Cheating Wife BluesbyEMiamiRiverRat©
In this story - an errant wife, her would-be paramour, and seven large friends of his are left with no choice but to face the error of their ways.
This is not your usual revenge on cheating wife story. No people or animals were permanently injured or harmed in this story; but all involved, including innocent bystanders are inconvenienced to one degree, cough, color; or another.
The key players are: "Bun", the husband who is tired of his wife playing around (fucking has not been documented); and "Hotdog", his most trusted friend and a 'master vidiot' (official name of a professional lighting and video production guru). Their nicknames go back many years. They were, and are, the best.
The story centers around a man who, short of beating the shit out of his wife, is about to use his unique strengths against his adversaries' weaknesses; and the losers get the 'blues'.
To have actually participated in the events about to unfold, you would need to know what the communicants are actually saying; but to read it you only need the sense of rapid flow and intricately-timed coordination between the two finely-tuned and practiced main characters; and the results.
Other props include: a couple of minor pyrotechnics with 'special effects', a few news crews; two Wi-Fi peer-to-peer linked laptops carried by Hotdog and Bun; a pair of digital video cameras mirroring into both laptops in real-time; and two small 5-mile-range radios with loop earpieces and finger-keyed throat mikes.
The opening scene is inside a bar. It's Saturday night; the bar is packed with people, the lights down low and the jukebox at high volume.
The already-tipsy wife is sitting on the lap of her current lothario at the front end of the bar near the entrance and encouraging him to paw her bared full breasts through the opened front of her tucked-back blouse, as a group of his friends look on and roar in laughter.
At the time, the husband was outside in the shadows, watching through the cracked-open rear exit door at the very dark and unoccupied far end of the bar from his wife.
His friend, Hotdog, was parked outside the front bar entrance, preparing to video the mass exodus soon to occur, and the smaller one sure to follow several long minutes later.
The husband slipped in the rear door to place a vidcam on the dark end of the bar; and focused it on where, about thirty feet down at the opposite end of the bar, his wife is busy corkscrewing herself down into the villains lap, her bare breasts wobbling in clear view when not being groped. The husband presses "Record" and backs up into the corner to wait for a several agonizingly long minutes. He notifies Hotdog.
"Hotdog, Stage #1 initiated."
"Roger on #1; ready on Stage #4."
When enough time has elapsed to document the indiscretion, the hero stepped out beside the deeply-shadowed end of the bar, slightly behind the vidcam.
"Hotdog. Stage #1 complete; initiating Stage #2; Go hot on #4."
"Roger on #1 and #2; and #4 now hot."
Bun pulled two differently colored hand grenades out of his jacket pockets; pulled the pins and, after putting the pins back in his pockets, held the the grenades over his head for all to see.
"THESE ARE HAND GRENADES!!!"
"YOU, AT THE END OF THE BAR. Yeah - You, the bitch, and your table full of friends sit very, very still. These have very short fuses and bad results. If you budge one inch, they will turn everything and everyone in this building into bloody little pieces. Nobody will make it out the door, if you don't listen carefully."
The rest of the crowd immediately bum-rushed the front door, in a chorus of screams and yells.
Once everybody but the little group at the far end of the bar was safely outside, the husband had but one thing to say and two to do.
"I do hope you all enjoy the rest of this play as much as I enjoyed the first act."
He pitched one grenade over the heads of the group at the wall behind them, and rolled the second down the aisle of barstools in their direction like a lopsided bowling ball. They slid off their stools and chairs and ducked. As soon as the grenades went off and the results could be seen, Bun grabbed the vidcam off the bar and spun out the back door. When it swung shut, he turned off the cam and jammed small metal wedges around the door to keep it from being opened again.
"Hotdog. Stage #2 complete; initiating Stage #3."
"Roger, #2 and #3; #4 is on the party."
"Roger party #4."
Stage #3 involved the husband using a prepared cover page containing a short description of the background leading up to the attack, supposedly by the locally infamous leader of a religious sect who objected to blatant drunkenness and public displays of nudity. The husband was developing new text regarding the inside video to be attached.
The husband would report "#3 complete" when he had assembled the lead-in page, additional text he'd created, and the captured bar camera videos into a single package. When it was complete and saved, Hotdog would be able to pull it up on his own laptop where he would merge in his own exterior video from Stage #4, and create the final packaged presentation.
