Pen 1, Sword 1

The curtain calls I occasionally use in my stories are my way of showing appreciation to others for various courtesies, which sometimes include an astute critique that I use for improvement.

William Shakespeare once wrote, "The pen is mightier than the sword."

As someone who once faced a sword-bearing warrior while a member of the Special Forces, I can tell you I greatly disagreed with Mr. Shakespeare at that moment. Fortunately for me at the time, I also held a sword in my hand, or else I wouldn't be here today writing this.

So I was one up on The Bard when life jumped in and handed Mr. Shakespeare a cheap win.

The fountain pen was invented in 1827, in France. The first ballpoint pen patent came 61 years later, in 1888.

Throughout the latter half of the 20th century and into the 21st century, pens have been used to great success as simple marketing tools. Even in this day and age where cellphones rule, many companies still put their names on pens to get their message out.

And those pens travel. A salesman hands a customer a pen. He later gives it to one of his kids. That kid takes it to school and loses it, where it's found by a teacher who puts in his pocket. Three weeks later that same pen is three states away, tucked behind the ear of a delivery man.

As I relate this, I have four pens with company names on them in my pen cup. You get the idea.

So it wasn't exactly a surprise that when I asked my wife for a pen at a dinner the other night, after discovering mine was out of ink, that she handed me a pen with a company name on it. As one of my responsibilities at the bank I work at is marketing, I always look at the names on pens, letterheads, etc., so I noticed the pen was from The Waltham, a hotel on the other side of town from where we lived in a large Midwestern city. I quickly made a note on the back of one of my business cards, put the note in my pocket and handed the pen back to my wife. Unlike a lot of people, I always return pens when they are loaned to me. Just one of my quirks.

We were sitting with two other couples at one of the nicer restaurants in town when I just had to write down a "note to self." Yeah, I know most people leave themselves an email on their phone, but another one of my quirks is that I prefer the old-fashioned method of writing a note. It seems to stick better with me.

Drink was flowing, the food was great, the conversation was light and jovial, but then I got a brain itch. While I'm fully aware that pens travel, it just struck me as funny that my wife would have a pen from The Waltham. The Waltham was a mid-level hotel clear across town, and I couldn't for the life of me imagine Traci running into anyone who stayed at The Waltham recently.

I make very good money and Traci only worked part time in a corporate law office. I know she was active with several groups in town, so it was improbable, but not impossible, that she could have gotten it at work or from one of the people in the historical society or the English Literature Society. I always thought those people were a little stuffy, though, and would probably consider The Waltham well below their standards.

The next morning when I was getting ready for work, as I stuck the card with my note to self on it in my shirt pocket, I remembered the pen. Just out of curiosity, I grabbed Traci's phone off her bureau and went to look at her calendar. It's highly unusual for me to touch her phone at all, but I figured a peek at her calendar wouldn't hurt anything and would clear up this pen thing in my mind. She was still asleep and would be for another hour, so there was no sense waking her to ask what I thought was a simple question.

To my complete surprise, Traci's phone was locked. I didn't believe it at first, so I actually tried it three times before it hit me. While I don't touch her phone very often, I have used it on occasion, and it's never been locked before. This was a new wrinkle.

Now that the challenge was thrown down, I accepted it. I thought for a few seconds of all the passwords she would probably use, and punched several in unsuccessfully. Then I punched in several more unsuccessfully. It wasn't until I entered in our younger daughter's Social Security number that I was able to unlock the phone, and by that point I was mad and losing my cool. So instead of going to her calendar, I went to her messages and started to scroll down. At this point, it was "fuck her privacy." I was going to open anything that didn't look familiar to me. The sixth contact down wasn't listed by name, just by initials: RJ. Bingo!

There were about a dozen exchanges discussing what only an idiot wouldn't assume was an affair. The last discussed a meeting this Thursday afternoon, again at The Waltham. Ah shit! Fucking Shakespeare just tied the game at one.

With trembling hands, I put Traci's phone back where I found it, and headed off to my job in a daze. Hard to believe that 27 years of marriage could be gone just like that.

