bitch who had obviously spent at least some time while I was gone keeping time in my house, with my wife, over the last three weeks. Enough time (judging by what I could see in the clear container) to allow him to eat most of a gallon tub of Butter Pecan.

Jonathan Williams. Marie’s last boyfriend before she and I got together.

Jonathan Williams, single, decent looking, 37 years old, relatively fit, in the outer edge of our social circle, he of the cherry muscle car he had done nothing to earn, who lived just 20 or so miles away, closer to where Marie worked. That asshole had been at my house. MY HOUSE. And if he was here, eating enough Butter Pecan to make that dint in the tub, he’d been here many nights while I was gone. He had been in my house, in my bed, and in my wife.

A leap? No, not really. I’d called Marie every night that we’d been apart (and a few times during the day, or early evening). She’d almost always answered when I called, but on the times she hadn’t she always called back within 15 minutes or so. early in the trip, we’d talked for an hour or so each day, even having phone sex most nights. Later in my trip, about 9 days or so in, the calls had been shorter, and the one time we’d had phone sex (five days ago), she’d talked about being eaten out while jerking me off during the call. She’d even at one point supposedly held the phone close to her twat so I could hear how wet and squishy she was. But even that call wasn’t particularly long, only a half hour before she had to go. And it was the only time in our entire marriage where I hadn’t been able to get there with her when we had phone sex. Something about it hadn’t started my motor running like it normally does when we talk dirty.

I hadn’t expected, or even had a nightmare, about Marie cheating on me, but Butter Pecan had suddenly cleared a lot of things in my head up. I was stunned. I was hurt. I was angry. But I wasn’t in denial. Marie was cheating on me with Jonathan Asshole Williams the Fuckteenth.

It was hard to believe partially because of the way they broke up. They had been hot and heavy as a couple, until he got caught seeing some girl on the side. There had been some argument that I heard vague bits about, with the result being them breaking up. Prior to that, they’d both been on the outer fringes of my social circle, so I didn’t follow the ins and outs closely, pun not intended.

I returned my beloved Cookies & Cream to the freezer, no longer feeling a desire for ice cream. What I had instead was a deep hunger for revenge, for justice, for hurting those who had hurt me.

I picked up the wine glass and twirled the pale pink liquid around in the glass. I must have done it for longer than I thought, because I was broken out of my dark thoughts when I heard Marie’s voice from the family room. “Hank, honey, everything all right? You’re taking a long time to fetch a snack and some wine!”

“Oh, I’ll be there in a moment. I have to wash the ice cream scoop, and it’s got some gunk on it.” I replied back, turning on the kitchen faucet to cover. I needed a plan. I needed it fast. It didn’t have to be perfect, in the long run, but it had to be good for now. I did not want to have sex tonight, but I needed an excuse to not have sex with her. It wouldn’t have been making love, not anymore, it would have been screwing a cheap slut now. How quickly our thoughts go dark when they first head there! From ‘love of my life, the most beautiful woman I know’ to ‘cheap slut’ in so short a time!

I carried out the wine glass to Marie, but did not sit back down on the sofa. “Thank you! Oh, where’s your ice cream, Hank?” Marie smirked at me, knowing my weakness, damn her.

“I’m not in the mood for a regular ice cream now, not after the gunk on the scoop.” True, I wasn’t in the mood for anything, actually, but I didn’t vocalize that. “I figured instead I’d run out to the DQ and get a milkshake. You want one?” Quick thinking… milkshakes and wine don’t go together, so she’d decline, and it would let me out of the house, alone, for thirty minutes to think. She wouldn’t come with me, as she’d already half undressed when she got home.

“Only if they have a pinot grigio milkshake!” she giggled.

“Just for you, I’ll ask” I forced myself to flirt with her. “I’m not sure they’ll have it. Would a rose milkshake be okay instead?” I continued. One of the best acting jobs I think I’d ever done, saying it light and flirtatiously, not shaking like a leaf, even though my heart was beating so fast I felt like it was going to leap out of my throat.

“Oh, definitely. Why don’t you hurry on out for those milkshakes, and maybe they’ll be a different milkshake a little later!” she responded, raising one eyebrow and swaying just enough that her freed breasts swayed back and forth under her half open shirt. God, I used to love those little innuendos with her.

Grabbing my keys, I smiled at her, and walked out the door. Thirty minutes, thirty minutes to figure out what to do, to plot a course of revenge, to figure out how I would avoid Marie. Thirty minutes to at least start planning the rest of my life.

I went out and got in Marie’s car. She didn’t like driving my truck, so me taking her car would make her less likely to follow if it took a little longer. I had the phone dialing before I even snapped the seat belt in.

“Hank, how are you? Back from the trip?” my brother, Bobbie, greeted me when he picked up.

“Yeah, Bobbie. Bobbie, are you alone? Is Sue there with you?”

“Yeah, Hank… what’s going on? Why are you sounding like that, and why are you asking about Sue?” his voice was suddenly much more subdued, and the volume lowered.

“Bobbie, if you love me, just tell Sue I called to say hello, and that you’re going to the DQ to get something. Please. I need you to meet me there, right now. It’s one of those ‘need help hiding the bodies’ situations.” Bobbie, my 18 month older brother, and I had always been close, and we’d always joked that if anything ever happened, we’d even ‘help each other hide the bodies’ as we were growing up. Bobbie was still my best friend, and I his.

Bobbie didn’t miss a beat. Suddenly much less cautious, much more boisterously, Bobbie replied “Of course I’ll help you with the truck tomorrow. No problem. We’ll get together bright and early. If we get it done, is fishing on the table?” God, Bobbie was the fastest person in the world in terms of thinking on their feet; it was the whole reason I was calling my big brother. His comment would have suddenly put Sue at ease if she had perked up from hearing how he reacted to my voice, and gave us a reason to get together tomorrow for an extended pow-wow.

“Great. DQ on Michigan, now, though, okay?”

“Okay, bro, see you then, 7 am tomorrow. Bye!” I knew that was his way of setting up the extra time, and telling me he would be at the DQ in a few minutes; he lived closer than I did, so he might even beat me to it, though I doubted it.

I drove quickly; I wanted to maximize my time with Bobbie once he got there, but still try to keep the trip relatively short for Marie.

He pulled up less than two minutes after I did, so we got out of our cars and we went up to the order window together. Nothing was said between us; he could see I was shaking, but ‘hide the bodies’ can also be interpreted literally; he wasn’t about to ask until we’d gotten somewhere away from everyone else there.

Taking our treats over to the furthest table, we sat down, and I said the words that finally allowed the reality of the situation to come out. “I’m pretty sure that Marie either is cheating on me, or cheated on me, a lot, during my trip. Jonathan the Asshole Williams.”

I think Bobbie was ready for almost anything except that. Well, maybe there was one thing he was less ready for, that Sue might have cheated. But the idea that Marie would cheat on me was just under that as far as he was concerned.

“What? Are you sure? How? When?” he reeled off.

“I came home, and there was Butter Pecan ice cream in the freezer; mostly empty, gallon tub. So if she’s not cheating, she wants to be a widow.”

Bobbie stared at me, mouth agape, for about ten seconds before he said it. “Shit.” A single word, but Bobbie followed my logic within seconds. “Speaking of which, where is it?”

“Right here.” I replied, pulling the EpiPen out of my pocket.

“How long?”

“Who knows, but this is the first time I’ve caught on that they seem to have set up house while I was away, In the meantime, I need an excuse, a good one, to not touch her tonight. I know that I won’t be able to keep it up, which would put her on edge and alert her I know something’s wrong. I need to not alert her, so I can get a handle on what’s going on. Can you help?”

“Yeah, let me think.” I could see the wheels turning. Suddenly, he smiled. “Ok, so, how do you feel about using ‘nearly dying’ as an excuse to avoid her for a few days?”

“Huh? Not following.”

“Butter Pecan… that’s the answer. I order something that will trigger anaphylaxis; I’ve already paved the way with Sue, I told her you were going to the DQ, then I said it made me want one, too. We stopped, we were enjoying our treat, you go into shock. I use the EpiPen on you, then take you to the hospital, and we call the girls there. With your history, the hospital will hold you overnight. That gets you through tonight, and you can milk it at home for all of tomorrow, maybe even Sunday. Monday, you’re ‘at work’ and we can get the ball really rolling. I’ll get things started tomorrow by making a few discrete calls for you, we both take Monday off, and get this started. Sound like the beginnings of a plan?” Bobbie wasn’t allergic, he liked wet walnuts, which wouldn’t be as bad as pecans or peanuts would have, but they would do the trick.

“Yeah. Plan started. Go get your walnuts.” While he was gone, I finished my milkshake. No use tossing it, even if it didn’t taste as good as it would have an hour ago. He came back with the smallest sundae that had walnuts.

“EpiPen, first. I’ll wait for your signal, but no more than two minutes, okay, Bro? And just in case, man, I love you.”

“I love you too, bro. Best big brother I ever had.” I chuckled as I took one of the smaller walnut pieces from his sundae, which he immediately then started shoveling in.

“Ow, bwain fweeze!” he cried out, just as it started for me. The flush, the tingle, the itch, the constriction, the sudden dryness in my mouth as my tongue swelled, the roar in my ears as my heart began racing; I chuckled, as the last of my air going out was expelled. It felt like no air was coming in, and I could feel the invisible hands clenching my throat, strangling me. Silently, willing myself not to panic, I counted to twenty Mississippi after it started before I allowed my hand to slap the table.

I saw Bobbie grab the EpiPen, and get it ready. I don’t remember the prick of the needle going into my calf, but I had one last memory of seeing Bobbie counting off the seconds while holding the needle in place. My next memory was a passing glimpse of being in Bobbie’s car, the one after was of a doctor holding a bright light to look at my pupils calling out “Mr. Preston, can you hear me?”. Things were clearer, again, after that.

