Tales of Revenge 3: Karate, the next page

This is a follow-on to Brad Paisley's song, "Karate," from his "Wheelhouse" album.

 It was a travesty that he'd only gotten six months in the county jail plus three years probation, but she had wanted to press charges and get it over with quickly, and so he had shown up in court with his leg still in a brace, his arm still in a sling, a bandage on his nose, and a compression wrap around his rib cage. The judge had taken pity on him, and if it weren't for the bruises on her face, the judge might have let him off completely.

So in those six months, she had to figure out what to do next. She moved two towns away. She took everything out of their apartment except for his clothes, his toys, and some basic furniture. She didn't leave a forwarding address. She sold her car and bought another one, registered to her daddy at his address. She threw away her old cell phone and got one of those pay-as-you-go plans with an unlisted number.

She turned in his guns at the sheriff's office. Since he was now a convicted felon, he wouldn't be needing them anymore. Then she and her lawyer went next door, and got the judge to issue a permanent restraining order against him. A sheriff's deputy delivered the order to him at the jail. She heard that he had gotten so enraged that he had torn his bunk bed out of the wall by the bolts, and that his cellmates were screaming for the guards to let them out of the cell before he beat the hell out of them.

She wasn't stupid. She knew the restraining order wouldn't keep him away. She figured it would make him resolve to come after her. But she needed it on the record for what she was going to do next. And she needed to make sure - personally - that he would never come after her again.

She was proud of that black belt, the one that matched his eye.

The day he got out, he walked from the bus stop to their house. He knocked on the door. Nobody answered. He dug in the plastic bag the jail had given him with his shit in it, and found his keys at the bottom. He unlocked the door, stepped in, and dropped the bag in the hall. He shouted her name. The only sound was the echoes from the empty rooms. He walked through the house. He found the TV and the old, busted recliner in the living room. He found the card table and the folding chair in the kitchen. He found the twin bed, the dresser, the lamp and the alarm clock in the bedroom.

The alarm clock reminded him of the county lock-up: the bells all day long, telling him to wake up, to eat, to go out, to go back in, to prepare for lights out at night. He went out back, found a piece of firewood, brought it in the house and pounded the alarm clock to bits, leaving the debris on the dresser and the floor. Then he moved all the furniture into the bedroom. Except for the fridge in the kitchen, that's all he would need.

The sun sets late on the summer nights. About an hour before sunset, he was sitting in that old recliner, enjoying a late three-beer dinner and watching "Swamp Monsters" on Animal Planet, when the doorbell rang.

He sighed, got up, and went to the door. If he was surprised to see her standing there when he opened it, he didn't show it. Instead, he burped at her and said, "What?"

She smiled slightly. "This is my house. I want to come in, but you're here. That's a violation of the judge's order."

"Screw the judge's order. What do you want?"

"I'm coming in. Move." There was something in her eye that he had only seen once before - the last time they'd been together in this house, when he had ended up crumpled on the floor, against the fridge. So he moved, just enough to let her in. He turned his back on her and went back to the bedroom, where he settled into the chair again. She followed him.

She said, "Rent's paid here through December. If you stop drinking, you should be able to afford the rent."

"Fuck you," he responded.

"Not anymore," she said.

He burped again. "That's imaginative."

"Look," she said, planting herself in front of the TV, hands on her hips. "I know you're gonna come after me tomorrow, as soon as you sober up."

"So?"

"So I'm here to make sure you don't." She took a step towards him. He was too stupid to recognize the threat.

"I'll do whatever the hell I want to! You're still my wife, and I have a right to -" He really should have seen it coming. One minute he was sitting there in the fully-extended recliner, a beer in one hand, wagging the finger of the other hand at his wife, as he laid down the law. The next minute he was on his back, on the floor, with his legs folded over his chest and the recliner upside-down on top of him. The back of his head hurt, and stars were swimming in front of his eyes. He didn't know where the beer had gone.

He took a couple of breaths, and then pushed the recliner aside and staggered to his feet. That's when her booted foot caught him squarely between the legs. It was as if the football team had been taking shots at an imaginary bulls-eye painted on his balls. He was doubled up and lying on the ground again in an instant.