At 50, the same age as me, Traci is still a beautiful woman. She has long blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, and at 5-7, 130 is only about 10 pounds heavier than when I first married her at 23. Her 38DDs are still a thing of beauty, even after breastfeeding all three of our children.

And thinking of the children, how was I going to tell them if my suspicions were confirmed? The girls at least are both out of the house at 25 and 23, and the youngest child, our son, 21, still lives with us when he's not at Michigan State. Traci's been a great mother, I have to admit, and this will probably be an ever bigger shock to them than it is to me.

I worked like a zombie the whole day. At 4:30, I went in to the bank president's office and asked for Thursday off for a personal day. I'd worked with and for H. Dave Knight for 17 years, since I got out of the service, and he could tell by my face that something big was wrong. He walked around from his desk and closed the door before returning to his seat behind his desk.

"What's wrong, Allie?" he asked, calling me by the nickname that my close friends and relatives used for me.

I debated for a second how much I was going to tell him, before I got choked up and started to cry in his office. Nobody -- and I mean nobody -- had seen me cry since I was about 6 years old and I broke my arm falling out of a tree. I tore up a knee playing football in high school, I took a couple of bullets and a knife on assignments in the Special Forces. Never cried. And there I sat blubbering like an idiot.

I told him what I found and all of my suspicions. As I talked, I started getting angry, and animated. H-Dave, as I called him in good humor, knew of my background, and started getting a worried look on his face.

"Allie, you need to calm down and think this through," he said. "Don't go doing something stupid and maybe wind up in jail. If this turns out to be what you think it is, don't ruin your life over this. You've faced much tougher situations before in your life than this."

"That's true, H-Dave, but I always had a clear objective. She's ripping my heart out. And it wouldn't be that difficult to make both of them disappear."

"Jesus, Allie! You can't be talking like that to anyone else! If either one of them gets a hangnail, guess who winds up in prison?"

"I know you're right, H-Dave, but I still need to take Thursday off to confirm my suspicions."

"First promise me on the lives of your three children that you won't do anything to harm either one of them."

H-Dave knew me well. He knew I would never make a promise on the lives of my children that I didn't intend to keep. I agreed.

My mind was going in a hundred different directions while I was driving home. I knew I needed to look at Traci's phone again to see if I could get a timeline on how long the affair was going on. I racked my brain for anything she might have said or done that might have given me a hint about what she was doing. After slowing everything down in my mind and carefully looking at the last few months, I had to tip my hat to Traci: she was one stone cold bitch. She never even gave me a clue. So now I had to be careful to return the favor and not tip her off to my suspicions.

Traci was her usual self that night, and the next night, Wednesday, was more than up for our usual Wednesday night romp in the sack. I carefully but discreetly cupped her pussy to see if she was trying to slip me seconds, but while she was wet as usual, it wasn't excessive and there were no other secretions that I could see.

Traci and I usually had sex three times a week. Depending upon our mood, sometimes we made love, sometimes we fucked. I made sure to always bring her to multiple orgasms with my hands and tongue as well, so I have to admit to being at a complete loss as to what I was doing wrong, and I have to admit, it just didn't make sense to me that she would just turn slut on me after so long.

It was difficult, to say the least, to feign interest when Traci started getting amorous Wednesday night. For the first time ever, I faked it with Traci at the beginning, but then anger took over and became my ally. I really laid it to her, probably as rough as I ever had, and yet she seemed to really like it and came multiple times before I finally shot my load inside of her.

Traci worked a half-day on Thursday, then went to the gym -- at least that's what she always told me. I got up my usual work time but didn't get into my usual business attire. Since she was still asleep, she wouldn't have any idea of what I was wearing and why. Before I left the house, though, I made sure to take her phone off the bureau again, and this time I knew exactly what to look for. The messages with RJ started about nine months ago, I ascertained. I put her phone back exactly where she kept it, grabbed my gym bag, then left the house.

Even though I knew she wouldn't be looking for me and my car, I still took no chances. After eating a good breakfast at the neighborhood IHOP, I went over to a Budget rental place and rented something nondescript. I then picked up a newspaper and read it before heading to the gym for a good, but certainly not strenuous, workout. I then changed back into my jeans and sweatshirt and headed over to The Waltham, parking where I could see the entrance and yet still be inconspicuous.