As Bobbie predicted, they held me overnight. Marie was there; she’d gotten redressed when Bobbie called her on the way to the hospital, and had even driven my truck. So was Sue. Marie ended up taking me home the next day, and Bobbie and Sue brought Marie’s car back later that afternoon. Bobbie kept close to me, even shooed the two girls away, to take care of his little brother, which I think irritated Marie. He understood I didn’t want to be alone with her, so he made a way for me to spend the rest of the weekend with him, except for the hours I ‘slept’, where I feigned tiredness from my trip, and then from the hospitalization. I didn’t have to fake it too much, as I was exhausted from tossing and turning all night. At one point, I remember, Marie was shaking me to wake me up extremely early in the AM on Sunday, saying that I was thrashing violently and screaming her name; she was worried I was having a nightmare. I was worried I wasn’t.

Monday morning dawned dreary and drab, as my life had become. I awoke ‘better’ and ‘refreshed’, ‘able to get to work again’, so I got up and got ready for work, which Marie did as well. She kissed me as she headed out, told me she loved me (yeah, right), and I faked having forgotten some receipt or another from my trip, which I’d need to file my expense report, allowing me to duck back in. As soon as she left, I texted Bobbie that I was free at my place as soon as he disentangled from Sue.

Bobbie took longer to get there than I thought he would, but I was busy as soon as I got off the phone calling in to ask for the day off. I’d gone onto the computer and googled “Best Family Law Lawyer for Men Indiana” and it had come up with a couple of lists; I’d been cross checking who was on each list, along with who was local or even just semi local, when Bobbie got there. I especially like that I found a female in the top three on four of the lists. That was unusual, I thought, Now, Marie and I didn’t have children (luckily; we’d been planning to start trying next Thanksgiving, tick-tock goes the biological clock), so it wasn’t imperative that it be a Men’s advocate. I just wanted someone who would fight like hell for me, since I wasn’t in the wrong. I also googled “Best Family Law Lawyer Indiana” as well; I added them to the list, knowing that I would end up using a free (or cheap) ‘consultation’ so that they couldn’t represent Marie when the shoe dropped. Yes, I already knew that I could never accept it, would never accept it. Our marriage was done the moment I realized what Butter Pecan meant.

Bobbie got there just as I finalized my call list; top three first, then the top three men’s advocates. I knew I was going to end up with one of the latter, but like I said, I needed to make sure they wouldn’t represent her. The top 3 were first, just because I figured I was in more danger of missing them if somehow Marie found out I was looking.

“Hey, bro, where are you? I’ve got something for you.” Bobbie called out as he came into the house.

“Back in the office. Come on back”. Just in case, I minimized the web browser (which was in ‘Incognito’ mode, so quick to close and no tracks), and minimized the phone list. I didn’t need to have done that, but I didn’t know if he would be alone when he came over; he was.

“Trying to get sneaky, Hank? Good, you need to be. Brought you a present, that’s what took so long.” he said as he handed me a small bag. Looking in, I saw a small clock radio, a tiny ceramic dog, three miniature recorders and two fat pens.

“What’s this?”

“Recording devices. The clock and the dog are cameras, see?” as he pointed to the small lenses. “The voice recorders are small, voice activated, and can hold up to 8 hours. The pens are like the recorders, but can only hold two, BUT they have Bluetooth downloads; if a cell phone is nearby that has the appropriate blue tooth and app, you can snarf down the data, and reset them automatically, so you don’t need to interact with them regularly, just get close. Their batteries last up to 30 days. I got them from Evan Smallwood this morning.”

Evan was the reason I was determined to get a men’s advocate. He’d been hosed in his divorce, after his wife, Karen, had been caught expanding her horizons and her legs with her boss two years earlier. I knew he figured out something wasn’t right, and then went for the jugular after he got the goods, but before he locked things down. She begged, she pleaded, he laughed… and then she destroyed him in the divorce. Indiana is a no-fault state, she had gotten the better lawyer (Evan went cheap, she used her boss’s money, in lieu of him being able to be sued by her over workplace harassment), and Evan had made the mistake of posting pictures on the Internet. The judge was not amused. Evan didn’t go to jail, but it was a near thing. Upshot was, she cheated, she begged him to forgive her, but then she got 70%, he got 30% and community service, and still owes her alimony, all the while she’s still expanding her legs for her boss. Ain’t life grand? That was not going to be my fate, no sir; I wanted revenge, but didn’t want to risk being someone’s girlfriend in the slammer.

“Got a list of lawyers I want to touch base with.” I replied.

“So, no chance then? Didn’t think so, knowing you, but with a day or two to think…”

“No, no chance. One and done. That was always going to be true after the slut from hell. Or maybe I should say the first slut from hell!” I wryly chuckled. Before Marie, I’d been engaged, for all of six months, to my High School sweetheart, Michelle. College had been great, I thought, for us as a couple, but Michelle soon found it was also a happy hunting ground, or rather, a happy fucking ground, for ‘other guys’, specifically, ‘other guys cocks’. When I found out that she’d slept with at least fifteen guys since accepting my ring (via the public health notice that told me I had to come in and get tested for Chlamydia), I was furious.

She didn’t even have the guts to tell me face to face, she let the health department do it. She cried, I cursed, she said she was just trying to get other guys out of her system before we tied the knot, I cursed. And in private, I cried. My six months as a monk after getting my ring back reinforced that I didn’t like people playing with my toys or in my playground, and I wasn’t interested in playing in anyone else’s, either. I wanted a one man woman, and I was going to be a one woman man. While Marie wasn’t my “rebound”, when I started dating again, she was the first, and only, I’d been intimate with since Michelle. Marie knew my history, she’d heard it recounted, and we’d been dating at the time of the ‘one last effort’ by Michelle to win me back. I have little doubt that Michelle had ‘loved’ me, in her way. I just couldn’t deal with the way she also ‘loved’ others.

So Marie knew my history, knew how I would take being cheated on, and knew my ‘one and done’ philosophy. Bobbie did, too, of course, so his question had been a mere formality. And I knew, even better than perhaps his Sue did, that he shared that philosophy, and that if Sue ever cheated, I would help Bobbie rain down as much death and destruction as I could on her head. And hell, I loved Sue, as a sister-in-law. I’d known she was perfect for Bobbie within a couple days of meeting her, and I’m the one that set the two up on their first date five months later.

Yep, the only couple I’d ever thought was more perfect than Bobbie and Sue was Hank and Marie, and we already know the dark thoughts I was going through.

“Ok, bro. If she’s cheating, and I’ll admit it looks suspicious, we tie her to the stake naked, cover her with honey, wait 12 hours, light the bitch up, and try to put the fire out by pissing on it. Sound good? Hell, Evan will probably help you and I with our alibis!”

He made me chuckle with that. “We don’t have to go nuclear on her. I don’t want to go to prison. Now, the Asshole, maybe we want to go nuclear on his ass. But I dunno how we’re going to do it.”

“We’ll figure it out as we go, bro.” And at that Bobbie chuckled. “I always was prime with my rhyme. I got skills with my chills.” Mood lightened. Bobbie always knew how to get me to laugh.

We worked on trying to figure out where to put the two cameras. I didn’t think that we’d catch anything on them, at least not until the next time I went out of town, but even then it was tough to figure out where to put them. I ultimately decided to put the radio alarm clock by the TV in the bedroom. We didn’t use it often, but it wouldn’t look too odd seeing it there. The ceramic dog was a bit tougher; it really didn’t blend in with the various bric-a-brac in the house, so it took a while. Ultimately, I wimped out completely, and put it on top of a cabinet that would give it a clear view of the front door, but where it wasn’t immediately noticeable. Basically, all it could be used for was seeing who came into the house. It did kind of make me wonder how Evan had used it.

“It would probably be best to put a pen in her car, and in her purse. You can also put a recorder under the seat of her car, one in the kitchen, somewhere, and one in your spare room. The dog will pick up sounds from the living room, so you’ve got all the obvious places covered. What do you think Hank?”

“Why two in the car?”

“The pen will just go in that pen compartment you have for when you need to write something down; it’ll be the backup. The voice activated recorder will pick up conversations if she’s talking on the hands free. You’ll be able to get the pen into her purse, right?”

“Maybe. But at least I only have three to plant from here. Let’s call some lawyers.” Hank and I spent the next hour and a half scheduling appointments for the next few days with each lawyer on my list. Luckily, one of them we could hit that day at 1 PM. The lawyer’s office was close to Marie’s, so I figured that I might be able to sneak into her work’s parking lot and plant the recorders at lunch time.

I drove into the lot at noon, which is where, in retrospect, my first possible bad luck in Operation No Trust, And Verify went bad; one of Marie’s coworkers saw me drive in as she was driving off to go to lunch, and waved at me. With luck, she’d just assume I was taking Marie to lunch and forget I had come in. I found out much later that she mentioned it to Marie two days later. As I found Marie’s car, I plopped the pen into the pen pile in the cubby on the dash, and then reached under the seat to plant the recorder. I must have snagged my hand on one of the seat springs or something, because I felt a sharp bit of a piece of metal piercing my skin. “Ow, shit.” I finished putting the recorder under the seat, fully removed my hand, and used a tissue to soak up the little bit of blood. I then locked and closed the door, and left for the appointment.

I met with the lawyer at quarter past; why do doctors and lawyers always make people wait? I told him everything except there would be multiple attorneys that I would talk with. He basically rolled his eyes at the Butter Pecan evidence and didn’t accept that I might know what I was talking about. He was willing, of course, to have me put down a retainer if I wished, but he told me that no judge would buy it. I went by a new bank, to do a few preliminary things like setting up a different account, and then headed somewhere to hang out until it was the ‘right time’ for me to get home.

That night I had to bite the bullet and have sex with her; it had been too long since the last time. She moaned, she groaned, she shook from her orgasm, and she assured me I rocked her world; for my part, I think I did a credible job of banging the hell out of her, just as if I was trying to get my moneys worth from a five dollar hooker. I did have to ponder, though, though, how it could be so intense with us when we wanted intense, and so tender when we wanted that, and yet she still was sharing with others. And the fact that both of the last two women I’d given my heart to did that to me did not actually instill confidence; the only common factor in my failed (or failing) relationships was me.

What I wasn’t able to do is plant the second pen in her purse, but ultimately I decided that wouldn’t matter anyway; she worked in an office, it would pick up people talking, and I wouldn’t be able to digest enough that I would be likely to capture anything, regardless.

