Thunder

And the hits just keep on coming!

Who am I?

I'm the schmuck. I am the last one to know. I am the aggrieved. I am the wronged.

People talk about forgiveness. How forgiving washes your soul of the bile of hate. How forgiveness allows one closure. With forgiveness, they say, you can rebuild. I, however, ain't in a forgiving mood. I've been discovering a lot of things about myself of late. I, for example, am not a mushroom; see it turns out, I don't like being fed shit or kept in the dark.

Or that new age corporate crap, "La la la, we must all go along to get along" - balderdash. Nope, I am not just going along. No more. Nada, zip, no no, cha cha cha. Nor am I going to "get along". I am certain I can't get past this.

In the past, I let stuff roll off me, like water off a duck's back. After this fun little ride, I will get my pound of flesh. Then I might forgive. I wouldn't advise you to go to Vegas and bet the rent money on it.

As to moving on. That's easy to say, mind you. Not so easy extracting yourself from your whole life. How can you minimize your own suffering? From where I sit, that seems to be quite the trick.

I'm 5' 8". I carry more than a few extra pounds. I've never been thin. I was never an athlete. I'm equipped with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. I would have made a mean center linebacker with my build. But, as I said, I never was, nor wanted to be, an athlete. I've always been a bit pudgy on the outside.

Women have never drooled over me. At best, a gal might say I'm "cute". I'm not cute, by the way. However, on the inside, there is nothing pudgy about me. I have deep wells of determination, endurance and strength that carry me on long after most would abandon their efforts. It is my superpower. I don't give up and I don't quit.

Now a little about what motivates me. Justice. As far as I can see, I am owed for all that I lost. I had it. Poof. Now it's gone and he has it. I'd call that theft. Then there is the little fact that I really don't like to lose. Please allow me to rephrase that. If I give even the very smallest of a shit about something, then I hate to lose. I mean, I really hate to lose.

Over the years I have found that there are not a whole lot of lines I will not cross, not to lose something I do give a shit about. Like I said, I really don't like to lose. So, I want some good old-fashioned justice. I'd like to go all Old Testament on the shithead's ass. I don't think that's too much to ask.

As a reasoned, rational response to such a massive betrayal at my dear wife's hand, I have no problem seeing bridges burnt. Now, I do have some hard stops. Like, I really don't want to go to jail. But, in this case, if need be, sure I would do some time. Not a lot. Maybe a year or two.

I didn't start this, but I sure as hell was going to end it. Which, brings me back to the subject of Shithead. Thinking about it, he, actually, wasn't worthy of my time or attention.

Nonetheless, here I am, spending my time and my money because he definitely has my attention. At this point, he pretty much is my to-do list. As maybe one can tell, on this one, I do give a shit. He wasn't my friend, partner or lover. He never lied to me. He didn't break any promises to me. But her? Ho ho ho...bitch.

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"Tick tock, tick tock," I said in a pretty loud voice at the locked door.

Then I lit the gas-soaked rag I had stuffed under the door.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," I yelled at the door. The smoke was billowing. I had to step back from the locked door; it was doing a great job of catching on fire. At least, it was on my side of the door.

I could hear screaming from the other side of the locked door. I heard glass shatter. Maybe they can tie the bedsheets together, like a jail break, and get to the ground, but three stories is a pretty long ways down for one bed of sheets. Yea, like she would ever do that! I chuckled to myself.

I used the fire extinguisher to put the fire out on my side of the door. Who knows what is going on, on the other side of the door.

I screamed out, "I'm coming for you! You cheating bitch!" I think they heard me because I could hear her wailing.

I kicked the smoldering door open, and the flame inside the room tried to jump past me. I used the second extinguisher to knock it back, then the third, in the room, to knock it out.

I looked around the room. Damage wasn't too bad. I'd say it was "singed".

The bed was a mess, stripped of its sheets. Their clothes scattered about the room. Now isn't that sweet, they were having champagne. I grabbed the bottle and guzzled me some champagne; woo baby, we're living large!

They had, in fact, tied the bedsheet to the leg of the bed. I could see it trailing out the broken window. I walked over to the window and carefully looked out. Damn, and she was terrified of heights. Hell, get her on a high bridge and she would piss herself. Yea, it was a phobia kinda thing. Oh well.

Yet, there they were, two nudes out on a ledge. She was doing a starfish imitation trying to cling to the wall. The bedsheets fluttered in the wind, just out of their reach. She was screaming bloody murder. He didn't look too good either. They were standing on the 6"—well, maybe 5"—decorative ledge two stories up over the driveway. No access.

That was about the time the news helicopter showed up. It pays to plan. I had called Channel 12. (It's the Fox Affiliate in town. They had an old-fashioned local TV News outlook: "If it bleeds, it leads." I came close—fire in a flammable historic mansion turned Bed and Breakfast that was always booked months in advance.)

Strangely, the TV in the room was turned on to channel 12, so standing in the smoldering smoke-filled room, I could watch my frantic wife trying to hide her nudity from the chopper's spotlight, while staying on the 4-1/2" ledge, being whipped by the rotor wash of the helicopter. It made for pretty entertaining TV. Well, at least for me.

