Burner

Burner

With apologies to the late Andrea Camilleri.

**********

I drove down my street after work and saw a strange car in my driveway next to my wife's Camry. There was no room for me, so I parked at the curb and went inside.

My wife rushed down the stairs in a robe. Untied. I glimpsed her tits and shaven mound underneath.

"Honey," she cried anxiously. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks flushed. A dollop of some opalescent gel was on her cheek. "I thought you were supposed to be in Cleveland until tomorrow!"

Cleveland? I reached out and opened her robe a bit wider. There were obvious bite marks on her breasts. Fresh ones.

She saw me frowning at them and grabbed the robe, drawing it closed.

"It's not what it looks like," She began to sob.

Shaved cunt? Bite marks? Come on, man.

"Hold that thought," I said. I returned to my car and opened the trunk. I removed a clear plastic container and took it into the house.

I brushed past my wife's desperate attempts to hug me and called up the stairs.

"The ladder is right outside the east window. Try not to pull down the goddamn gutter."

My wife froze in terror as we heard the window sliding open, followed by a metallic scraping against the siding, a short burst of terrified yelling, and the sound of a soft sack of wet something hitting the ground.

"I hope he missed the fucking hostas," I said in exasperation.

I went into the kitchen and rooted around for scissors in the junk drawer. Why do things some in packages impervious to high explosives? Is it too much to ask for easy opening packaging for us elderly humans?

Aha. I used the scissors to cut open the package and take out the burner phone. Thirty bucks it cost me down at the 7-11. Seemed too cheap to actually work.

But it did. I removed the slip of paper from where I had tucked it deep in my wallet and punched in the digits.

"How did you get this number?" He was angry. Too bad.

"Does it matter?"

"Damn straight it matters. I can't have the worlds leaking like this."

I thought about his metaphor. Or was it a simile? Either way, it was pretty accurate.

"I got it from that PI you overused," I said.

I heard him cursing.

"You should really vary your characters. Reusing them in story after story is weak."

"Fuck you."

I smiled. "Now let's talk about my wife and her lover. First of all, I was never in Cleveland. I have never been to Cleveland. So the plot collapses from the beginning."

"Aw... crap."

"Crap is right," I said. "Put it right." I paused. "Except for the shaved part."

**********

I I drove down my street after work and saw no other cars in my driveway except for my wife's. I parked and went inside.

My wife rushed down the stairs in yoga pants and a loose sweatshirt.

"Honey," she cried, giving me an enthusiastic smootch. "I missed you terribly all day!"

I stepped back and caught her scratching her crotch.

"What?" she asked.

**********

I arrived home to find my wife dressed to go out. I had not been informed that we were going out.

"Honey," she said seriously, "we have to talk."

"Let me guess. You have a date and it isn't me."

She beamed. "Oh good. You approve!"

I held up a finger. "Uh huh. Just a sec." And dug into my pocket for the burner.

"What is it?" he answered, sighing.

"You have a whole toolbox, yet you reach for the hammer laying on the top. This wife goes on a date shit is just stale. Besides, my wife does not want to go on a date with some other man."

"Oh yeah? Look at her."

I did, and it was true. She had on a slinky red dress that showed plenty of her full pendulous breasts--

"You fuck," I said. "My wife has perfect perky tits. Perky! Not these... pillows."

"You're welcome."

"Those monsters will give her back problems. Put it right. She's not going anywhere tonight."

He laughed a snarky laugh. "But think of the possibilities. Surely the thought of your beautiful wife giving herself to only the second cock she's ever had--"

"Do you keep your story notes on Kleenex or something? Angela was an escort in college. She's had more dicks inside her than police headquarters. She confessed to me the night before we were getting married when I found her climbing into bed with my best man. Luckily, I was Special Forces and own a small company that sells covert monitoring equip--."

"Yes?" His voice had an odd edge.

"None of that is fucking true, is it?"

"No. But you get a little tingle out of it, right? I mean, you are here in Loving Wives, man."

"Maybe you should move us to Romance."

"Pfft," he raspberried. "Boring. Besides, think about your sexy wife getting boned by a bigger cock--"

"There's nothing wrong with the size of my cock."

He laughed an evil laugh. "Maybe I should go back and edit you."

"You're the creative genius, but this scenario is sad. I don't mean sad as in inadequate, but sad as in... sad. A marriage is pretty much over the minute the wife thinks it is okay to cheat. Sure, she is up front about it in this scenario, but that doesn't change the outcome. Everybody suffers. I don't want to suffer. I don't want my wife to suffer."

"You could invite them to come home so you can watch."

"What if I just forbid her from going out?"

"Not much of a story then, is it?"

"The quality of the story is your concern, not mine. We have been happily married for fifteen years. You have been writing this for about fifteen minutes. You should take advantage of my experience. And I am telling you that this tack will not fly."