Life went on the rest of the week. I had been able to check the two cameras daily (they only showed my wife and I), and the kitchen recorder (once) and the spare room recorder (once). Nothing at all had been on the spare room recorder, while the kitchen one picked up only inane conversations between Marie and I. I walked close enough to Marie’s car to connect my cell with the pen in the car, but the conversation, when I listened, only had a conversation between her and I on Wednesday on it, and nothing much else.

The conversation went like this.

Sound of door closing.

Sound of door opening. Sound of someone getting into the car, then door closing, car starting. Some road noise.

“Brrr. Brrr. Br, baloop.” My voice. “Hey babe. Where are you right now?”

“Just outside work. Why, what’s up?”

“I feel like Chinese. Would you stop and pick it up if I order ahead?”

“Sure. Kung Pao Chicken, and maybe an order of Shrimp Toast?”

“Ok, I’m buying, you’re flying. See you when you get home, Marie.”

“Ok, hon, love you, bye!”

There were more sounds of doors opening and closing, and occasional snippets of road noise, but that was it.

Friday, I was finally able to ‘arrange’ to take Marie’s car to the DQ, where I met with Bobbie. We grabbed the recorder from under the seat, and we hit play.

The underseat voice activated recorder was a bit different.

My voice, “Ow, shit.” I knew instantly something was different; I hadn’t heard myself on the pen when I snagged my hand.

The next sounds were rustling, the door closing. The door opening, someone getting in, the door closing. Road noise. Car stopping, door opening, door closing, car starting., Road noise. And then the conversation that ended it.

“Brrr. Brrr. Brrr. Br, baloop.” Jonathan Williams’ voice. “Hello.”

“Hey there stud. I just got all warm thinking about you.” The traitorous tramp coyly cooed.

“Oh, you did, did you? Creamy warm, or just hot under the collar?”

“Oh, I’m creamy, and I’m hot, but neither is under the collar. They’re both quite a bit lower.” And she chuckled.

“God, you were so good last week. I wish Hank hadn’t come back for another 3 weeks! My cock is aching to return home to your little love nest.”

“Oh, you like the nest, eh? And here I thought you’d prefer a little less bush, and a little more bare. A little ‘bald eagle’. I could make that happen next time.”

“Oh and then maybe I’ll get a ‘hole-in-one’ in that bald eagle. Or would it be a bald beaver?” he chuckled. God, it made me sick, and looking up I could see Bobbie was about to lose his lunch, too, hearing the back and forth innuendo, awful mixed metaphor puns, and banter between those two. He reached over and grabbed my arm as I started shaking from my rage.

“Yeah, but you’re going to have to wait. I don’t intend to play a round of golf, or anything else,” snicker “while Hank is in town.”

“Oh come on Marie, you know you want my big driver in your bag.”

“Are you calling my kitty a bag?” Marie was instantly no longer as teasing.

“Uh, no, it’s the finest kitty out there. And I can’t wait to get back in, and also into it’s next door neighbor, Ms. Donkey.” he tried as a weak attempt to bring the full banter back.

“Ms. Donkey? Now you’re calling my ass a donkey?” I could hear in her voice that Marie didn’t seem to really mind, she just was trying to make him grovel.

“No baby, you’ve got the greatest ass and pussy I’ve ever had. You know that’s always been true.”

“Oh, you say the nicest things when you’re sucking up to me.”

“Oh, and speaking of sucking, you are the greatest cocksucker I have ever seen. Or felt.” Now that one I disagreed with. While Marie was good, Michelle had been better, back before I knew that she was a round heel slut. But then, now that I knew Marie was, too, I knew Marie just wasn’t as good. It had never mattered before, because I’d loved the cunt, but now was a different story. “So, when is the clueless dick snot eating wimp leaving again?”

“Look, you will not insult Hank. Not if you want to keep access to my treasure box. And for the record, he’s never eaten ‘dick snot’ that I know of. He certainly hasn’t from me.” Thank god for small favors, right?

“Ok, ok. Just, when can we get together again?”

“I don’t know right now. It’s totally dependent on Hank’s schedule. And right now, he doesn’t have anything on the schedule. It’s never more than every two months, but he was just gone for three weeks. I don’t think they’ll send him out again for a bit.”

“Two months! No way I can go without a visit to that sweet, sweet pussy of yours. Come on babe, you’ve got to give me a hand.”

“You have two hands of your own, you don’t need one of mine. You’ll just have to wait.” Marie scolded him.

“Oh, baby, Marie, don’t be like that. You know I can’t resist you, and you can’t resist me.”

“I resisted you pretty well for the last 15 years. Just because I finally let you get some doesn’t mean I can’t shut you right back down if you get too pushy. Yes, I enjoyed our little happy homemaking adventure, but I went without it fine for all of those years. I can do it again.” And there it was. She admitted it, but it was also apparent that this was indeed the first time they’d shacked up. It didn’t mean there hadn’t been something shorter before, but it could definitely be inferred this was her first time completely off the reservation. At least with Asshole. “Look, I’m going to let you go. Hank was ill over the weekend, and while we made love last night, it’s not enough.” I heard Williams whimper slightly at that. “I intend to rock his world tonight, and I only called to get a little supercharged to start off, and to let you know not to call me. I’ll call you, next time he’s gone.”

“I still love you Marie. I know that I screwed up. But I still love you.”

“I’m fond of you, too, Jonathan. But I love Hank. You’re just a reminder of what could have been, if you could have kept it in your pants back then.”

“Marie, you have to feel more for me than that, more than for Hank. After all, you were with me while he was gone. You were my wife, not his, while he was gone. You…”

“While he was gone. While he was gone.” I could hear the emphasis in her voice as she repeated it. “I took nothing from my time with him. He was gone. And then I allowed you the unused scraps of my emotions, my love, my lust. Yes, I still feel something for you, Jonathan. But I don’t love you. I love Hank.” That’s a great way to show it, you untrustworthy slut, I thought.

“I’ll take what I can get.”

“Bye Jonathan. I’ll call you soon, and we’ll see each other next time Hank is gone.”

Road noise. The car stopping, door opening. And that’s when things made more sense as to why this last conversation wasn’t on the pen.

“What’s that?” Marie’s question didn’t give context, so I didn’t know what she was looking at. “What?” The sound of a click. Click. Click. “What the hell? Shit.” She was silent for a moment. “Why would this be here? Does…” and then silence. I don’t know whether or not the voice activated recorder shut off, or if it ran continuous here, but after a moment she came back. “That’s the one.” she mumbled. “Shit. Hank must have put this here.” And I knew she had discovered one of the bugs. Judging by what we had pulled already from the two, she had realized that the pen was a bug. I was suddenly glad that I hadn’t gotten one into her purse.

“Ok, so, enter pin. 1234. There. Wipe recording. Done. Shit, I have to redo it tomorrow.” Sound of door closing. Sound of door opening. Sound of someone getting into the car, then door closing, car starting. Some road noise. Sound of the car stopping, door opening, door closing. That must have been her driving in to work Wednesday.

Sound of door closing. Sound of door opening. Sound of someone getting into the car, then door closing, car starting. Some road noise.

“Brrr. Brrr. Br, baloop.” My voice again, almost certainly the Kung Pao Chicken conversation. “Hey babe. Where are you right now?”

“Just outside work. Why, what’s up?”

“I feel like Chinese. Would you stop and pick it up if I order ahead?”

“Sure. Kung Pao Chicken, and maybe an order of Shrimp Toast?”

“Ok, I’m buying, you’re flying. See you when you get home, Marie.”

“”Ok, hon, love you, bye!”

There were more sounds of doors opening and closing, and occasional snippets of road noise, but that was it. And I knew. She found the pen, but not the recorder. She erased one, or at least the conversation she’d heard, but not the other.

Bobbie looked at me. “She knows that you suspect something. She found the pen. Has she acted any different since Tuesday?”

“She’s just about raped me every night. She’s been agreeable, a bit more than normal, but I haven’t seen anything else. I’ve gotten more head from her, though, this past week than I think I’ve gotten in the last year, and that includes my birthday. She even offered her ass to me twice this week, and that’s Christmas and Anniversary only normally.”

“TMI, bro. But how have you been? Have you been able to keep it together?”

“I’ve been Rainman, bro. ‘Tuesday, Wapner’ style. I’ve been clueless and as normal as I can be, she must think I’m Rainman and Forest Gump’s love child.” Bobbie laughed at that, a mood breaker. Odd that he was more tense than I was after we heard the truth, but it is what it is.

“Ok, BubbaGump, you definitely do clueless well. Just don’t start talking about shrimp. Or Kmart.” And we both laughed. It felt good to laugh. That moment, with Bobbie, I knew I’d come out ok. No matter what happened, I knew that I had one person who would always be there for me, always keep me grounded. It wasn’t necessarily who I wanted to always be there for me, since I couldn’t imagine Bobbie would look good in a little black dress, and he definitely would not be the one rocking my world at night, but it was something, something I could hold on to in the dark days I figured would be ahead.

“So, I’ve hit 4 of the 6 lawyers. I can use this, I think. There’s no way she’s going to do something at the house, and she’s smart enough not to look for hidden cameras or microphones or such in the house. We screwed up with the pen, but we got enough, I think. What do you think, Bobbie?”

“I think I’m following your lead on this, little bro. You’re running everything. I’ll back you up, I’ll give you an alibi, I’ll help you hide the bitch’s body, or Williams’. Whatever, bro. Bros, faithful wives, cheating Hoes, then Assholes. Bros first. Hell, I’ll even be your cellmate, but I get bottom bunk, you get to just be bottom, if it comes to that.”

“Ah, hell no, bro. Hell no.” I laughed back with him. The most somber and devastating thing to ever happen to me, and I’m cracking gay jail jokes with my bro. That’s friendship. That’s love. That’s my brother Bobbie. “But back to basic bitches, I want to destroy Asshole, and I’d like to burn the bitch. We need a plan. But I’d rather we didn’t end up cellmates.” My smile stayed for a few seconds, and Bobbie let it. But when it started to falter, Bobbie immediately stopped smiling, too, and we began to plot.