The message on Traci's phone had the "meeting" with RJ at 1. At 12:50, Traci's car pulled into the parking lot. She was wearing her work clothes, which today was a tasteful burgundy suit with a skirt that went to just above her knees. With her white blouse showing from inside of her jacket, she looked every bit professional, tasteful, and classy. She got out of her car, took a look around the lot and went inside.

Five minutes later, RJ arrived. Turned out to be Robert John Hall, the attorney son-in-law of Mark Templeton, the first name in the firm of Templeton, Oates and Scripner, attorneys-at-law. Shit, not only is Traci cheating on me, but she's fucking the boss's son-in-law!

RJ, as everyone called him, was a New York University-trained attorney who joined his father-in-law's firm about four years ago. He's 32, handsome and well-built, with short light-brown hair and brown eyes. He and his wife, the boss's daughter, Jasmine, have three little ones.

I've met Jasmine a few times through the years, and while my wife is a beautiful woman, Jasmine is probably her equal in looks, although her tits are noticeably smaller. But still, I'm not sure why RJ would even consider stepping out on something that looks as good as Jasmine, who's about 5-2, 110 pounds, with long dark hair and twinkling blue eyes. Unless the woman is a total bitch to live with, she's a total babe from where I'm standing.

I couldn't image Jasmine sitting still for this liaison, when I decide to tell her. Better yet, I can't imagine Daddy sitting still for it. They'll both be looking for new jobs when this gets out.

But first things first. I waited about 30 minutes before heading into the hotel. I asked the desk clerk in which room Robert Hall was registered. He couldn't find the name in the registry, so I asked if he had a room registered to Traci Sanford. As a matter of fact, he did. I asked him for a key to the room since I was her husband.

"I-I-I don't think I can do that, sir, without calling Mrs. Sanford first and confirming," he said as sweat suddenly formed on his upper lip.

I pulled out my wallet and showed him my driver's license: Allister Sanford.

"But unless you have your wedding license with you, I have to confirm with Mrs. Sanford," he insisted.

Next I pulled out my Sig Sauer 320 from my waistband holster.

"Richard," I said slowly as I read his nametag. "You've got five seconds to hand me the room key before I take my gun butt and pop you upside your left temple."

He slowly reached for and handed me the electronic key.

"Now wait two minutes before you call the cops," I said. "If the cops get here any sooner than five minutes, I will come back here and shoot your ass when I get out of jail."

When I got up to the room, I could hear the pair going hard at it. I listened to the unintelligible grunting and moaning for about 30 seconds before slipping the key card in and quietly opening the door.

RJ was on his knees facing away from the door, doing Traci doggy. He was pulling back almost all the way out and slamming back into her, making her moan each time he drove forward. She was also facing away from the door, and I was able to pull out my iPhone and snap several photos for evidence. When I put the phone away, I again pulled out my Sig.

"Pardon me, but I seem to have misplaced my wife," I said in a voice a little louder than the grunting going on. "Oh, look, there she is, at the end of your dick."

The pair almost dislocated their necks as they twisted their heads at the sound of my voice. RJ came to an immediate stop, and Traci quickly crawled forward off of his dick.

I stood there pointing the 9 mil at RJ. I'm sure I was smirking. Both of them looked at me with deer in the headlights looks on their faces.

"It's not what it looks like, Allie," RJ said while Traci curled up into a small ball.

"Really, RJ?" I queried. "I expected so much more from an attorney. Aren't you guys supposed to be good under pressure?

"This is exactly what it looks like. You're fucking my wife -- at least were fucking her until I interrupted. The way you've been doing for the last several months."

I looked down at RJ's dangling cock, which appeared to be shrinking at a rapid rate.

"Jesus, Traci, if you were going to cheat on me, couldn't you at least have done it with a guy with a big dick, instead of a guy who is a big dick?"

Traci just sat there curled up, making small choking noises. I don't know if she told RJ about my 10 years in the military, but she knew what I did, and what I was probably capable of doing to both of them.

"Stand up," I said to RJ as I walked over toward the bed.

