Usually she laughs at me, but mostly she just sits and watches. That sums up my relationship with my wife, Tabitha. Don’t misunderstand; she’s a superb wife and excellent mother. It’s me. I’m hilarious as hell. Or so she says. This opening has significant bearing on this post. Tabitha was a bit of a muse for this one.
Lately I’ve been bouncing back and forth between Werewolves of the Dead and a novel tentatively titled A Ways to Go. It’s a serial killer type of book with a lot of my past mixed in. “Write what you know,” is what I’ve been told and I know about emotional and physical childhood abuse. It’s about time I made that pay. And that brings me to this weeks #ThursThreads hosted by the delightfully naughty, Siobhan Muir. Every Thursday she hosts a flash fiction contest that limits authors to 250 words maximum. More often than not I never get the chance to participate, but when I do I love it. This week’s prompt has allowed me to delve into that deviant homicidal side I’ve suspect that I might have.
Here’s is my entry for this week. I’ve titled it She Just Sat and Watched
For years she’d been my conscience, guiding me between right from wrong. Normally I followed her suggestions. That is until that jackass cut us off while leaving McDonalds.
I honked angrily as he pulled away, and thought that was that. But then I noticed him behind us a mile later.
He followed us for several blocks, flashing his high beams, and riding our tail.
“I’ve had enough of his shit,” I muttered.
“Baby, don’t,” she said plaintively, remembering the last time I’d lost my temper. It hadn’t ended well for anybody, especially me.
“I’m not about to break my sixteen year no fighting record.”
She knew I was lying.
We stopped behind an abandoned movie theater.
I rolled down my window, and pepper sprayed him the moment he arrived.
Calmly I got out of the car with my hatchet as he stumbled around, screaming obscenities.
“Baby, please,” she said again.
“I’m okay. Don’t worry,” I said, bringing the hammer end down behind his left ear.
The rude jackass awoke in our basement, strapped to a gurney board, screaming through the gag. His expression spoke of all manners of bad that awaited me if I released him.
I hit the juice for the electrodes attached to his ears, informing him of his perilous position.
“Time to get under way,” I said, brandishing my KaBar knife. I knew I’d feel really guilty later because of her, my conscience. But for the time being she just sat there and watched.