“So, what’s the Asshole got that we can destroy? Besides Marie. I’m sorry, beside the bitch.”

“Well, let’s go down in order of importance. He’s got his life.” Bobbie nodded. “He’s got his health. He’s got his cock. He’s got his balls. He’s got his place. He’s got his job. He’s got that car of his. He’s got his reputation. That’s about it.” I trailed off at that point.

“That car… hmm. I think he might value that thing just under his balls, and above his place or his job. Definitely above his place, in fact, since he bought the place to have a garage to store the damn thing and work on it.”

Bobbie and I were referring to Asshole’s classic ‘Sierra Tan Poly’ (also known as brown) 1969 Plymouth Barracuda convertible with the so-called ‘Cuda package and the big 440 Big Block engine. It was about the rarest version possible of one of the hotter cars of it’s era. While it wasn’t THE Barracuda of automotive fame (that’s the next year, 1970, ‘Cudas), it was the one that set the stage for the Barracuda of fame, with the last major top end engine before the arrival of the legendary Hemi. The car wasn’t worth the $800K or up one of the ’70 ‘Cudas were, but it was still, in the condition he kept it, worth $90-$100K. He’d inherited the car from his grandfather, who had the unfortunate timing of having a stroke a week after buying it new, in 1969. His grandfather could never drive it, but wouldn’t sell it, and when he died in 2007, Asshole had inherited a nearly 40 year old Barracuda with only 132 miles on it. It was a mess, in some ways, but it was still a brand new classic car. Since then, Asshole had probably added 2500 miles to the odometer, but it was used very, very rarely. Me, I’m a Corvette man, and Bobbie is a Mustang guy, but Asshole actually had one of the classics, while we just yearned for a Stingray (me) or a Mach I (Bobbie).

“Yeah, losing that car would probably almost hurt as much as losing his balls. But I can’t just destroy a thing of beauty like that; the ‘Cuda didn’t do anything to me, only the Asshole who owned it. It’s the old PEBKAC thing, all though I’d say it’s more an ABSAP issue with the ‘Cuda.”

“ABSAP? Asshole between steering and pedal?” I high-fived him with a grin as he got it. “So no damaging the car, per se, but deny it from him. How do we do that?”

“Get it stolen? Have it shipped to some deserving millionaire somewhere? And, if possible, have his balls bronzed and hanging from the rear-view when it’s shipped?”

“I like the way you think. But I don’t know anyone who we could sell it to, and I’m not sure that we don’t end up in prison regardless if we steal it.”

“Does Evan know anyone, Bobbie? I mean, he’s still dealing with the fallout from his bitch from hell. Maybe he knows someone. After all, if I’m out of town, I have an alibi, and we know that there is some chance that Asshole and the slut will get together.”

“Don’t see that happening right now, bro. She knows you’re suspicious, because she found the pen. She’s going to look for the cameras, and eventually find them, I think. She’ll be on best behavior, because she doesn’t know for sure what you know, only that you’re suspicious. So she’ll make like a good wife for a while. Now, if you want to stay with her for a year or two, bawk, that’s, bawk, up to you” and he lightly coughed, which sounded suspiciously like the word ‘cuck’; the subtle chicken ‘bawks’ told me what he thought of that option. His not so subtle way of saying if I didn’t dump her, I was a chicken and a cuck. “Of course, a fake trip, followed a week or so later by removing all the bugs, might do the trick of thinking she’s gotten away with it; the trip would be you trying to get her to slip up, but the removal a week after the trip would be you not having found anything, and deciding that whatever it was that made you suspicious was wrong, and you didn’t want her finding the bugs and starting something based on a ‘wrong’ suspicion. That could reset her thoughts.”

“I’m just not sure I’m wired well enough to stay with her. It comes out clear in the call that she thinks she loves me. I’m not sure I agree if she can shack up with Asshole while I’m away, but she thinks she does. She may never do it again, realizing how close she came. Or she may get way more subtle, and I might never catch her again. But one way or another, we need to get Asshole, and soon.”

“Alright, let’s think about it overnight. I’ll get with you tomorrow morning, we’ll go fishing or something. In the meantime, from now on, you and I need to sweep our cars every day, and only talk about this either on work phones, or in person. She might just stick a recorder somewhere on you, or I, if she can figure out how to do it. I think, in fact, we need to take the boat out tomorrow and do some fishing; we’ll leave our phones in the car, too.”

“You ain’t gonna Fredo me, are you? Put me out of my misery?” I asked, referencing Fredo’s fate in the Godfather Part II.

“I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.” Bobbie joked back. We hugged and made plans to meet at 7 the following morning to go fishing. It wasn’t unusual, so it wouldn’t make Sue upset at all, though Marie might worry, as she should.

That night, Marie again tore me to bits on the sheets, and left me a quivering mess. As she curled up around and on top of me as I was drifting off, I remember her gently shaking in my arms and hearing her whispering softly to me, after she thought I was asleep, “I’m so sorry Hank. I love you, only you.” I could feel the moisture from her tears on my chest. It was a fucked up world, where she cheated, she knew I suspected it, and yet neither of us could talk about it. Life, eh?

My dreams that night were the most pleasant I’d had since I’d returned from my trip. I distinctly remember driving Asshole’s ‘Cuda at high speed down a long road, his bronzed balls swinging from the rear view mirror, while getting a hummer from some nameless, faceless woman who smelled like Marie’s hair, all as a gentle rain from a cloudless sky wet my chest. It’s one of the most vivid dreams I think I’ve ever had. I think I understand what the dream meant, and where the pieces came from, but I have never had smells included in my dreams before, or since. But Marie’s shampoo scent has always stood out to me from that dream.

When I felt the vibration from my smartwatch waking me at 6 AM, Marie wasn’t in bed, but I could smell bacon cooking. While Marie often cooked in the morning, it was rare for her to cook on days when I was going fishing; she’d typically stay in bed, and asleep, until long after I left. I’d even come back from shorter fishing trips and still found her asleep in bed at 11 or so, when the weather turned and we cut the trip short. After getting dressed for fishing, I walked into the kitchen to see Marie finishing the making of a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, along with a thermos of hot coffee. The beer cooler was also already sitting by the garage door, and it was apparent looking at the cardboard in the recycle that she’d put an entire 12 pack of Bud in the cooler, probably with a couple sandwiches and other snacks.

She was trying to be the perfect wife. And yet she knew that I either knew or suspected the elephant in the room. I spent a few minutes with her, time I normally would have spent icing the beer, making the sandwiches, and waiting in line at the McDonalds for a breakfast sandwich and coffee before meeting up with Bobbie, to talk with her. She was affectionate, sweet, and yet much more shy acting than I was used to for a woman I’d been with so long. I could see the fear in her eyes, the first time I’d seen it, actually, and almost hear the desperation in her voice as she threw herself into me to kiss me and kept saying “I love you Hank” between each kiss. For my part, I returned the kisses, though not as desperately, and said simply “I love you too.” It wasn’t a lie. I hated her. I loved her. I hate what she did. I love who she is with me. I hate what she has turned me into. I love the way she’s made me feel over the years we’ve been together. It’s a two-faced dichotomy, one of those Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type things.

I left and met Bobbie at the spot on the Big Blue river where we usually put his jon boat in. He had just finished dropping his boat in the water, and was pulling up his rig and parking when I pulled in. Seeing where he was, I parked, dropped my cell on the seat of my truck, grabbed the cooler and the coffee, and went down to the boat; he already had the rods and tackle on board. Bobbie joined me a moment later, and I held my hand like a cell phone, then looked at him. Red faced, he turned around and walked back to his truck, returning a moment later.

“Leaving the cell phone was your idea. Getting senile, old man?” I gently chided him as he climbed in the boat. He looked at me with a sour expression for a moment, reached over to the cooler and grabbed a Bud.

Popping the top, and taking a sip, he gulped half the can down. “Too little alcohol in my bloodstream to function this early on the water. But hey, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.” he replied.

“Yeah, maybe India or something. Don’t you think it’s a tad early, or a bit late, to pop into the Bud’s at the moment. Besides…” I called back, kicking the motor over and starting away from the shore, “I thought I was the one who was supposed to be drinking 24/7.”

“I’m just getting a head start. Gotta keep you from becoming an alkie. Aren’t you up to like a 10 hour chip?” he bantered back.

“Yeah, but I think you’re still on the 10 second chip. Clean and sober, two things which will not describe us by mid afternoon! Cheers!” I lifted my coffee cup. Bobbie grinned and finished the can. “Of course, if you keep that up, I think we’ll need a bigger boat” I joked, quoting Jaws, “But it’ll be for your empties. And we’ll need more beer.”

“Never fear, more beer is here!” he countered, opening up the wet well cooler. “I didn’t plan on us actually catching many fish today. Didn’t even bring bait.” I harrumphed at that.

We trolled out into the river, going upstream, towards the Mill Pond bend. While Mill Pond was a popular fishing hole, the bend increased the current flow just south of the pond, making fish less plentiful in the area. “I, for one, wish you had brought the bait, preferably Asshole. While life may be shitting on me, a good Bass would still be a nice way to take my mind off it. And I bet Marie would even cook it up nice for me.” It was odd; I realized it was the first time I’d called her Marie in a while with Bobbie. I knew I had to keep from calling her bitch, slut, whore, tramp, cheating cunt to her face or around someone besides Bobbie, and I guess Evan. But I’d been taking out some of my anger, some of my rage, some of my pain, with Bobbie by calling her those. I wondered for just a second if my dream had anything to do with not bad mouthing her, before Bobbie broke my reverie.

“So, I’ve been thinking. I think I know how we can do it.”

“Do what? Remove the scrotal sack and all accompanying appendages from one Jonathan Williams?”

“Well, kinda. But I was more referring to the car. It is possible to bend it so he loses something, but it depends on him doing something, too, which I can’t guarantee. But Grand Theft ‘Cuda? Yeah, I got that figured out. I spent half the night thinking about it. Witness that, since I didn’t sleep, it’s still yesterday, so that” and he pointed to his empty beer can “isn’t too early, it’s just a really late Friday night beer.”