What he wanted to say, he couldn't say. It was all he could do to gasp and moan. The pain shot up into his abdomen and disabled him completely, making it hard to breathe and impossible to stand. He lay there curled up and grunting in agony for almost five minutes. Finally he stood up, not straight but at least on his feet, and said, "Damn you, woman, let me tell you something -" and that's when the wheel kick connected with the side of his face, knocking out six molars and dislocating his jaw. He spun around in a circle and landed on the floor, sitting improbably cross-legged.

"You don't get to tell me anything!" she said, emphatically but not yelling. "The law says you're not allowed to be anywhere near me, you're not allowed to talk to me, and you're not allowed to follow me. But I don't trust you, and I don't trust the law, so I'm here to make sure for myself that you don't talk to me from now on."

"You bitch!" he shouted as he got to his feet. "When I get my hands on you, I'm gonna -" Another front kick caught him between the legs, and his forehead led the way to the floor this time. He put his hands on the floor, to try to get back up. Then he opened his mouth in a wide, silent scream of agony, as her stomping heel broke the bones of his fingers, first on one hand, then on the other. He pulled his hands protectively to his chest and looked up at her, curled over but trying to straighten up.

He was on his knees, still with an open-mouthed grimace on his face. That's when her right hand came down in a cross-cut chop and broke his right collarbone. Before he could react, in one fluid circular motion she transferred her momentum from the right arm to the left arm, and shattered his left collarbone with her other hand.

It might have been the beer. It might have been shock setting in. Whatever it was, although he could feel the pain from his broken fingers, he couldn't feel any pain from the broken collarbones. But he couldn't move his arms. That's when she reached in and grabbed his beard.

He had kept his head clean-shaven in jail. It made him look badass, and nobody could grab it from behind. But he'd let his beard grow, like half of the other guys, because it made him look badass too. It made a great handle for her. She pulled him close, so close that when she hissed at him, he could feel her spit spraying all over his face. She said, "You are NEVER gonna put your hands on me again! Get it?"

Apparently he didn't get it, because he spat in her eye. She didn't stop to wipe it out. She relaxed her arm, letting him pull his head back - but not her grip on his beard. Suddenly the fist of her other hand shot out and caught him in the eye. Her punching arm recoiled and then lashed out again, catching him in the other eye. He screamed and squeezed both eyes shut, trying to blink away the pain, so he never saw her arm lash out a third time, to break his nose and to drive the cartilage deep into his sinus cavities.

With his elbows tight against his sides for his collarbones' sake, he raised his hands in a token attempt to block the next punch, which he couldn't see but knew was coming. This one broke out his front teeth. He covered his mouth with his hands, howling through his broken fingers. By now he was standing up, although bent over at the waist in an attempt to protect his upper body - when his crotch was suddenly the target of a third powerful kick. This one actually lifted him off his feet, and he hit the floor elbows first, shattering one and dislocating the other. He lay there in a ball, sobbing like a little boy and crying "Please! No more!"

For a moment, she stood over him, looking down on him. When she spoke, her voice was low, but it was hard with rage, and if he listened carefully, the edges were softened with a touch of false pity. She said, "Little man, how many times did you stop when I said, 'please, no more?' Did you EVER stop?"

She reached down and picked him up by the beard. Actually, she didn't pick him up, but it hurt so bad that he willed his legs to uncurl and try to stand up, to relieve the pressure on his beard. He looked like a bloody, beaten version of the cavemen in the high school science books. Once he was standing by himself on wobbly feet, she let go of his beard and said, "Look at me."

He tried, but he was still blinking from her punches. His shirt was stained with the blood flowing freely from his mouth and nose. He was still sobbing and whimpering.

She said, "You raped me so many times I can't count it. I don't think three kicks to the balls makes up for that. I should just cut your dick clean off." She pulled a fishing knife out of her pocket and opened it. He whined in fear, thinking she was serious. She waited until he stopped whining and went back to his whimpering, then closed the knife and put it away.

She said, "You hit me so many times that a few broken fingers isn't enough to make things right. You are NEVER gonna hit me again. Next time you try, I will break both of your arms." He gasped in wide-eyed fear and choked for a second on his own blood. He coughed it up, and it drooled down his shirt with all the rest.

She said, "You yelled at me for years, and you're still yelling at me, and you're not gonna yell at me anymore. Today I took out your jaw and your teeth. Next time I will crush your windpipe. You know what happens when I do that?" He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed in acknowledgement.

She said, "Today I gave you two black eyes. If you come looking for me, I will find you first, and then I will TAKE OUT both of your eyes. And don't you think I won't.

