It Began With an Aroma
I started a new game with my wife a while back. It's great. I call it "Find the Underpants".
What I did was hide my dirty underpants somewhere in the house. Not often. Only when I had a pair with a serious stink on. Like after nachos.
First pair went undiscovered for near two weeks until she pulled out her fancy bra for Friday night out with the girls. She screamed. It was hilarious.
Couple weeks later, I wore the same pair for the work week. While she was in the bathroom, I stuck them in her lunch bag and zipped it up. Monday morning when she opened it, the rank was enough to make her gag. I laughed my ass off.
She put a shit in my sock drawer. Maybe hers, maybe from a sick cat or a dying hyena. It was wet and gross and disgusting. She didn't laugh.
Things got worse from there. Dead mouse, used tampons, fish left in the sun for two days. I moved to the spare room. Bucket of ice water over my head while I slept, I started locking the door.
Bang things under the toilet seat for her, string of firecrackers in the trunk for me. Red dye-pack exploded in her purse, pink paint-bomb went off in my shed.
It's bad now. Real bad.
I'm in the kitchen, ducked down behind the island. She's in the living room, not sure where.
I'm pretty damn sure I landed one in the last exchange. Just a .22 to the thigh, so not going to kill her, but it hurts. I know. She put one in my left arm.
Lights are all shot out and the sun is setting. Gonna be a hell of a night.
Just like our honeymoon.
Questions, comments, or a title to suggest? Email markmbulmer@gmail.com