“Oh Great Master of Beer Justification, what is your idea?” I smart assed to him.

“We arrange it to be stolen at a car show. No one would think twice about seeing someone trailer it and cart if off towards the end of a car show. He can’t resist showing it off, and so we just get him to take it to a show, have a couple guys wearing jackets that say something like, I dunno, “‘Cuda Classics” or some shit, and distract Asshole while they load it at the end of the show. It’s always chaotic at those things, but who the hell would steal a classic car from a show, and do it blatantly? We have them drop it off in storage condition to some rent-a-unit storage place, rented under his name, and leave it there for a six months. In the short term, he files a stolen report, he gets the insurance to pay, and yet the car is sitting in a locker that’s in his name. Blow the whistle on him a month or two after he collects the insurance, police find it, and he’s doing time with Bubba in the Big House for Insurance Fraud.”

“Ok, let me think about that for a second. No. I see way too many issues for such a complicated piece of bullshit. Besides, just having his name on the unit won’t be enough.”

“See, there’s the beauty of it. You can simply arrange that the key to the unit is on his key board at his house, still marked with the tag. So, since I know you’re going to pick it apart, here’s the deal. What you may not know, because you didn’t really know Marie well back then, is that Evan’s cousin Darla is the girl Asshole cheated on Marie with. Darla was a freshman, and had grown up out in Oklahoma. You’ve met Darla, a couple times over the years. Darla didn’t know Asshole was involved with Marie, at least according to Darla, when they went out; she thought she was Asshole’s girlfriend, so you can imagine her surprise when Marie slapped the shit out of her when she found out. According to Darla, the Asshole lied in front of her to Marie and told her that it had been Darla who started it and pursued him; Darla had rarely dated prior to that, and Asshole was her first, so she felt betrayed by him lying about her in front of her to Marie, and her getting hit for it. She blames Marie, some, but she hates Williams. And Darla, hell, that whole family, they hold grudges. You’ve never been anything but a friend to Evan, and nice to Darla the time or two you’ve met. She likes you, heck she likes most people who she doesn’t think wronged her, but she holds grudges.”

“Ok, so you, me, Evan, and Darla all want to bring down the sky on Asshole. But what’s that got to do with the car?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Darla owns a pair of storage places, or at least her husband does. Darla even manages one of them. And Darla would know where we can get a couple guys to haul the car away.”

“Storage places have cameras. So, when the police start poking around, they’ll pull the camera feeds and see we paid for the unit, and they’ll see us, or whoever, putting the car away. They won’t see Asshole.”

“Ah, but here’s the thing. Guess what place is the closest storage center to where Williams lives? It’s not the one Darla manages, but it’s one she and her husband own. She can arrange to take over for one weekend, and have the cameras go on the fritz. It’ll take a few days for the bad cable to be diagnosed, but the next day, we rent the unit, so the camera’s out when we do it. She’s not there when we do it, so no tie between the camera glitch, her and us.”

“Ok, so that gets renting the unit. We can hide some of the rest, too, I guess, like the license of the truck hauling the car. Make sure no one looks towards a camera as they get the car off the trailer and into the unit. That makes sense. Someone can even dress like Asshole was earlier in the day, if we can figure it out, so it’ll be more obvious. Hell, we can even arrange photos of him at the show with the car, so the police will be able to see how he was dressed.” I started to warm to the idea.

“Now you’re thinking straight. The key points are getting him distracted long enough to steal the car, and how long to wait before the anonymous tip, or whatever way we use to have the car discovered, if the police don’t discover the car on their own.” Bobbie seemed to have most of the answers at least scouted, but I saw one still glaring one.

“There’s still the issue of the key. How do we get it so the key is at his house?”

“Ok, so I’m still fuzzy on how to do that. I think we need to simply get it on his key ring, right before the tip off to the police, but I dunno how to do that yet. You have to come up with a few steps on your own.”

“Steal underwear, question marks, profit? Is that what you’re saying? I’m not an underwear gnome, Bobbie.” I stated back, referencing the old South Park episode.

“Hey, there are only three question marks I’m still seeing, and one small problem only you can find the solution for. The keys situation, the distraction and our alibis, and then the problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Can you keep it cool long enough to pull this off? You can’t do anything about Marie until after he’s in jail, and you really can’t do anything that would pull the police to look harder to you. When his car goes missing, if you’re in a divorce because of him, you’ll be a prime suspect. The cops don’t care about whether or not Marie is slutting around, but they do care about the stolen car. And, at least as witnessed by the way he treated Darla, Asshole will throw Marie under the bus if he thinks you stole the car.”

“You know, that could be perfect. Make him throw her under the bus. I could use that to push the divorce if he went on record stating he thought I had something to do with it because he was screwing her and I wanted revenge. That could work really well.”

Bobbie broke into the biggest, most sinister grin I’d ever seen on his face. “Lead the horse towards the water, and eventually the horse will find it and drink. Now you see where my end game is.”

“Wait, you already thought of that? You bastard, why didn’t you just go there from the start?” I sputtered.

“Because I needed you to see there was a way through; as soon as you did, you know you’ll be able to pull this off with Marie. When the car is gone, we drop the hints to Asshole that you did it, or get it out in rumors that you had something to do with it, so it gets back to him. He’ll finger you to the cops, and end up fixing Marie up good before the hammer drops.”

“Pass me a Bud. Time to celebrate.” I smiled back at him. It was a good morning for fishing and drinking.

Bobbie volunteered to be the liaison between the various people involved, keeping things up in the air for the next week. I settled on a lawyer (the female shark), and she did up the paperwork, but didn’t put dates or file it. I saw Evan once, and he looked at me and smiled; we didn’t say anything, he just smiled. I knew he was thinking about getting revenge on all of the assholes who sleep with other men’s wives, and it was the first time I’d seen him really smile in a while. It was heartening, in it’s own way.

Meanwhile, Marie was still trying to spoil me rotten, and the bugs weren’t picking up anything new. I constantly looked for things on me, or in the truck, that might have been designed to turn the tables and listen in on me. I guess that made me paranoid; if Marie really did love me, and not want to lose me, she’d be on her best behavior and she’d try not to give me any reason to think that she didn’t trust me. Didn’t mean she wasn’t trying, but if I had to guess, I would think she was waiting for me to get over my suspicions. The pen and the under seat recorder always matched, and I started counting the times the car was driven. There were a few more than I would have expected, but all the conversations that they picked up were innocuous, and both recording sets started with me saying the date I last reset them, so I knew they weren’t being tampered with. For my part, I was unable to act 100% normally around her, but I didn’t let my anger out of the bottle.

The interesting thing, I think, was that the car show fell into our laps unbidden; it turned out there was a local show, smaller, but still big enough that was being given to benefit the local Peyton Manning Children’s Hospital coming up in two weeks. Asshole had signed up to show off his car, which represented the perfect opportunity.

I was purposely kept mostly out of the loop. My vengeance would fail if, during Police questioning, I slipped and said something which indicated I knew too much. But it also increased my anxiety. I didn’t know that the T’s were getting dotted and the I’s crossed, or vice versa. Hopefully vice versa. All of that was going on while I was still having to put up with Marie, and somehow keep up a semblance of normalcy around her. She could see through it, I know, but since she didn’t know what I knew, and she couldn’t admit to what she had done, she didn’t know if it was just dark thoughts and suspicions, or concrete proof. I did decide one thing, separate from Bobbie, though. I was going to keep the recorders and cameras up until a couple weeks after the show. Oh, I didn’t think they would catch anything now, but removing them too suddenly now that she knew I was looking would probably be a big tell as to the fact I already had her own damning voice talking about her affair. While they were up, she could think it was just suspicion.

The night before the car show, Evan just ‘happened’ to show up the same time Bobbie just ‘happened’ to show up at the DQ; I just ‘happened’ to show up a few minutes later. What a coincidence, eh? Bobbie and I hadn’t talked about what was going on anywhere near our cell phones, nor any other place there could be bugs, so we’d only been talking about normal stuff lately, but I knew I needed to get briefed in.

“Hank, you have to be the one to set it off; you have to be the distraction. Evan and a friend of his who you will not be meeting are going to be the guys who trailer the car; I’m going to be Asshole in the video at the Public Storage unit. I’m going to need something from you, though. I need you to text me a picture of him at the car; I’ve got a disposable phone” and he handed it to me “with one number preset, to another one of mine. I’ll match his clothes, as best I can, and add some dark glasses and a Colts ball cap. With the video quality, that’ll probably be good enough. We need you to stay visible, and be noticed. The ONLY picture you take with this camera is of him at the car; you’ll toss the phone at the gas station on the way home, okay? But I need you to take a lot of photos throughout the day, talk to people, get cards, even hand out your number a few times to some of the Vette guys. Make sure people see you and remember you. Take the photo with that camera as early as you can, though, as it might take time to match the clothes.”

“Ok, got that, but what about the distraction? What do I do for that?”

“You’re may to have to improvise a bit. There will be something that should be able to pull him away for 10 minutes or so. Maybe arrange to donate a prize to a top 1960s cars from each make; the Barracuda may not be a 1970, but it’s likely the best 1960s Mopar; give a $100 donation for each Chevy, Ford, or Dodge best in show for the 1960s. $300 you can write off on your taxes, man. Arrange the award there and have the award ceremony take place at… say 5:30, but you have to be there to pick it up. How’s that?”

“Improvise, hell, you’ve just given me the whole spiel to do it. It’s a plan. I’ll even make the Mopar last, to pull him to the main tent longer. If I do it right, and talk a minute about the great 1960s muscle cars, and then have each guy talk about why his car was king of the ’60s, I might be able to stretch it to a half hour.”

“See, now that’s what I meant by improvise.”

Evan piped in with a laugh “Williams will probably be a half hour all on his own, never mind the Corvette or Mustang guys. But if you don’t include a GOAT, you’re going to piss somebody off. You said Chevy, Ford, Dodge, you’ve got to include Pontiac for the GTOs and Firebirds.”

“Ok, now it’s what, $400. Why don’t I actually make it $500, and we’ll have a vote off among the spectators in the tent at the time to see who gets the extra hundred. Although it galls me that I’ll be giving a $100 to Asshole for fucking my wife.”

