290 Grains

290 Grains

I was standing in front of the door. My wife had just come down the stairs, dressed to the nines, and told me she was going out. Where she was going was none of my business, nor was the guy waiting on our drive for her.

"So what you are saying to me is that, without giving us time to discuss this, you are changing the rules of our relationship. You are going out on a date with someone else. That someone could be male, but you won't tell me for sure. You won't give me a name, and you won't deny that someone is a lover! You are going for a meal, drinks, and dancing, but you won't be home until tomorrow, or maybe Sunday. Your wearing fuck me clothes and heels, and you want me to wait at home for you like a good little cucky. I'm not allowed to date myself; I'm not allowed to complain about this; I'm not even permitted to go out to the pub for a pint."

"How does this sound my darling loving wife? If you walk out that door, just fuck off and don't ever come home again. I'll be changing the locks and packing every bit of your shit into bin bags. You better bring your lover boy back with you tomorrow, Sunday, or whenever. I'd recommend it soon, though, because everything you have will be on the front lawn in the rain."

"I knew you'd be unreasonable, so I checked. You can't lock me out of my own home, and you will never divorce me or my pussy. I wouldn't mind a bit if you did; everyone I know says I'll get the house, and you will have to pay me most of your wages in maintenance, and you will be living on pot noodle for years."

She took her phone from her bag and hit a speed dial number.

"My big, tough husband will let me out of the house, she said."

The front door opened a minute later, and a guy I know as Tony Moran walked into my house. I know Tony well. I, or rather, my building business employs him from time to time as a self employed labourer. I'm five feet ten and weigh about one hundred and fifty-five pounds. This fucker is six feet six and must be at least my weight and a half again. He is officially a big bastard.

"Is he being stubborn, Lisa Darlin'? he asked.

"Yes," said the slut, who was soon to be my ex-wife.

Now I have to say that at this point, my wife is not the sharpest tool in the box, but this fucker makes her look like a female Einstein, but, like I said, he is built like a brick shithouse. One of the reasons I employ him is that he can easily carry a bag of cement up a scaffold ladder three floors high without stopping for a breather. He once broke a scaffold ladder trying to carry three bags at once. He was strong enough, but sadly, his brain wasn't strong enough to work out that a wooden scaffold ladder wasn't.

My three cousins, who are bricklayers, were winding the thick bastard up at the time. Luckily, he broke the ladder at the bottom rung when he stepped onto it. I was lucky there; accident paperwork takes forever to fill in, and if the thick fucker had hurt himself badly, the site safety officer could have shut me down for an indefinite period. I suppose he could have been seriously injured; I hadn't really given two fucks about him, though. I do now, and my thoughts on how I could influence his quality of life were suddenly very high on my agenda.

Above my front door is a sign supplied by the alarm company. It informs anyone entering my house that there are security cameras present in all rooms. Lisa knows this; Lisa knows where the recordings are kept. What Lisa doesn't know is that the recordings on my desktop are also simultaneously uploaded to cloud storage, automatically time and date stamped, and kept for a year before there is any provision to delete them. It was a system my insurer pushed heavily at me after I bought my Accuracy International sports shooting rifles and their Schmidt & Bender sights.

Just to stray off course for a minute or two, as I inferred above, I'm a builder. More specifically, I'm a carpenter/joiner, and although I say it myself, I'm fucking good at it. I don't get my hands on my tools anywhere near as often as I would like these days. Most of the practical work I get to do now is for us. I made our kitchen table, and it's four matching chairs. I also made our four poster bed. I love the intricate carving work I did on the posts and the head and foot boards. I got a couple of guys in to build the deck out in the backyard. Work like that is as boring as a bucket full of cold piss. Idiot boy who stood in front of me now, did the labouring.

Let's get back to the story. Please bear in mind the bit about the signs warning of the security cameras.

"Is the little man bothering you, babe?" said Tony.

Lisa replied, "only in that my poor pussy is very underused."

This is probably very true. It's been at least three months since she cut me off. Only a cynic would suggest that three months ago was when Knucklehead here and my loving wife started their affair, about the time the new deck was built.

Please understand, my darling backstabbing bitch of a wife, I want you to leave, but I want you to leave in full knowledge of the repercussions. You go, I change the locks, and you pick up your clothes and personal belongings off the front lawn I don't support you any more, and you don't come back.

"I'm going to take you for everything you have, she said as she walked out."

Tony sneered, "I'm going to give your wife the dick she wants and live off your money doing it."

That surprised me; I didn't think he could put 17 words together in a sentence.

Lisa's first problem was the wheels this dumb fucker had brought to whisk her away. It was an old, dirty Ford Transit Connect. The last passenger to occupy the crew seat was three, one hundred-pound bags of cement.

The "fuck me" LBD wasn't going to look so good when she got out. The second they were out, I slid the bolts on all the doors and switched off the electric opener on the garage door. When the bitch started talking about wanting her car, I said I'm calling the police. Tony wasn't too keen on that; he habitually carries enough cannabis and Molly to get him locked up for dealing.

I had been pretty sure this night had been coming for over two months now. So much so that I had been to the phone shop on the high street and had bought an iPhone from the two Asian kids who ran it. I had removed Lisa's SIM card, and then when she told me her phone was broken, I selflessly took it to be mended. Yes, honestly, she is that thick. The Asian lads cloned Lisa's phone and, for a few quid, installed a tracker. I knew where she was, and thanks to more jiggery pokery from my two new best mates, I could turn on the camera and the microphone. I could listen to her calls and get the texts she was sending and receiving.