He slid off of the bed and stood facing me, with his hands in a surrender position in front of his chest. I transferred the gun to my left hand, and in the blink of an eye lashed out with a straight right that caught him square in the nose. His face exploded in blood with an awful crack and he fell back on the bed, out cold.

I heard the sirens pulling up in front of the hotel. I looked at Traci, who looked like a frightened little girl.

"You need to be gone from the house when I get out of jail tomorrow. I will get my stuff out and you can come back and live there until we sell the house in the divorce. I've already split our financials down the middle and taken my name off everything we owned jointly, including the credit cards. You car is bought and paid for, and so is my truck. We each keep those.

"You will be served as soon as possible.

"Got to run. See you."

I walked out of the room, went down to the lobby and turned myself in to the four cops who watched me with guns drawn. I made sure not to give the nervous young guys any reason to shoot me accidentally.

I called H-Dave and asked him to bail me out in the morning. They booked me on battery charges for laying out RJ. H-Dave said he could hurry up and get me bailed out yet today, but I told him that I probably needed to spend a night in jail so Traci could be clear of the house when I got home.

"Well, I suppose it could be worse," H-Dave said to me. "I can probably smooth this over with the board much easier than if you had shot the bastard."

After I got out of jail, I rented one of those storage spaces and got most everything I wanted out of my house. I found a cheap motel and settled in, figuring I could get a more permanent place once I found out if I was going to have to serve any time in jail on the battery charge. I guessed I would need an attorney for that in addition to one to handle the divorce, when out of the blue I got a fortuitous phone call: seems that H-Dave was a friend of Mark Templeton; yep, the very same Mark Templeton whose daughter was being cheated on by RJ Hall.

According to my new attorney, RJ called in sick on Friday and did not tell anyone about his run-in with me. Templeton only found out when H-Dave took the initiative to call and explain my side of the equation to his attorney friend. Templeton said he'd be glad to handle both cases, although he hadn't done a divorce in several years, and told H-Dave that both RJ and my wife wouldn't have jobs come Monday morning.

I didn't hear a word from Traci until Sunday morning, when she invited me over to my own house to talk about "our problem."

"I didn't realize 'we' had a problem," I responded. "I didn't break my marriage vows. Only you have a problem."

I hung up.

Two minutes later, a tearful Traci was back on the line.

"OK, I have a problem," she sobbed. "But can't we talk about this like reasonable people? I screwed up. But I still love you and I don't want to get a divorce."

"Maybe you should have thought about that months ago," I replied. "Maybe we could have fixed things before you decided to make RJ a regular thing. What did I do to deserve that?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone for an eternity ... actually about 10 seconds.

"You didn't do a thing, Allie. It's all on me. I was taken by the attention a handsome, young man gave me. At first it was just innocent flirting, then some touching, and a few lunches. I knew it was wrong. And then we started having sex, and while I felt guilty at first, I rationalized that away by thinking that if I gave you all the sex you wanted, I wasn't taking anything away from you, especially if you never found out. I never denied you sex any time you wanted it, and I never gave you sloppy seconds. I made sure I was always clean for you.

"It truly was just sex. There was no emotional attachment. We were just two friends who enjoyed each other's bodies. I suppose it was somewhat exciting because it was illicit, and it was exciting because it was the first time in almost 30 years that I had another man take me. But we never shared the intimacy that you and I share ...

"Shared," I corrected curtly. "You forfeited that intimacy when I found out you were cheating. You gave up us when you added him."

"Don't be like this, Allie. We can work on this. We can be us again. I'll go to counseling. We can both go to counseling."

"What the hell do I need counseling for?" I snapped. "I didn't cheat. You mean I need counseling so I can learn to live with what you have done?"

She flinched at my statement. I got up and left.

On Monday, Templeton fired both Traci and his son-in-law. I heard from H-Dave later that Jasmine also threw RJ out of their house.

Although H-Dave was in my ear constantly about not being stupid and trying to get revenge, I was still considering those options when the police showed up at the bank about a month later. Seems that someone with martial arts skills had kicked the shit out of Traci after she left a movie theater by herself one evening. Whoever it was must have been pretty good and/or pretty angry, too, because they knocked out most of her front teeth and gave her a concussion. So naturally they came to me first.