“Money well spent, when he’s Bubba’s cellmate. And you’ll have an ironclad alibi.” Bobbie was right, of course. If it set Williams up, it was worth it.

The following day was well and nicely started, with clear blue skies, moderate temperatures, a bright and cheery sun. I swear, I think I heard robins twittering, it was so bright and beautiful. Well, it seemed that way to me, because I knew that today was the day Jonathan the Asshole Williams was going to begin the rest of his life, minus his prize Barracuda. It was a simply glorious day. I fail to believe the forecast from the radio as I drove to the car show, “Overcast, with a 30% chance of precipitation, highs in the mid to upper 50 degree range.” As someone once said, “I reject that reality and substitute my own.”

After paying the fee, I made my way over close to where Williams was working on setting up the presentation area around his car. I took a quick picture of him and the car after I walked past him, and then sent the text to Bobbie. A moment later, I got the reply “Got it. LMK 4 show time”, which I translate to “Let Me Know what time you’re going to do the presentation so we can snatch the car then.” From there, I walked over the the main admin tent.

“Hi folks! Name’s Hank Preston, and I have a proposal; I’d like to give a small award later today to the top 1960s cars from Chevy, Ford, Pontiac and Chrysler/Plymouth. It’ll bring in a bit of extra interest. I’m willing to donate $100 for each winner, and then have a vote for best among the four for an extra $100. All I’m asking is that it be considered charitable, since it’s something to raise the excitement level. I’ve got the money right here, clean crisp new bills.” I said as I held out the hundreds.

“I think we can do that. What time would you like to do it, and how do we judge?” one of the lead volunteers asked.

“Hand people tickets, let them drop it in a bucket or hat by their favorite; leading vote getters in each category win, then a voice vote for the final winner later? Should be simple enough.” I answered.

“Tim run this ticket roll up to the front. Have them pass out a ticket to everyone who comes in, and tell them to explain what they’re for. Maggie, why don’t you go tell each of the possibles why they should hold onto those tickets. We’ll hold the count and votes at, say, 5 this afternoon?”

“Sounds good. Just need a receipt for taxes.” I smiled. All according to plan. After leaving the tent, I texted ‘5PM’ to the preset; a moment later, I got ‘ok, ditch phone at gas station on way home” back. Since it was early, I wandered through the cars, and spent a long time drooling over a 1963 Split Rear Window Stingray, in metallic blue, and a 1967 454 powered canary yellow Stingray convertible. I was having a hard time figuring out which might be more worthy. I took pictures, with my own cell phone, took cards, pondered the for sale sign on a 1965 silver fuelie Stingray, the last year fuel injection could be had on a corvette until 1982. It tempted me. It very much tempted me.

There weren’t a whole lot of other Vettes there, just five in the category, but it was still seeing some of the ones I’d dreamed of since childhood. Of the rest of the Chevys, I was surprised at how good a 1962 Impala looked; it would definitely have won without the three Vettes I mentioned, and it would be right in contention regardless.

I found a car for Bobbie, too, a green 1969 Mustang Mach 1 fastback. It was even for sale, but when I saw the asking price, I decided not to tell Bobbie about that. He’d never have lived to drive it, since Sue would have killed him for paying that. Best, in this case, to let sleeping dogs lie, and pony cars for sale go to someone else. Hey, if I couldn’t have the fuelie, he can’t have the Mach 1, alright? There were also a decent number of mid 60s ‘Stangs, even a single 1964 1/2 convertible that was definitely interesting, but the Mach I was the star. Perhaps if there had been a Shelby or an Elinor, but there wasn’t. The other Fords only had a single Galaxie 500 that truly stood out.

I didn’t just hang out the entire day; I made myself memorable, made a few new friends, and I talked up my favorites in the four categories to some of the other folks walking around. It was a hoot when I finally found both a blue 1967 Firebird and a red (of course) 1968 GTO in the Pontiac set that were really cherry; I whispered to the older guy with the Goat that he should probably play a bit of The Beach Boys on his cell as background music; if he set a small playlist, he could have their version of “Little GTO” playing in the background. He like that idea; when I walked by again later, I heard the end of a loop he’d made. I got a kick of it, and stayed long enough that it started up with “Little Old Lady from Pasadena”. What made it especially fun is that an older couple were walking bye when it started. She started laughing, and asked if she could borrow the Goat while she took it “to church”. I mentioned to her there was a Barracuda she should look at while she was talking, since it’s a Mopar, closer to the ‘superstocked Dodge’ (which in retrospect, might not have been the best idea). It was obvious to me that either the Firebird or the Goat were going to win in the Pontiac group.

The Barracuda had a small bit of competition, though, which was a problem; I needed to keep Asshole in the tent as long as possible. There was a 1968 Dodge Super Bee, avocado green, and with the big 426 Hemi; it was the single rarest specimen of a car in the show, period, and it was the owners pride and joy. It had only one significant flaw, at least as a concourse style car; some owner along the way had pulled the original radio, and had added a newer one, along with a, now ancient, 8 track player that hadn’t been in the car. It had damaged the dash a bit, and the owner hadn’t gotten around yet to fixing the dash and carpeting. As well, it didn’t have the original wheels, instead having five spoke wheels with spinner caps, which looked suspiciously (to me) like mid 1960s Stingray wheels. They looked… good, I suppose, but detracted from the car. I mentioned it to a few folks, and probably destroyed what could have been a friendship when the owner heard me. I really liked the Super Bee, but the Barracuda needed to win.

I started getting nervous around 4 PM. I knew that, as yet, no crime had been committed, but that in less than two hours, I would be an accessory both before and after the fact with Grand Theft Auto, even if I wasn’t guilty of it myself. I remembered Bobbie, and the fact he would ‘help me hide the bodies’, and I remembered Evan, and how upset he had been over his wife’s cheating, and how much anger and hurt Marie’s betrayal had done to me. I also knew that at the moment, I could pretend nothing had happened with Marie, and just go forward lying to myself and others, but if we went through with it, I needed, wanted, Williams to suspect me, regardless of my alibi. I needed him to get to the point that he betrayed Marie to me and everyone else.

And then it was time. I was nervous, but relieved when I saw the Jonathan the Asshole walk into the tent. The die was cast, and whatever was going to happen, would happen. I sent one last quick text, ‘Go’, and that was it. Even as I should have gotten less calm, I felt a warm feeling of relaxation come over me. The Super Bee owner frowned when he saw me with the ‘judges’, I also saw the owners of the three top Vettes, the owners of the 64 1/2 ‘Stang and the Mach I, the owner of the Impala, the owners of the Firebird and the Goat, and I saw him. He saw me at that point, for the first time, perhaps, realizing that I had funded the little award. After a moment, he smirked, and at that moment I wished to hell that the Super Bee beat him out.

I gave a little speech, talking about how the 1960s were the greatest era in automotive history (I heard a guy who had been showing off his 1993 Porsche 911 laugh at that), and how Detroit steel had ruled the road. I then invited each of the owners who had an entry to bring their tickets to be counted, with a short line in front of each of the folks the people running the show had grabbed to count tickets. I milked that a bit by asking each person, when they brought their tickets up, to say a few words about their car.

A strange difference showed up in how they talked about their cars. A couple guys started quoting chapter and verse about the car, the drive train, who designed it, how many were made. A couple talked not about the car in general, but theirs specifically, as to how it was a special example of their car. And a few didn’t talk so much about the car, as they did about memories around the car; many had been family or friends cars, not collected from strangers, but having a personal meaning to the owner. It impressed me that the guy with the 1962 Impala mentioned that his father proposed to his mom in the car, and that they used it for their wedding, honeymoon, and bringing the kids home from the hospital. His dad had last driven it to his mother’s funeral, and had given it to him a week later. That brought some tears to eyes in the crowd.

Williams followed him a minute later. He could have talked about growing up seeing the car, sitting unused, his grandfather’s dream car, while his grandfather pined away after the stroke. He could have talked about what made the car special in other ways, why it was unique, or rare, or desirable. He could have talked about the restoration. He didn’t. He talked, and I quote, about how “women seem to love the car. There’s something about seeing it, and hearing that song, ‘Barracuda’, by Fleetwood Mac, and they just melt. Nothing better for a bachelor to have beyond a hot car.” It went over with a thud, and someone from the back shouted “It’s Heart, asshole, not Fleetwood Mac, and it’s got nothing to do with the car”; I think that got a bigger laugh than his talk got applause. Marie had cheated on me with this piece of shit? Really?

When the voting was done (and it stretched out to a full twenty minutes, as the judges made sure everyone had time to talk about their car), you could see that folks were starting to get enthused about some of the cars. And then they gave me the winners to name out; I hadn’t expected that, but it was fun handing each winner a small certificate that the show had printed up, a little blue ribbon, and a crisp $100 bill. The first car called was the Mach I; they didn’t give me the numbers, but it was clear the Mach I dominated the Fords. I was surprised when the Impala won over the top two ‘Vettes, the ’63 and the ’67, but it was also clear that the owner had been telling that story throughout the day. I think he got a lot of votes from the ladies, and a few men, because the car looked so good, and it had a beautiful story attached. The GTO won the Pontiacs, but you could tell that it was close; people in the tent debated which would win. And then the Mopars came up. Someone from the back shouted out there should be one for Dodge and one for Plymouth, since I’d broken the Pontiacs out from the Chevys; he was obviously biased, as he was wearing a “It’s a Hemi!” T-shirt. I demurred, and simply answered that I wasn’t made of infinite cash, and had to draw a line somewhere. It was now approaching 5:30, so I knew that I didn’t have to pull Williams into the tent, and away from the ‘Cuda much longer.

And then it happened. The Super Bee won the Mopar group. We weren’t done in the tent, but I had no way to stretch out how long Williams would stay. He was free to leave, or free to be a good sport and see who won the final prize, “Best of the ’60s”. It was just going to be another ribbon, and another certificate, plus the last $100 bill, but it would still have been fun.

And Williams walked out.