"You are never gonna follow me. You are never gonna look me up. You are never gonna try to get near me. If you see me at the Winn-Dixie, you are gonna run out of the store and leave your groceries there to rot. Because I can take care of myself, and I ain't afraid of you anymore, and if I think you're coming after me, I WILL GET YOU FIRST."

But he wasn't ready to give up yet. Laying claim to the same justice that he had denied her for so long, he mumbled through his broken teeth, "I'm gonna call the fucking sheriff and git you arrested for assault and domestic violence."

She cocked her head and smiled sadly. "Sweetie, my name's on the lease, not yours. You violated a restraining order and your parole by coming back here today. The only thing you're gonna do with the sheriff is get your sorry ass hauled back to jail."

Then, laying cowardly claim to the pity every woman possesses, he whined, "Aw, c'mon, it's my first day out. Have a heart."

Black lightning flashed in her eyes. With words like sharpened flint, she said, "I had a heart! You broke it! And then you stomped on what was left of it! Why don't you see what it feels like!" She planted her weight on her right foot, spun in a full circle, and with the heel of her left foot caught him in the center of the sternum. It knocked the wind out of him, detached several ribs from the sternum, and sent him flying backward and halfway through the wall on the other side of the room.

Embedded in the wall, trapped between the studs, he watched with naked fear as she strode over to him. In that same flinty voice, she said, "I want you to remember our little talk today. I want you to remember it every day, for the rest of your life. Here's a little something so that you won't forget."

She thought that he looked like the punching dummy she'd used in her karate class. Remembering one of their classroom drills, and adding a little bit of her own, she left him her reminders. He started screaming when he saw the first punch coming, and he was unconscious by the time the last kick hit home:

Another punch in each eye, and one more into the bloodied and misshapen nose.

Two roundhouse kicks to the jaw, one from the left, and one from the right.

Side kicks to the shoulders, grinding the broken bits of the collarbones together.

Heel kicks to his mangled hands, which, incredibly, were gripping the wall studs for support. Too bad for him, the studs acted like anvils to her bony hammers.

One last front kick to the crotch. While that wouldn't pay back all of the times he'd brutally had his way with her, she could make sure that his equipment was so irreparably damaged that no woman would ever have to suffer that kind of abuse from him again. She didn't care if his balls were scrambled and his dick was so grotesquely broken that it hurt just to pee and could never be used for anything else.

With a mixture of triumph and relief showing on her face, she pulled a copy of the restraining order out of her purse, unfolded it, and laid it on the twin bed. She walked out of the bedroom. In the doorway, she stopped for one last look at the man dangling from the hole in the wall, his head slumped forward, blood drooling in great gobs from his chin, and a snoring, rasping noise coming from his mouth. Then she turned and walked out of the house, slamming the door shut behind her.

Why I Am Here

I think that everybody on earth is here for a reason.

For example, Nancy Grace's purpose in life is to be someone that the rest of us can hate, so we don't have to hate our mothers-in-law, our stepsisters, or the bitchy neighbor lady. That's the only reason I can think of for Nancy Grace to exist. But I digress. Back to the subject at hand.

My reason for being on earth? I'm not sure how to say this without sounding like a total perv, or a 19-year-old fratboy. Because this is a selfless comment, even though it will sound totally self-serving.

My mission in life is to make women feel good by playing with their boobs.

Most of my readers won't understand this. But if you're one of those women who really enjoys it when somebody (especially a man) caresses your breasts and teases or sucks on your nipples, then you'll understand.

Why "You're in America, so Speak English" is a Pile of Bullshit

Boole Sheet

One of the world's great logicians was a man named George Boole, an Englishman who lived from 1815 to 1864, and who is honored, among other things as the father of computer science.

A philosophy professor once developed a worksheet for students to use to trace the logical flow of complicated arguments. He called it a Boole Sheet, in honor of George Boole. Sometimes this worksheet would become so complicated that it looked like a herd of cockroaches had had pencil leads tied to their asses and been released to scurry all over the paper. The logic was impossible to follow, and the argument was said to have filled an entire Boole Sheet.

The expression was eventually shortened to "That argument is full of Boole Sheet." And there you have it.

Okay, that story isn't true at all. The only part that is true is the short biography of George Boole. But if you say "bullshit" with a Spanish accent, it sounds like "boole sheet." And for some reason, that's relevant to the subject of this (non-fiction) article.