The Fire Department is arriving; time I be getting along.

While the fire department was focused on my wife and her lover, I grabbed her lover's pants. I pulled out his car's key fob and wallet, I stuffed them in my pants then I slipped out the door and headed down the back stairs.

It was kind of weird to be gently descending in the ancient stairwell, listening to only the noise of my feet hitting every other tread, as insanity raged just mere meters from where I was. I reached the bottom of the stairs then headed out the kitchen door.

Once outside, I called her parents. "I found her! She's at the old Miller Bed and Breakfast! I think she is trying to jump! Turn on Channel 12!" I hung up before her father could say anything.

I watched as a hook and ladder truck arrive and was moving into position. I saw three more helicopters circling trying to get great TV. I took her lover's car key fob and started pushing its button. It was a high-dollar Mercedes that clicked and beeped.

I climbed in and drove away. Man, this is a nice ride.

I drove home and parked that sweet ride inside my garage. I started going through the glove box. Nothing too interesting. Now, in the trunk was his work computer, with his notebook containing his passwords. The idiot was clearly old school. I took the laptop into my office and started looking to see what I could find.

I struck gold in his emails. It sure was looking like he was not on the up-and-up. But, who am I to say? I'm not an accountant...but it sure looked like he was running two sets of books for his company. As I said, I couldn't really make heads or tails, so I forward all the files to the IRS and the Board of Directors of his company.

Then there were the sexy shots of my wife, and then selfies that he took while fucking her. I texted those files to my wife's PTA, our Church's Bishop and her high-and-mighty friends at the country club. Then I sent them to her sister, mom and dad and her old grandmother. She was pushing 95, and her grandfather, who passed a couple of years ago was an old-time hellfire and brimstone preacher. I wondered how she would take her granddaughter's porno.

I know, some folks would ask why I would out myself as a cuckold. Well, I wasn't crazy. The TV outed my status, so...

WOW, he has all his credit cards locked n' loaded in his laptop. Hummmm. I always wanted to get a really nifty porno account or thirty. Let's see...

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It had been a big day. I was tired. I think the adrenaline rush wore off an hour or two ago. I locked up the house and headed to bed. I had changed the locks earlier. So, I felt I could sleep safely without her barging in. I figure she would be royally pissed. Knowing her, she was going to want to kill me. I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face.

I was right; I was awakened by pounding on my front door at about 2 a.m. It woke me up in a bad mood. I like to get my 8. I am just an asshole if I don't get my 8. I put in my ear buds and dialed up some soothing smooth jazz. I couldn't hear the doorbell or the pounding on the door. Cool.

I tried to go back to sleep.

The next thing I know a bunch of pissed-off cops are rousting my ass out of bed.

Yes, they arrested me.

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I have a really great lawyer; he has been my lawyer for years and years. We met back in college. He was a wild man. We partied, a lot, back then. We raised our families together. I knew he would take care of things for me.

They finally took me out of gen-pop and up to the interrogation room. My lawyer, Derk, was waiting inside for me.

"God Damn it Bob, you just gotta learn to let go."

"Bullshit, Derk. She is cheating on me. I'm her husband for fuck's sakes. She is my wife!" I said.

"WAS, Bob. Was your wife. Not your wife now, and not your wife for more than 5 years!"

I was about to respond but Derk just raised his hand.

"Bob, she was your wife, you got a divorce. Damn, you gotta let it go, man. Your obsession is just sick. Look, they are going to throw the book at you on this one. Shit, man, it was her fucking wedding night, for God's sakes!" he said, getting up from his chair.

"You are on your own, I'm done, I'm out, don't call me!"

As Derk walked out the door, he looked back at me and said, "You need help. Seriously, Bob. You really need to get some professional help."

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All of that happened almost 5 years ago. After 5 years in lockup, occasionally in solitary, with the attending bumps and bruises, I can say with authority, I don't like being locked up. It sucks.

It's been tough. As I lie in my bunk, I am having trouble sleeping. Tomorrow is my first shot at parole, so that has me a bit keyed up. The food sucks. I'm not even kidding about that.

You do meet some folks, but, it ain't high school. I do get somewhat better medical attention than I did outside. Outside I didn't have a shrink, for example.

My prison shrink runs several support groups; he has one group he calls his FUM (fucked-up men) group. It's not the group's official name. But, when I thought about the group, they all were pretty fucked up men; hence the name, I guess.

There is Bone. He was a big-ass dude. He is a fatherfucker. You really didn't wanna fuck with him, trust me. And there is Slug; he is a pain-focused bottom. (He is actually in prison because he wants to be. That, of course, qualifies him as a fucked-up man, I'd say). I get along best with Max. He doesn't do divorce, he says. It's against God's law, or something. He's an "until death" kinda guy. He has had 4 wives.

So, I have a support group. I'm working on myself. I am goal setting. It is important to keep your eye on the ball. The Docs are giving me good marks, I've been staying out of trouble, and tomorrow I will say anything they want me to.

Now and then, if you play the long game, things work out.

And I have my parole hearing in the morning.

Now, please be well,

B Wrongerer

Thanks to TRCIII for editing!