I was going to be there, having to milk the in-person loudness voting among the crowd, which was still at least 70 or so folks, the majority of the ones who’d been there from the start. I milked it, even as I suddenly started sweating out the situation. Five minutes to his car, five minutes to try to figure out what happened, then another couple. My world could become very different in the next fifteen minutes, but I’d been in front of everyone, in that tent, the whole time. My alibi was solid, but it wouldn’t stand up to a conspiracy Grand Theft Auto charge. I knew I had to keep it together, to be shocked at the bold theft just like everyone else. So I played my part; I had each of the four winners come up and stand in front. I raised my hand over each one, the GTO first, which got a good applause. I switched to the Mach I, which got slightly better. I held it over the Super Bee, which got a nice response, but obviously third behind the other two. And then I did the Impala. Personally, I thought the Impala was nice, but not an actual ‘muscle car’; my vote would have gone to the ’63 Split Rear Window Coupe, which I’d have been hard pressed not to say was ‘Best in Show’. But my vote didn’t count in this. The crowd hooped and hollered over the Impala, loud and hard, and as soon as they did, the Mach I owner turned and shook the man’s hand. It was obvious who had won. I was smiling ear to ear when I shook his hand and handed him his prizes. One of the other exhibitors also brought up a can of Liquid Glass car wax and handed it to him. You could see he was touched; he knew the car was good, but it was the history that made it best in show, and a crowd pleaser.

It was just as he walked over to the microphone to say how happy he was when Williams burst in yelling his car had been stolen. I felt bad about that; the Impala owner, Thomas Warner. He was enjoying the heck out of his moment up to that, but the commotion as people left was a sight. Just as he was leaving, though, he turned to me and said “Hank, he really is an asshole, isn’t he? My wife’s gonna get a kick out of the $200, though. Thanks!” He winked at me and walked off. While he had heard my name mentioned, we had barely spoken before that, so I was surprised that he called me Hank, or that he knew my impression and opinion of Williams.

I joined the crowd going over to where the ‘Cuda had been; I made sure that I walked all over the area “looking” at things, and made sure a number of others did, too. I guess I’d seen too many crime shows, and wanted to make sure that the scene of the crime was as contaminated with extraneous people and things as I could. I even ‘accidentally’ knocked a 10 year olds arm, causing him to spill a box of popcorn near the area; while apologizing, I made sure to step into the only tire track that I could see from site, obliterating the evidence (some of the popcorn was there, too). I gave him enough to go buy a replacement box, since it had been my fault.

It wasn’t until the police got there that Williams even looked in my direction; the crowd had thinned b about half before they got there. I heard what triggered it, it was one of the officers.

“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt you, or steal your car? Do you have an enemies?” That was the moment Asshole looked at me.

“Uh, I have one person I can think of. We’ll need to talk about it privately.” was all that he said, and then they walked away a bit and I couldn’t hear him. He gestured once in my direction, and the cop glanced over at me. The old saw about a criminal always returning to the scene of the crime briefly flashed through my head as the cop looked me over. At one point, Asshole again looked towards me, and pointed. I smirked at him and then turned away. After a half hour or so, I left, stopping only long enough to use a shammy on the burner phone to wipe it down after I erased everything. I tossed it from the window onto a grassy area beside the road a few miles away, near where I knew some teenagers hung out. Although it was possible the police would get their hands on it, I doubted it, and the incriminating material had been removed, anyway. I tossed it there because it seemed less likely to be found than tossing it at a gas station, where they might pull up a surveillance tape of me doing it.

I was anxious, but did not call or otherwise talk to Bobbie or Evan that evening; I had something scheduled with Bobbie the following afternoon, and figured we could talk then. I did tell Marie, in order to judge her reaction, about the theft.

“Hey, something bizarre happened at the show today; one of the cars was stolen!”

“Oh, what car? And did they find it?” Marie asked, not really caring except that it was something interesting that had happened to me that I was sharing; she was still walking on pins and needles around me, dancing around the elephant in the room.

“It was Jonathan William’s ’69 Barracuda. Man, he was upset.” Marie went pale, briefly at the mention of the Asshole. “He was like a wild man when the cops got there. And I don’t know why, but he kept looking at me.” I turned the screw a bit tighter.

“Huh. I wonder why?” was her sole comment. “So, where are you taking me for dinner tonight?” she quickly changed the subject.

“I’m feeling like something primal tonight. I feel like I’m a shark, gobbling up and destroying all those little annoying things around me.”

“So, maybe not a shark, but Red Lobster, and you’re eating a huge platter of shrimp, gotcha.” It wasn’t until I walked off to get cleaned up that I realized that she may have made a pun. I was the Barracuda, and I’d just ‘devoured’ Jonathan William’s prize; he was the shrimp. At least I hope that’s what she meant, and not something else.

Red Lobster was good, and again, Marie wore me out that night. I think somewhere in all of this, Marie had been replaced by a Porn Star making a full length movie a day, as much as she went after me.

The next day, bright and early, the police arrived, right at 8 AM. I was up, but Marie was still sleeping upstairs. I was surprised, of course, but also nervous. In my thoughts, there was only one reason the police would question me, that they had figured out what we had done. You can imagine how nervous I was, but I tried hard not to let it show.

“Mr. Preston, can we have a few minutes of your time?” one of the cops, Lawrence, from his name tag, asked. “We just have a few questions about yesterday’s theft of a brown 1969 Plymouth Barracuda belonging to one Jonathan Williams yesterday at the car show. We understand that you were there, and we wanted to talk with you a moment.”

I let the two in, and asked them to sit; I also offered a cup of coffee. The other office, Hinton, by the name badge, accepted the coffee, but Lawrence declined.

Lawrence started things off when I brought in the coffee, some creamer, and some sweetener. “We’re trying to chase down every possible lead. You were there, and from what we understand, you were taking pictures of folks at the show. We were hoping to get copies of those, and to ask you a few other questions. Frankly, for some reason Mr. Williams seems to think you may have been involved. We don’t accept that you are involved, but Mr. Williams gave us a motive. That said, we know where you were during the time the car was stolen, you have at least thirty people who’ve already said that you were at the awards for ‘Best 1960s Car’, and were in fact hosting it. Mr. Williams himself admits you were there, but is insisting that you know something.”

“What possible motive do I have? I mean, I don’t like Jonathan, but I don’t have any reason to hate him. Heck, he used to date my wife, before I really knew her; their breaking up because he couldn’t keep it in his pants with other girls led eventually to us being together. He can be a bit of a jerk, but I should actually be grateful.”

“And are you grateful, Mr. Preston?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not able to discuss that right now.”

“That sounds odd. At any rate, the last time I saw Jonathan’s car was around 4 or so. Jonathan came into the tent closer to 4:50, maybe 5. And yes, I can let you have the pictures I took.”

I went over to my computer, and plugged it into my phone to download the pictures; I then copied them onto a small, inexpensive thumb drive, and then walked back to the officers, who were discretely looking at everything in the room. It’s rough when cops become nosy for no apparent reason.

“Here are the pictures, Officer Lawrence. I’d love to get the USB stick back when you’re done. I am curious as to why, beside the pictures, you’re here. You say Jonathan thinks I did it?” At that moment, I heard a bit of a gasp, and looked up to see Marie. I knew I could make it sound like the police presence in the room was the reason for Marie to gasp.

“Honey, this is officers Lawrence and Hinton; they wanted the photos I took yesterday, of the crowds and cars of the various entrants in the contest.”

“Oh.”

“Mrs. Preston, can I talk with you a moment?” piped in Hinton.

“Uh, sure. What do you need?”

“In private?” She looked lost and pale, as she took him into the kitchen.

“What’s that about?” I asked Lawrence.

“Just need to verify something Mr. Williams stated. Now, can you tell me where you went after Mr. Williams car was stolen?”

I laughed at that. “Yeah, I stuck around there for a bit, then came home. Marie, my wife, wanted to go out for dinner, so we went to the Red Lobster and then came home. Why? You’re making it sound like I need to worry about something.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” He tried to allay my fears, but I knew more than he did what was going on. He, and his partner, were trying to find out from my so-called loving wife whether or not the motive that Asshole had given them was real. Regardless, the conversation petered out at that point. A few minutes later, Marie and Hinton came back in the room, Hinton nodded at Lawrence, and they got up to leave. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Preston. If you can think of anything that might be of help, here’s my card.” he said as he handed me a card with his contact information on it, and then the two left.

“What did they want you to talk with you about?” I asked Marie.

She went a bit pale when I asked, but then said “He just wanted to talk about Jonathan and my old relationship, back when we dated, and whether or not you and Jonathan get along.”

“Not too well. He’s quite a bit of an asshole, actually.” I replied.

“He’s not that bad, but he’s not you, that’s for sure. I love you, Hank.”

“I dunno, he treated folks pretty poorly yesterday at the show. And he was a poor sport, plus he basically called his Barracuda a pussy magnet. Sounds like an asshole to me.”

“Yeah, I guess that sounds like him being an asshole. But he’s not important. After all, he’s not my husband, the man I love. He’s just some guy, some asshole, I used to date. I love you, Hank.” I could see what she was doing. She wanted me to say it, to reassure her.

“I love you too, Marie.” I felt pain at saying it. I knew it was a lie. I knew it was the truth. And I hadn’t wanted to say it, but it wasn’t time to stop saying it.

Bobbie called later that day and begged off getting together; we talked on the phone, mostly inane things like fishing. I wanted to find out from his side how things went, but I didn’t dare. Life moved on.

A few days later, I met Bobbie back at the DQ. We sat and had our treats, as we talked about nothing. We did briefly touch on the car theft, since it was now going through the social circle, but we only asked why, with so many other deserving cars in the show, someone had stolen that one. We knew, of course, but our conversation didn’t reflect that, since we wanted to be overheard; we speculated as to why someone would steal that one (it had already come out that the thieves had worn jackets with “Classic Cars” and a logo of a Dodge Coronet on it, which had also adorned the truck; peel off stickers, as it turned out, but enough to fool folks). And both of us briefly mentioned a belief that Williams had been responsible, and it was an insurance scam. I don’t know whether or not the police heard the conversation, or even heard of it directly, though we held it loud enough a couple of other folks who came by had to have heard. We hoped the rumor would get out.