"Bun. Lights, cameras, action." (The first news crew has just arrived; no cops or fire indicated yet)
The bartender was in a holding pattern on his 911 call from the street when the first grenade had rebounded off the wall inside, rolled back to the remaining group, and went off with a POP and a loud hiss that, within seconds, enveloped the intended targets in a dense cloud of choking military-grade tear gas.
The group of nine came to their feet coughing and trying to see through the tears suddenly pouring from their eyes as their exposed skin was subjected to burning sensations; all designed by Uncle Sam to keep an adversary from thinking about anything else at that moment.
An instant later, the other grenade went off beside them with another POP and hiss, spreading a thick cloud of blinding neon blue smoke that swelled to fill the room.
It was loaded with the same kind of micro-powder dye used in bank robbery fake bill packets, just twenty times as much. Once in contact with exposed skin, it's guaranteed not to go away until the body actually sheds all the dyed skin, several layers of it, one flake at a time.
The bar's surveillance cameras in the corners of the ceiling caught everything until the smoke got too thick; but were able to pick up again a few minutes later, albeit with hazy images as the blue smoke settled and the tear gas was sucked up by the bar's air filtration system. They had not captured any usable images of the man in the shadows at the back of the bar, just an outline.
The wife and the group of coughing misfits were unable to respond except to gasp, wretch, and weep until the tear gas dissipated and the blue smoke had dyed every porous thing in the room a vibrant indelible neon blue – skin, clothes, chair fabric, untreated flooring, paneling, ceiling tiles, ...everything. The glasses and liquor bottles could be wiped off, but the labels would forever be unreadable.
When they were able to regain their bearings, the front door opened again and Hotdog resumed recording from his vantage point as the wife and villains finally stumbled out the door, only to be caught in a sudden crossfire of klieg lights and camera flashes by a half dozen news crews who'd heard the police band broadcast on their radio scanners about a grenade attack. This was big news. Now they knew it was very funny big news.
Hotdog smiled as he filmed the latest survivors of the attack being spotlighted, photographed and filmed live from all directions by news crews – a bunch of blue-hued, confused, and half-blind Smurfs bumping into each other, like a bunch of Keystone Kops doing a 'Chinese fire drill'.
Note: A 'fire drill' is when six or more people occupying a 4-door car jump out, run around the car in a convoluted manner, and dive back in different doors before driving away as if nothing had happened. It serves no purpose other than as entertainment for bored teenagers and a few observant adults who still retain a sense of humor on a hot summer night.
The blue-stained crew was looking for any way out of the lights and past the thick, tight ring formed by the rapidly gathering and mirthful crowd; while an incessant cascade of questions was being fired at them out of the darkness from every direction. Microphones were extended over their heads and shoved in their faces from all quarters as they bumbled their way from point to point only to be rebuffed. Spotlights and camera flashes were coming from all angles.
HotDog, Bun. State #3 complete to you."
Hotdog captured all the best of the show outside, and knew when to quit. He had more than enough vid time for their purpose.
"Bun, Hotdog. Roger #3 complete; #4 complete; Mike Ten (10 minutes) of eight Smurfs, one blue-tit midget, shitty pants, wet waist down, looking to hide; initiating Stage #5."
"Hotdog, Bun; roger #4 and #5."
"Roger, Bun. Run like OJ in his heyday. It's getting tight in the field." (The first police cruiser and fire trucks were just pulling up to the scene)
"Roger, Hotdog. Bun to river woods." (Bun is leaving the scene for the final rendezvous point, via the back roads. His part of the mission is finished. He would monitor Hotdog for comm until he was out of range.)
The husband quickly disappeared over the back fence and left in his rented car in the opposite direction to the rendezvous, just as the rest of the police and the fire trucks arrived out front.
Hotdog was in his van recording voice tracks from Bun's text narrative and putting together the final video presentations. Nobody would know who did the voice-overs, just that it wasn't the husband.
When the bar owner arrived a few minutes later and checked inside, he found the total damage consisted of a few melted vinyl tiles from where the grenades came to rest; and, although the place had a new bright blue motif, it looked a lot nicer than his old dingy cave used to.