"Okay, okay," he said with exaggerated exasperation. "I will ignore the mixed metaphor, but only because I am going to steal the 'more dicks than police headquarters' line."

"It's yours," I replied. "Literally. It is yours."

I turned around and my lovely perky-titted wife was bare foot, in jeans and a They Might Be Giants T-shirt, stirring a risotto.

**********

In the mailbox was a large red envelope. I opened it on my way into the kitchen. It was an invitation to a Christmas party to be held at the swankiest hotel in town.

"Honey," I said. "Is your company having a big party this year?"

She had just arrived home. Attache case on the counter, her flats kicked off, she was pulling a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator.

"Yes," she said wearily. "Next week at the Ritz. Old man Sheridan decided to have a Christman extravaganza."

My wife is a lawyer with the state's most high-powered law firm. She is rarely home, but the pay will be tremendous -- once she makes partner. I watch the kids, cook and clean, and work on my computer repair business that I run out of our basement.

She would not consider blowing off the party, even though she works until late each night already. It is a steel obligation for the junior members of the firm. I have my doubts about this soiree. Her peers look down on me, calling me Mr. Mom and a lot of other mean things.

I know, because I have dropped a small recording device into her purse.

I trust my wife, but I don't trust that asshole Sheridan. I have recorded him many times saying suggestive things to my wife, and I am afraid that this Christmas party is--

I looked out the window. The kids were cannonballing into the pool. I looked down. I was wearing shorts and had my Crocs on. I had an iced tea in my hand.

"You moved Christmas to the middle of summer?" I asked him rhetorically.

"Oh, shit," I heard him mutter. Keys clicked in the background.

"Wait--."

Too late. I looked outside again and snow was falling. The kids were sprinting for the back door, shivering in their bathing suits.

"My wife is not a lawyer," I said. "She is a librarian."

I heard keys clicking.

"Stop," I shouted. "She loves her job. She reads to toddler groups. She knows the Dewey Decimal System. Don't take that away from her."

The clicking stopped.

"They have Christmas parties at libraries," he said optimistically.

"Not the kind you have in mind. What is it? I know that bastard boss of hers will seduce her. Does he drug me? Does he drug her? Is she going to be the company whore, shared by all the top executives and some of the customers, all of it inexplicably captured on video and shared around like cat memes? I bet dollars to dildoes that the SEC finds out that they are not only sex and drug crazed shit holes but that they have been cheating on their reportables. They all go to prison, but my wife still ends up fucked loser than the belt of an anorexic teenager. Right?"

He was muttering to himself. "Anorexic teenager. Good one." Then louder, "Sorry, just had to make a note."

"Make this note," I said. "No Christmas parties. No company picnics. No nothin'. Drop it."

"All right. Just this once. I am not all that fond of the company get together scene anyway."

I glanced up as the bright sun returned. The kids, who had been beating frantically on the sliding glass door, noticed the snow disappear and ran back towards the pool.

My wife walked in holding her tennis racquet. She was dressed in white shorts and a modest short sleeved collared top.

"Tennis at the club?" I asked her, more suspicious than I had a right to be. "Getting lessons from Alberto?"

She froze. Guilty?

"Club?" she asked. "I thought we were going to go hit some at the courts down at the park. What the hell are you babbling about?"

**********

I had the steaks going on the grill when my wife called out that our guests were on the way. Bill and Barbara had bought the Carlson's house across the street, and my wife decided to make them welcome.

We were soon all seated on the deck with drinks. Bill was about my age and height, but he had several pounds of muscle on me. I saw my wife stealing looks at his biceps. Barbara was an attractive blonde with wide blue eyes, a sensuous mouth, and firm breasts with hard nipples that poked her blouse out. She hadn't bothered with a bra.

I went into the kitchen to find the barbeque sauce. After a while I found that it been stored under the sink behind the Brillo pads for some reason. Had we organized condiments and cleaning supplies alphabetically? Actually, that was a good idea. But was that space under the sink and to the right of the garbage disposal B for barbeque and Brillo or C for condiments and cleaning supplies?

Still pondering this mystery, I returned to the party just as Barbara was saying something about the Greek method to my wife. My ears perked up.

My wife turned to with a bright excited face. "Honey, Bill and Barbara are swingers! They want us to join them Saturday and they will give us a few tips to get us started."

I nodded, went back into the house and pulled out the burner.

"What is it now?" He was impatient.

"What's the matter," I asked. "Are you trying to get all the papers graded?"

He spluttered. "What?"

"For your class. You do teach sixth-grade English, don't you?"

"How much did you pay that fucking PI?"

I smiled. "Now this is different. I just heard our new neighbors discussing anal with my wife."

"Yeah?"

"This is not cheating. It is consensual group sex."

"You're complaining?"

"Not necessarily," I confessed. "That Barbara is a sexy babe. I would do her without the express written consent of Major League Baseball." I paused to listen to what I had just said. "You're watching the Red Sox in another window, aren't you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."