It was 10 days after the theft that he finally came after me. I was surprised, in one respect, that he didn’t do it earlier. He wanted my woman, and he thought I’d taken his most precious thing. He came after me in the parking lot of my work on a Tuesday evening, right as 5 other folks I worked with were coming out. I saw his normal car in the back of the lot, so it wasn’t a total surprise he was there, but I allowed it to seem like it was.

The sucker punch to the small of my back hurt like hell. Didn’t help that he then slammed my head into the roof of my car. “Where’s my car, asshole? I’m going to beat you until you tell me where you put it.” He then slammed my face into the A-pillar of my truck after that, which made me gasp; the pain was beyond any that I’d ever felt, not from my face, but from my chest. “You couldn’t take me fucking Marie, could you? She should have been mine all along. I even left some cum on your pillow for you, fucker. You’re nothing but a wimp, a piece of shit. Where the fuck is my car?” With each sentence, I’d feel another punch; I distinctly heard and felt it when he broke what turned out to be my third broken rib, but the pain of that was nothing compared to the pain in my left chest; I could feel the weight of some invisible elephant on my chest.

I was a bit stunned, but I had known it was about to happen; my work colleagues hadn’t. It took them a moment before they got there. I passed out, because the next image I saw was the paramedics working on me. I turned my head, and saw him lying five feet from me, with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“The mother fucker stole my car! He stole it! Little limp dick can’t take care of his wife, and is mad at me for helping her out. You need to beat it out of him where he put my car!” he was screaming.

I could hear my boss in the background talking with some of my coworkers. They were discussing my marital situation, and whether or not I was some kind of car thief. I decided to play it up, so I’d have plenty of witnesses to him saying it. I tried to say something “Marie cheated on me? With you? You mother (cough) fucker! I’ll (cough) kill you!” I know that blood was bubbling in my mouth as I said it; I’m not sure anyone could understand me.

I felt the pin prick in my arm as the paramedic inserted an IV; a moment later, I felt my arm go cold, and after a ragged, bubbling breathe or two after that, I don’t remember anything.

I woke up in what was now a familiar place since Marie’s betrayal, the emergency room. I only woke briefly, however, just long enough to hear the words “has a punctured lung and…”. I was having a lot of trouble breathing, and it felt like someone was smothering me and sitting on my chest at the same time. I felt the strong metallic taste of blood. Then after that, again, nothing.

I woke up for the first time again on Saturday, exactly two weeks after the theft. I didn’t know it was Saturday, of course; my last coherent thoughts had been Tuesday, when Asshole had attacked me. I wondered how he had put me down with the sucker punch; I’d been expecting something, although not, perhaps, like that. It had felt like he had hit me with the proverbial lead pipe.

As it turns out, it wasn’t completely proverbial. He had hit me with a jack handle from his car. In doing so, he’d broken two of my ribs with the first blow; I was lucky that he missed my spine, as he’d hit me from behind. Where I was unlucky was that one of the ribs he broke punctured my left lung. The result was that I was literally drowning in my own blood. From what I know now, I barely made it through the 7 hour surgery to repair my damaged lung. Even with the efforts, it was unlikely to ever function as well as it had, and I would have a reduced lung capacity and blood oxygen intake levels the rest of my life.

So much for ever running the Boston Marathon. Lucky me, it hadn’t been a bucket list goal to run any marathons.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that I was in an isolated room, white, brightly lit. On the whiteboard on the wall beside the cabinet under the TV it said ‘Dr. Wisnowski’ and ‘RN Maggie’ beside one of those “How are you feeling?” pain diagrams. I didn’t feel hurt. I didn’t feel hot. I didn’t feel cold. I couldn’t feel my fingers, my hands, my legs, my toes. The only thing I felt was soreness in my throat, because of the tube down it. I willed my arm to move, and as I did, I heard a loud piercing alarm go off; a moment later, a pretty, sexy, young woman, with one of the greatest asses I think I’d ever seen came bustling in the room. I suddenly fantasized about all those nurse stories.

“Mr. Preston, please, don’t move. You need to be calm. You’re in the hospital; you were attacked, and required immediate surgery. Your wife and some of you family have been here nearly the entire time, and I’ll let them in after the doctor comes in. Blink your eyes twice if you understand.”

I blinked at her, twice, and she told me she was going to need to leave the tube in my throat a little longer. I think I went out again briefly because I never saw him come in, but his voice brought me back out.

“Mr. Preston, hi, I’m Dr. Wisnowski. I’m the physician in charge of your care, and I wanted to talk with you for a moment; I need you to concentrate, and not try to move or speak, but you can blink your eyes, once for no, twice for yes, ok?” I blinked twice.

“You were attacked last Tuesday; your assailant used a metal bar, and when he did, he broke two of your ribs; one of them punctured your lung. He broke another rib a moment later, and your right arm. I want you to wiggle the fingers, only the fingers, of your left hand.” and I did. “Good. Now wiggle the fingers, and only the fingers, of your right hand. Good.” He pulled the sheet covering my legs aside, “I need you to wiggle you toes, but gently, on your left foot, then your right. Good. We were worried that there could be spinal damage, but it appears not. You’re a very lucky man. You should be out of here in 4 days or so, and healed up in a month or so.” I didn’t feel lucky.

After looking at some numbers on a chart, and then at the numbers on the beeping machines, he told the nurse that he wanted to increase the oxygen through the nose hose or whatever they call that thing they hang over your ears and loop under your nose. He also told her she could remove the ‘intubation tube’ or something (I think that’s what he called it), and that I was allowed liquid only, to be closely monitored; ice only for the first two hours, then broth and jello. Oh goody, what a feast! Broth and jello!

After she removed the tube (which I did actually feel, and it was uncomfortable to say the least), she placed a small cup of ice chips in front of me on a tray. What she didn’t do was give me any, and I rapidly realized that I couldn’t move my left arm, as they had it secured to the bed rail, and I couldn’t move my right, because it appeared to be in an inflatable cast and a sling. As the dryness and soreness of my throat started to really hit my brain, I decided that Maggie was a closet sadist.

Lucky for me, a few minutes later Marie came in. She looked like she was about to jump on me in the bed, when a hand grabbed her and pulled her back. She looked like hell, no makeup, drawn, frumpy, needing to shower, and in total anguish.

I don’t know from what depths of hell I was able to croak it out, with each word taking some of my soul and my life force with it. “You” and it must have been the most drawn out ‘you’ I’ve ever said. “Cheated” and her eyes began to tear before I could move on. “On” each word took an effort. “Me.”

She looked devastated at me saying that. “With” and I passed out again.

My next conscious memories were of hearing crying and then the tenor of Bobbie’s voice. I could hear soft words being spoken in the background, but couldn’t make out anything at first. And then I started to be able to understand. the gentle words Bobbie was saying “…should leave now, before he awakes again.” More crying.

“But I love him. It was a mistake, a horrible mistake.” I couldn’t tell who the person speaking was, as the voice didn’t sound familiar enough; it was too broken from sobbing to make out anything more than the words, and then only barely.

“You can talk with him later Marie. But you need to go, go rest, go get yourself cleaned up, and go get prepared. He remembers what Williams said. He knows, Marie. And you being here may hurt more than help right now. I’ll call you if he asks for you.” I allowed myself to fall back into the dark as I heard the other voice say something more.

When I awoke again, I croaked “Ice.” I’m not sure how anyone understood me, but a moment later I felt a small spoon with the wonderfully cold ice at my lips. I sucked on the ice, and allowed it to re-hydrate and soothe my sore mouth and throat. A second followed a moment later, and I opened my eyes to see the worried face of my brother.

“Welcome back to the living. You gave us quite a scare there, Baby Bro.” Mike attempted a weak smile. Bobbie leaned in “Keys have been planted. It’s all going to hit the fan soon, Hank. The asshole who did this to you is going to pay, and pay, and pay. And then I’m sending cigarette cartons to his cell mate, when this is over, with the words ‘Make him your bitch’ included every month once he’s in prison. They’re currently just holding him in jail, but it looks like he’ll get 5-7 years just for the assault; the insurance fraud will be gravy.”

“Two. Graves. Bobbie?” I slowly croaked out. Bobbie understood what I was asking, the old saw about revenge and needing to dig two graves.

“This, and your fallout with Marie, will be the only graves for you, Hank. But I intend to make sure he goes through hell for what he did to you in the parking lot.”

I managed to get more ice chips, a small sip of water, and even a small sip of the now cool broth; Bobbie ate the jello, of course.

When I could talk well enough, we finally talked about something important. “How is she holding up, Bobbie?”

“She’s devastated, of course. I mean, in the end, this is all her fault, right? For all her faults, I think she does love you. Don’t know why, though; I mean, I’ve seen you naked, and it sure ain’t that.” he joked. It hurt when I chuckled with him on his jab. I didn’t have enough energy, though, to jab back that his Sue thought I had enough there; we both know we’re bullshitting each other, but Bros forever, you know?

“So, you put the key in place? Have you dropped the dime yet?” I asked.

“Key’s in his car’s coin holder; he left it unlocked when he attacked you, and it didn’t get towed for two days. Car somehow was locked when the police towed it; I wonder when that happened, eh? Dime will be dropped… hmm, sometime tomorrow morning. The attack was covered in the newspaper, and has been picking up steam. The news that he was screaming about his stolen car went out this morning, so it’ll hit the newspaper tomorrow. Which means Tom will drop the dime after the newspaper comes out.”

“Tom? Who’s Tom?” I asked, perplexed.

“Tom Warner, Darla’s husband. Hell, you were photographed giving him the award at the car show. The Impala? He won best in show or something?”

“Thomas Warner is Darla’s husband? How the heck… no, I don’t want to know. The less I know, the better.”

“He won fair and square, Hank. And it was just a lucky chance that he happened to be able to prove you were there, and he’s the one who will nail the asshole to the cross, when they find the ‘Cuda.”

“I’ll need to get the divorce turned back on, Bobbie. Now that it’s public, we can move forward.”

“No revenge beyond that on Marie, Hank?” I could hear it in his voice that Bobbie thought the divorce was enough revenge.