Kenneth was caught red-handed.

His naked wife was hotter when she sentenced him to death. One day, she would be a judge, and the prisoners would leer at her before electrocution or strangulation. It’s the black widow affect. The male, is smaller than the female, and he approaches her big body with lust, until he commits his final act, unconsciously, whereby, she eats him, and moves onto the next.

He doesn’t know why he does it.

Nature is a female, and she always wins. She doesn’t share her secrets, pretending to be innocent, in trouble, and in need of love.

He doesn’t know what happened to his father, and the secret, is kept a secret, forever, and the circle of life repeats itself, like a broken record.

Butter Bean grabbed Kenneth by the neck and choked him like a chicken.

“Get the chum ready!” Margorie screamed.

Big buckets of blood and fish heads dumped into the sound, and the yacht churned-up the water like spirits from the deep, bubbling out of the abyss. Fins cut the surface, like sailboats vacationing on the tides of Armageddon.

Teeth, that don’t know why they eat, are more frightening than false-teeth that need a motivation—ask any retirement home.

The fat man gets hungry because food is a substitute for sex. That’s why a well-fed man is the least-likely to commit rape. It’s always the skinny guy, who can run fast, and can’t get enough, that has women worried.

Butter Bean moved Kenneth to the back of the boat. “Doesn’t she look like a meat grinder?”

“Why are you doing this?” Kenneth asked.

“I’m on a murder pension plan. If I dispose of enough bodies for your wife, it’ll be sunshine and umbrella drinks for the next 30 years. Plus, I have some outstanding parking tickets she promised to clear for me.”

Kenneth held his breath. He didn’t know why. He was going to be eaten.

Butter Bean grabbed his shirt, preparing to throw him overboard, and then the sound of an arrow found its mark, piercing his ears. The bolt lodged in Butter Bean’s back, and Gregson came over the prow with his crossbow.

“I thought you were taking pictures of my wife?”

“I did. Isn’t that a nice polaroid? Her chest is in fine form, but I couldn’t get her backside.”

“How did you know to come back?”

“Instinct. If you’ve been in the business very long, you can sense a dangerous female, the way a dog sniffs a cat. He wants it—he just doesn’t know why.”

“What about my wife?”

“I brought handcuffs.”


“Not in a Mexican prison. The best place would be Guantanamo Bay, if we can arrange it with the US Military—keep her off the books, so to speak. She qualifies as a terrorist. You haven’t had a moments peace, since you got married. Am I right?”

“You aren’t wrong.”

“Who says men don’t talk too much,” Margorie criticized.

They were staring down the barrel of a gun. It was difficult not to stare.

“Don’t look at my chest!” Margorie shouted.

“Is that a grey hair?” Gregson asked.

“Where?” Margorie fumbled with her bangs.

Gregson grabbed her gun, and had handcuffs on her, faster than a pervert in drag.

“I have a friend who contracts for the CIA,” Gregson said. “Murphy’s the name. He might be able to get your wife committed to the island of Cuba. It’s a short boat-ride over there. We can drop her off, and still have time for some Mojitos and Cuban cigars.”

“I thought, I was done for,” Kenneth said.

“That’s why you need to use your big head to do your thinking for you.”

“I forgot.”

“It’s a common problem. When we are young, we don’t know any better, and when we are old, we can’t remember. It’s kinda like when a woman forgets the pain of pregnancy, and she’s happy to have another one.

“Kinda like Sunday morning hangovers?”

“Yeah. Nature is a bitch, isn’t she?”

The End

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