Boole Sheet and "Speak English"

One of the biggest pieces of bullshit in the U.S. today (not counting anything that comes out of the White House or the Capitol Building in D.C.) is the "Speak English" movement. Its basic premise is that English is the official language of this nation, and therefore anybody who wants to live here should speak English. Proponents point to the large number of immigrants who have become successful in America precisely because they learned to speak English. They point to the Chinese and Japanese immigrants, whose children can speak English even before they get here. And they point to the fact that the founding documents and governing documents of this nation are, and have always been, written in English.

But when all is said and done, they always come back to their basic premise: "You're in America, so speak English.

Here are four counterarguments to that basic premise. You may dismiss some of these arguments as disingenuous, but they're meant to show that some of  "Speak English" arguments are too simplistic.

1. America is a big place.

America is two continents, connected by an isthmus. And a few hundred islands. There are 23 countries in North America, and 12 in South America. The vast majority of these countries (and people!) do not speak English. They speak Spanish, Portuguese, and French. Even the largest three countries in North America, have three official languages: English, French, and Spanish. So when you say "This is America," you're painting with too broad a brush.

Outside of the U.S., when people say "America," they mean "North and South America." If you mean "the United States of America," then say so.

However, for the rest of this article, we'll slip back into the vernacular usage, and depend on sentence context to make our meaning clear.

2. "Learn to speak English, you immigrant. My (immigrant) ancestors did." Um, not all of them did.

Cheech and Chong's parody movie and song, "Born in East L.A.," illustrates the fact that some second- and third-generation Americans (back to the vernacular usage of the term) grew up speaking Spanish. While most of them are bilingual, some can speak only Spanish. It's not their fault. They have never needed to speak English.

In San Francisco's Chinatown, you will find many people age 30 and older who do not speak English. They have never needed to.

I do agree that if you're going to speak English, you should speak good English, not the doggerel that passes for a local or ethnic dialect. But that's not an immigration issue.

3. "We were here first." NO, YOU WEREN'T.

I love this one. I salivate every time I hear this one, because I want to chew the speaker's ass off.

I used to work with a man of Hispanic descent. His family had lived for generations on a ranch near Pueblo, Colorado. When you asked him where his ancestors were from, he said "Mexico." But then he will tell you that they have lived on the same land for 300 years.

Confused? Go look at the maps in your history book. Until February, 1848, the area now known as Pueblo, Colorado was part of Mexico. My co-worker's grandmother still has the original land grant from the king of Spain, deeding the property to her ancestors hundreds of years before. They have never moved, but wars have been fought and boundaries have been redrawn, so that what was once in Mexico is now in the U.S.A. But his family are not immigrants. They are a powerful rebuttal to the "Speak our language, because we were here first" argument. And they are not the only ones. There's an even more ancient claim.

Until 1831, the Cherokee Indian nation was a confederation of legal entities known as the Five Civilized Tribes. They lived in what is now the southeastern United States. Modern Americans still think of American Indians as savages on horseback, living a relatively uncivilized life. The Five Civilized Tribes did not fit this picture at all. They adopted European ways almost as soon as they met the Europeans. They wore European-style clothing. They had brick buildings with glass windows and fireplaces. They even had European-style outhouses. They were an autonomous society, with their own government, judicial system, language, monetary system, economy, commerce, schools, police, and so on. Then the U.S. government decided they wanted the land the Cherokees legally owned, and so in 1831 they moved them at gunpoint to what is now Oklahoma. Of the 130,000 Cherokees who were forcibly relocated, 60,000 died en route. The U.S. government tried to eradicate their language and other institutions, and to force them to learn English. I doubt that the "We were here first" argument would have saved the Cherokee nation.

4. They're here to stay. "Thank you, muchas gracias."

The immigrants are here to stay, whether you like it or not. Most of them are not taking jobs from Americans. Oh, they are getting jobs all right, but the jobs they're taking are ones that Americans are too proud (or lazy, or chicken) to take and do not want. Most of those workers are legal immigrants or have legal work permits, and have the paperwork to prove it.

So how should we treat them? With courtesy! They're human beings, with families to care for and mouths to feed, just like you. If they perform a service for you, they should be treated the same way you treat your stockbroker or your real estate agent. But let's add a twist to it. Now, listen carefully, you stupid, self-absorbed Americans!

