The Case of the Vindictive Cuckold

I felt a size fourteen shoe kicking me in the guts again and again until I tried to grab it. The size fourteen shoe stomped on my groin. I didn't have any fight left in me as Sam Spade the Spade rolled me over into the grave. I heard the cuckold grunt in pain when I landed on top of him.

I felt dirt falling on me as I laid there in the grave. Sam Spade the Spade was busy burying me alive, right along with the cuckold. Dirt fell off my shoulder as I tried to stand, but I didn't have it in me. I felt one shovel full of dirt after another landing on my back, shoulders and head. I struggled to stand again, but once again the pain from my guts and my groin combined with the shovel to the head was to much. I didn't have it in me. All I succeeded in doing is knocking the dirt off of my back, shoulders and head. At least the vengeful cuckold was now covered in dirt so I didn't have to feel quite so dirty.

As more dirt was shoveled in on top of me, I noticed that I could still feel the cuckold breathing under the layer of dirt between us. I rolled over so that I wouldn't have to feel so creepy. I found myself looking up at the stars through the mouth of the grave. I couldn't see the high class dame or Sam Spade the Spade, but I could see the spade shaped blade of the shovel as he kept shoveling dirt into my grave.

As the next shovels full of dirt landed on my chest and belly, I finally realized how I could get out of this grave alive. I remained quiet as Sam Spade the Spade kept shoveling more dirt into the grave to bury me. I didn't struggle. I just kept rolling over to knock the dirt off of me. It was dark in the grave and Sam and the high class dame were blinded by the headlights of her Cadillac.

My grave was maybe only three feet deep when I decided that it was time to fight. I withdrew the little, five shot, thirty eight from my pocket and sat up just as Sam Spade the Spade was turning towards my grave with another spade full of dirt. I'm almost ashamed to admit that I fired one handed from the hip without using the sights just like the heroes in those cheap detective movies do. I shot Sam in his groin, his guts, his heart then his head.

The high class dame screamed as Sam Spade the Spade went down. As she stood there wearing just her expensive silk stockings, I thought about how expertly and eagerly she had sucked my Johnson and dechromed my nuts. Even more arousing was how wonderful it had been to take three rides in her chute. I fired the fifth shot from the five shot thirty-eight into her cheating, conniving chute.

I sat down to smoke a few Camels and finish my pint of whiskey as I thought about what to do. My private dick's license was a license to carry a gun, but it wasn't a license to kill. The carcass of the angry cuckold was in the grave, the carcasses of his half dozen plaid clad goons were strewn around the grave, and the high class dame was laying on the ground, still groaning in agony. The coppers wouldn't believe that I was an innocent victim if the vicious nuns denounced me as the other man who had been fucking the cuckold's wife. They wouldn't believe that such a high class dame had actually been fucking Sam Spade the Spade.

It took me hours to dig up the carcass of the vindictive cuckold. It took me only a few seconds to roll the carcass of Sam Spade the Spade into the grave to land on top of the carcass of the vindictive cuckold. The high class dame was trouble. In spite of the broken arm and the thirty-eight round to her cheating, conniving chute, she was still alive. She actually fought me! It took me maybe half a minute to cast her into her grave. I drug the plaid clad goons over to the grave and rolled them in on top of the romantic triangle. It took me barely half an hour to bury the nine of them together.

It was dawn when I finally drove away from that grave. The three shovels were riding in the rumble seat of my thirty-eight Chevy coupe. There was no reason to leave behind evidence that might bring unwelcome attention to an unmarked grave. I had spent hours driving the high class dame's bullet riddled Caddy then her cuckolded husband's Caddy to a lonely cross roads where I left their keys in the ignition so that they might get stolen. I had walked back, twice.

A half dozen Thompson submachineguns were riding in the passenger seat beside me. Each of the Thompsons was worth the price of a good, used car. I had no intention of paying Uncle Sam the two hundred dollar transfer tax. The bank roll with most of the first thousand that the high class dame had given me was still in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. Another bankroll with the other thousand was in my hip pocket. The extravagant amount of cash that I had discovered in the high class dame's wallet was now in my wallet. The even more impressive bankroll that I had discovered in the cuckold's Caddy, no doubt intended to pay off the half dozen plaid clad goons that he had hired to kill me and his three timing wife, was in my glove compartment along with the thirty-eight caliber revolver that had saved my life.

As I drove back to the city with the rising sun at my back, I lit a cigarette then opened a fresh pint of whiskey. I smoked and I drank as I considered how things had worked out so well. Everyone involved in this case, from the plaid clad goons and the vengeful cuckold that had hired them, to Sam Spade the Spade and even the high class dame had turned out to be vermin. Now they were all resting comfortably in their common grave. The vicious nuns might have been a potential problem for me, but after the vicious beating that they had given me, they were in no position to go to the police.

A rumbling from my stomach reminded me that I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. I decided that I would stop at Rosie's Diner for breakfast. I had no doubt that another interest payment from the wad of cash in my pocket would persuade her to let me take another ride in her chute. After that, maybe I'd buy an air conditioner for my office.