REVENGE
When I met Beth at the casino for our regular tete a tete, I could feel the anger radiating off her, like pungent body odour from the armpits of a particularly unhygienic hobo.
“Carl’s been cheating on me, with multiple women too!” she seethed. She left a momentary pause to allow me to gasp dramatically, before finishing off with “And I want revenge!”
My meditation lessons have obviously paid off, because I replied “Well, you know what they say about the best revenge being a life well lived.”
“I’m not interested in the wisdom of the ancients,” she responded dismissively. “I just want to see a grown man cry.”
Well, Beth is my best friend, so we got a drink, sat at the Blackjack table and discussed the genesis of Operation Ballcrusher. This was Beth’s fifth choice of name, but the first that didn’t involve curse words, so I acquiesced to that charming little title.
We started brainstorming ideas for revenge. I had to gently but firmly guide Beth away from options involving outright criminality. Hit-men and assassins are all very well, but, as a natural redhead, I know that I wouldn’t look good in those orange jumpsuits prisoners seem to wear on TV dramas. Therefore, anything where a lengthy prison sentence was a possibility was immediately disqualified on the grounds of sartorial necessity.
We discussed the usual wronged spouse tropes – cutting up his suits (Carl only owned one, equally at home for weddings and funerals), painting something obscene on his car (Beth had co-signed the lease agreement), and throwing all his possessions out onto the street (Beth had bought Carl most of them as presents, so this seemed a little too much like self-harm. One takes pride in one’s taste in shopping, after all).
Eventually, just as mister Johnnie Walker had taken us past the ‘loosening up’ phase and into the ‘loud and raucous’ phase, a suitably depraved idea popped into my gently pickled mind.
“Why not get a tattoo?” I asked.
“How will that help? I don’t like marking my body,” slurred Beth in reply.
“Oh,” I grinned, “You won’t be the one getting the tattoo!”
Alas, poor Carl. We took him out two days later and got him blind drunk, then dragged him along, barely conscious, to a friendly tattoo artist that I’d once had a fling with. We had the word “Adulterer” tattooed on his lower stomach, so that anyone thinking of going further south would know exactly what kind of man they were dealing with.
Upon having his ‘sobering up’ shower the next morning, Carl discovered Beth’s handiwork. They separated shortly afterwards and I’m glad for my bestie Beth, because she deserves someone better. Someone who can romance a woman, who can take her to heaven and back between the sheets.
Carl wasn’t that man.
Trust me, I speak from experience!
“Carl’s been cheating on me, with multiple women too!” she seethed. She left a momentary pause to allow me to gasp dramatically, before finishing off with “And I want revenge!”
My meditation lessons have obviously paid off, because I replied “Well, you know what they say about the best revenge being a life well lived.”
“I’m not interested in the wisdom of the ancients,” she responded dismissively. “I just want to see a grown man cry.”
Well, Beth is my best friend, so we got a drink, sat at the Blackjack table and discussed the genesis of Operation Ballcrusher. This was Beth’s fifth choice of name, but the first that didn’t involve curse words, so I acquiesced to that charming little title.
We started brainstorming ideas for revenge. I had to gently but firmly guide Beth away from options involving outright criminality. Hit-men and assassins are all very well, but, as a natural redhead, I know that I wouldn’t look good in those orange jumpsuits prisoners seem to wear on TV dramas. Therefore, anything where a lengthy prison sentence was a possibility was immediately disqualified on the grounds of sartorial necessity.
We discussed the usual wronged spouse tropes – cutting up his suits (Carl only owned one, equally at home for weddings and funerals), painting something obscene on his car (Beth had co-signed the lease agreement), and throwing all his possessions out onto the street (Beth had bought Carl most of them as presents, so this seemed a little too much like self-harm. One takes pride in one’s taste in shopping, after all).
Eventually, just as mister Johnnie Walker had taken us past the ‘loosening up’ phase and into the ‘loud and raucous’ phase, a suitably depraved idea popped into my gently pickled mind.
“Why not get a tattoo?” I asked.
“How will that help? I don’t like marking my body,” slurred Beth in reply.
“Oh,” I grinned, “You won’t be the one getting the tattoo!”
Alas, poor Carl. We took him out two days later and got him blind drunk, then dragged him along, barely conscious, to a friendly tattoo artist that I’d once had a fling with. We had the word “Adulterer” tattooed on his lower stomach, so that anyone thinking of going further south would know exactly what kind of man they were dealing with.
Upon having his ‘sobering up’ shower the next morning, Carl discovered Beth’s handiwork. They separated shortly afterwards and I’m glad for my bestie Beth, because she deserves someone better. Someone who can romance a woman, who can take her to heaven and back between the sheets.
Carl wasn’t that man.
Trust me, I speak from experience!