OK, this stuff was unusable in court, but I didn't need that. Tony had filled all three of my loving wife's holes while I was paying the bastard to build the deck she just had to have built to sunbathe on. That was filmed by the security system, i could use that, they both knew about it.

Lisa surprised me with that one; she did a bit of thinking and deleted the files for the relevant periods. Not too much though, she didn't delete the backups or even know about the cloud backup. She may not be bright, but she has lovely tits. I'm going to miss playing with them.

On a Friday night, there is an old-fashioned dinner dance at "The George Wilmington Hotel" its the best hotel in our little town. The cloned iPhone told me my slut had made reservations last week. Funnily enough, I think this is what really hurt me; it was the only thing that did about this sorry affair. I took Lisa there several times, and when she still showed me a little respect, I considered it "our special night out". I love dancing; primarily, I jive, but I can put my hand, or rather foot, to just about any ballroom style. Or anything else for that matter, but I prefer what I call holding hands dancing.

I was being careful not to show the security cameras the cloned iPhone and other stuff, but they and my nosy neighbours were now going to be my alibi for some dirty deeds I had planned. The tracking thingy is very good; I watched them drive into the hotel parking lot.

I've got a very good mate. He is my security advisor, not so much for the house but for site security on the job. Things go missing on sites; when Big Paul gets involved, things tend to return to their rightful places, and certain people of questionable morality develop limps. When the heat dies down in this currant situation, I am fairly confident Tony will develop one or two limps, quite possibly some darker skin tones in defined areas around the eyes, nose, and maybe the genital area. That would be a terrible thing to happen, wouldn't it?

I sent Big Paul a text from my burner phone. It just said, "GWH, car park, do it."

Within half an hour, a parking enforcement truck had pulled along side a scruffy Transit Connect van in the hotel carpark. Using its hijab lift, it had the van on the bed of the truck, and in five minutes it was gone, never to be seen again.

Apart from Tony repeatedly standing on Lisa's foot, the couple dined well on good food, had a couple of bottles of wine, and had several drinks while dancing the night away.

The next morning, there was a minor disturbance at the hotel reception. A couple was unable to pay their bill. The man, Mr. Anthony Moran, claimed his wallet had been stolen, and the woman, Mrs. Lisa Stillwood, tried several of her credit and debit cards. She was very surprised when they were all refused. She was further surprised when, while trying to phone her husband, the phone simply repeated the message, "This phone is now out of service; please contact your service provider.

When Tony discovered his van had disappeared overnight, he really lost it and attempted to assault the hotel manager. The staff called the police, and Tony was carted off to be charged with causing an affray. He had planned to go back to Lisa's home and spend Saturday morning, noon, and night in her arms in my bed. He spent the night in a cell. I happen to know it was a very uncomfortable night. He shared the cell with a very obnoxious drunk. Funnily enough, three of the four cells at our local police station were unoccupied. A mate of mine from our rugby club is the desk sergeant at our local nick, he told me.

Lisa walked home, she started her journey in a pair of 5-inch stiletto slingbacks. They lasted less than a quarter of the way. She ended up barefoot with her stockings in rags. When she got to our house, sorry, my house, she looked like shit. God was obviously on my side; it was pissing it down. She hammered on the door with one of the fucking hideous garden gnomes she had living on the front lawn. The stupid bitch didn't understand why her key didn't work. I refused to let her in; she made such a row that the neighbours called the police. I felt a bit sorry for the two boys in blue that were sent to attend. Lisa told them she lived here, and I had no right to lock her out. A quick call to my solicitor confirmed to them that this property belonged to my old man. I think they took her to her moms house; that must have been fun. Her mom lives on a two-bed council terrace with a wino of an old man and four of her brothers. Every one of them has had knockbacks from her while she has been spending my money. I dont think any of them were feeling generous.

I am happy to leave her to a shitty council estate life. Tony, not so much so. All the builders around here are in each other's pockets. It's not a bad thing. We keep the cowboys out. There is plenty of work for guys who give a fair day's work for their money.

Down on the better end of the council estate, the end I was born on. The houses had warm air and central heating. The heating units were in asbestos-lined compartments. The warm air ducts were asbestos-lined. These houses are being systematically renovated, and modern wet radiator systems are replacing the existing obsolete systems. It's a nice, well-paying job. One of my current contracts is for 18 homes on Beasley Street ive a soft spot for this contract, i was born on beasly street.

I've subbed the heating out to another rugby club mate, Kevin Mundy of Kevin Munday Heating. He is not only installing the new stuff; he is also removing all the old gear, along with safely removing the asbestos. Removing asbestos is very expensive. Kevin's Forman, Micky Daws is a bit of a lad. Always looking to make an extra buck. He got some cowboys to dump some of it. I like Dawsy he plays rugby as well

There is a big old glassworks in our town. Out back is a huge sand slurry pit. Over the years, lots of stuff that has needed to disappear has disappeared in that mess. Over the top of it runs a steel gantry for a gantry crane, the crane that dumps the slurry. It's basically man-made quicksand, and after seventy years of the glassworks existence, it's pretty deep.

When I was a kid, we walked over the gantry at weekends when the plant was idle. It's a hell of a climb up the towers, and you'd have to be a strong fucker to carry three 25-kilo heavy duty rubbish sacks up there. If they were, let's say, full of asbestos, which is quite light, they would be very bulky. Just imagine if you were on your tenth load. Just imagine how it would feel if you had done that and a.5-cal BMG bullet hit you in the knee at supersonic speed. Fuck, I bet that would hurt. I bet hitting the sand would hurt more.