Hotdog had pointed a sensitive shotgun mike out a partially-opened window, in order to monitor discussions among the police, firemen, witnesses, and the bar owner. He would include any useful information in a conclusion piece to the voice-overs.
The bar owner smiled and told the police he had no complaint, having just saved a ton of time and money on paint. There were spare vinyl tiles in the backroom.
An hour later, the witnesses had left and all that remained to be done was to air-out and wipe down everything in the bar; and for the cops to decide on the charges to be pressed against the nine blue villains, eight of whom had illegal knives.
The only hard evidence at the scene were two non-shrapnel grenades so overheated by their activation that fingerprints and DNA were impossible, the over-legal-length knives that were found in the possession of eight of the remaining Smurfs, and the bar's own video showing the little Smurf showing her bare boobs, and possibly precipitating the whole sequence of events.
Hotdog finished up the final presentation and sent it to its intended destinations. The first site was a known honorable website that would lock in his copyright. Then it was sent everywhere else; including all regional TV, radio and newspaper news rooms. He also posted it to YouTube and the wife's Facebook page; and uploaded it to a number of other websites that would be more than happy to have a piece of that action.
"Bun, Hotdog. #5 completed; Hotdog to 'river woods'." He didn't wait for a response.
If he was a Vegas oddsmaker, he would put his money on the package being world-wide viral before noon tomorrow.
The cops were happy to get eight good criminal weapons busts out of the situation; along with a bottom-rung 'indecent exposure' charge against the little Smurf with the Day-Glo tits.
The DA figured the tear gas thing was an enforceable violation, but the odds were minimal for success on pursuit of two possible charges on the disgruntled grenadier, given the flakey evidence trail left behind; and the 'blues' was more a case for civil court.
The weapons in the evidence room were the meat of the matter he would sink his teeth into, at the rate of one year and a day upstate on each of the eight counts. Those would look good at re-election time.
Baby Smurf was released on her own recognizance with a ticket to appear. The villains were detained for arraignment on the weapons busts.
Imagine the chatter over the radios and in the squad room that night when the Blues Magoo's gang got stuffed into the 'drunk tank' with a bunch of over-the-limit winos who were suddenly hallucinating about wheezing Blue Meanies with red eyes, tears streaming down their cheeks, and rubbing their faces, arms and necks like they were infested with something nobody else wanted to catch.
They looked like a wannabe Blue Man Group, under bright white jail lights, and not one shred of talent between them, unless you count crying and rubbing for an audience of stunned winos and happy cops. Police officers really do have a sense of humor, but didn't often get opportunities such as this.
As expected, there was a whole lot of police overtime that night in the station house, writing reports and what not. The entertainment potential is hard to deny. I know somebody has a copy of that jail cell video. I'm keeping an eye on YouTube for anything "blue" or "jail", just in case.
They did figure out from witness statements that one of the blue-tinted villains had been messing around with a married woman – who happened to be the baby Smurf whose tits were now a remarkable shade of iridescent blue.
The unknown grenadier, presumably the husband, was gone without a trace, out the sealed back door; and nobody had a name or description of him; or plates or descriptions of any vehicles leaving the area at the time, other than one white Taurus without tags. Undoubtedly, he would have an air-tight alibi for this one.
The rest of this story needs not be written; including resolution of the questions of where the blue lady went, for how long; and what did the hero do to reach finality about his feelings for the errant wife whose reputation, along with most of the rest of her, was "stained" on international news, YouTube and Facebook?
She'd gotten away with her little indiscretions in the past by lying through her teeth to a husband who knew she was lying all along and did everything but beat her to get her to stop. One might wonder what kind of spin she tried to put on her faux pas this time. What was his response? Did he cheat back and throw it in her face? Did they divorce, reconcile, enter a Dom/Sub relationship, shoot it out? All these questions and many more require no answers.
Each man has his own limit to the love he has for his woman. When a man reaches his limit, he quits talking, quits listening; and puts his foot down...on somebody's throat. Or then again, he might just 'get the blues'. You just never know what he might do...or where it might end up in the long run.
No one has the right to judge another for their actions in this matter, short of trying them for assault or murder.
In this fine state of Mississippi, it would be an impeachable offense for a judge to try a man just for getting a clear case of the cheating wife blues.
H.D. – What say you, my fine feathered cuckold friend?