"Well - who's winning?"

"The Dodgers are up two in the seventh."

"Fucking interleague play."

"Damn straight. So what do you want?" I could tell he was grading essays with his other hand.

"I want them to stop looking to me for answers, begging me to speak again--"

"Stop the bullshit, I am paying attention," he said. "Do you want to bang Barb or what?"

"Sure, but tell me first if Bill has an 11-inch cock."

"Statistically?" he said, "Probably not."

"Okay, but this swapping trope can still go hard south. They could tie me up and make me watch their three-way. I could find out that my wife has been porking Bill for months and this is to cover it up."

"You worry too much. I could write you into an orgy and you would try to sell them insurance."

"Do I sell insurance?"

"Not yet, but at this rate I might make you that boring."

I snarled into the burner. "Fuck you. I'll show you boring."

I stomped out to the deck. "Bill, you can take my wife home with you and fuck her. Barb and me will bang here. Unless you all like to have sex in the same room so we can watch each other. In that case, we all have to fuck on the king size bed in our room."

To my amazement, I was not received with the excitement I expected. Instead, Barbara rose and delivered a hard slap to my left cheek. My surprise and pain was only partially alleviated by the magnificent sight of her tits bouncing like puppies in a burlap sack as she followed through. Bill muttered some obscenities, grabbed Barb's hand and marched out of our yard.

I turned to my wife, rubbing my cheek. "I thought--"

She slapped me on the other cheek. Damn she had a fine backhand.

"OW! What--"

"You asshole!" She shouted. "What were you thinking?"

"I thought you said they were swingers!"

She drew back to smack me again but I danced out of her wheelhouse.

"You idiot! They are slingers. SLINGERS! They shoot at targets with slings, you know, the Biblical weapon. It's the fastest growing sport in America, you dumb fuck. How can you watch so much ESPM and not know that?"

"It's ESPN, dear, and--"

She covered ground faster than I recalled she could and slapped me again. I think I was developing blisters.

I ran into the house, slid the door shut, and locked it. I grabbed for the burner.

"Thanks a lot, dumbass."

"Hey, spellcheck can't catch it when I accidentally type slinger instead of swinger. Both legitimate words."

"Do you ever proofread your shit before you hit the publish button?" I was pissed now. My cheeks burned and my wife was pounding on the slider. That damn door was going to split open one of these vignettes.

"Who had time for that? I have to pound out another one to stay on the New Loving Wives Stories feed."

"You do that," I yelled. "Just leave me and my wife--" I looked out to where my wife was hauling a big rock up onto the porch, presumably to smash the sliding glass door. "--exwife out of them. We have enough problems without your crazy ass plots."

"Yeah? What are you going to do about it?"

"I'll dox you in the comments."

That fucking froze him. The vision of the rabid misogynic horde coming to visit his house like the walking dead that they were waving burning printouts of every story he had ever posted that even smelled of RAAC filled him with terror.

"You wouldn't. I would have to erase everything and start over under a new user name. I have over a thousand fucking followers!"

"Take it or leave it," I said. I heard a hard thumping like stone on silica behind me. Luckily my wife is pretty but puny.

He considered for a minute.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Just for you."

"I love you too, man."

He laughed. "You do realize that the reason I am so good to you is because you are me, at least some of me."

"I know," I said. "So why are you such an dick?"

"I don't know. Maybe I need therapy--"

"STOP!" I screamed. "Don't! Every story with a fucking therapist in it turns into a clusterfuck, sure as shit."

"All right. All right. But... what do we do now? Everything I set you up in you piss and moan. I have to have something."

I thought about that. "Who was the asshole in the first part -- the one who was porking my wife in my own bed?"

**********

Bill Jenkins arrived home from work. He removed himself carefully from his car. His broken ribs and arm had healed up, but his fractured pelvis had been slow to heal and still gave him pains. The damn ladder had slipped. Good thing for him that bed of hostas had been recently planted and the soil still relatively soft.

His wife greeted him at the door with a passionate kiss that surprised him. She had been distant and cool to him in the past few weeks, but tonight she was sucking his tongue and caressing his hardening cock through his trousers.

She let her robe drop to show him her round glorious boobs and full black bush.

Bill gulped. He had not seen her naked for weeks. Yet something was amiss. He sniffed.

The smell of a man's cologne in her lush curly hair.

It was not his brand.

She led him by the hand into the living room. On the coffee table he saw two things. One was obviously a pregnancy test kit, recently used, but he could not make out what marks showed in the little window. Beside it was a metal object that was vaguely familiar to him. The metal was a small bent cylinder that looked like a tiny cage. Through a tiny hasp was an equally tiny padlock.

His beautiful naked wife held out a tiny key.

He heard a cough from upstairs. A masculine cough.

"Honey," his wife said, "we have to talk."