If you can tell that the person who has assisted you speaks Spanish, then you say "Thank you." And then, in the same breath you say, without pause, "Muchas gracias." You're not showing off your language skills, or your superiority over them; on the contrary, you are simply and sincerely acknowledging their humanity.

It's that simple.

So, what now?

The world is a big place, and English is not the only language spoken in the civilized or free world. If you want to become a citizen of the world, then learn to speak a second language. I suggest that Spanish is the most immediately useful second language for you to learn. Expecting everyone else to learn English is unrealistic and selfish, and any justification for doing so is just a pile of Boole Sheet.

Why Men Cheat on Their Wives - My View

Why do men cheat on their wives? What is it that makes an honorable man, one who promised to "love, honor and cherish" his wife, to "cleave unto her and none else ... for as long as we both shall live," end up in the arms of another woman?

This isn't about men who enter marriage with a propensity to cheat. This is about men who enter marriage with the intention to remain faithful until death, and end up cheating on their wives.


Five Really Important Reasons

1. Sex was too much work.

Let's get this one out of the way first.

Not all men who take Viagra need it for an underlying physical problem. They may think they do. But often, the process of getting the wife interested, then aroused, then finally orgasmic, is too much work, and Mr. Willy is exhausted long before it's over.

The man thinks that the problem is in his equipment, and that he needs the little blue pill - until he gives into temptation and has sex with another woman. Then he finds out that he's still got it, and he realizes that the problem is not him, but his wife.

But you know what? It's not about the sex. It really isn't. Most real men will admit, honestly, that they could live without sex if they got the other things they crave most from the woman they love: respect, affection, approval, affirmation, and even a little attention once in a while.

2. She abandoned him first.

Some women are affectionate, attentive, and all that until they get married. Then when they've got their man  they think they don't need to do all that stuff anymore. These women ignore their men and become obsessed with:

• a new job
• an education
• a church group, the PTA, running for elected office, and so on
• a project - from something as simple as scrapbooking to something as big as writing a new bestseller or starting a new business
• raising the kids

In every one of these cases, the fact is that the woman has physically and emotionally abandoned her husband in favor of something else. He is made to feel totally useless, superfluous, and in the way - often his presence or his needs are even an annoyance.

Any woman who makes her husband feel this way deserves to lose him.

In response to this abandonment, some men take up fishing, mountain climbing, or other hobbies where the wife will never notice or care about his absence. Don't be surprised if Another Woman is one of those hobbies.

(That last one, "raising the kids?" Yes, it hurts the man, but it causes lifelong damage to the kids as well. This idea is worthy of its own blog article, not a paragraph in this one. But a woman who has abandoned her husband for her children deserves neither.)


3. "The dog gets more love than I do."

You would be dismayed at how many times this happens.

The husband takes the dog for a walk, to the doggy wash, or the kennel. When he returns with the dog, the wife showers the dog with attention, all that stupid baby talk and petting and snuggling, and of course the dog is wagging its tail, panting and whimpering with delight, licking her hand and nuzzling her the whole time. Then when she's finished with the dog, she glances at her husband, says, "Bill called. And the kitchen garbage needs to go out," then turns and walks away.

At night, they're relaxing in the living room, watching TV. The wife is snuggled up next to the dog, caressing it, running her fingers through its fur, and kissing it on the forehead. The husband sits on her other side, getting nothing but (literally) the cold shoulder.

Call it jealousy, if you want. But such favoritism or obliviousness on the wife's part is inexcusable.

4. He's not good enough for her, and never will be.

We make fun of the stereotype. We use it to get laughs in sitcoms, and to sell products in commercials. I'm talking about the stupid husband. The clueless husband. The ugly husband. The lazy husband.

Okay, there are a lot of those. Stereotypes tend to mirror reality. But stereotypes are based on perception, not reality, and they misrepresent a large portion of the population.

There are a lot of men out there who are trying really hard to be good men and good husbands, and they cannot seem to get a break. Their wives constantly belittle their best efforts. They argue with them and correct them, even when the men are right. (I have never been able to understand why women do that.) They interrupt them, talk over them, or just talk so much that the man can't get a word in without a crowbar.

They make fun of them, tease them, and hurt their feelings, for their own amusement or, worse, for the amusement of others. Sometimes they'll try to shrug off the teasing with "I'm just kidding! You know I love you, don't you?" Bullshit.

They pick fights with their husbands, even when the men don't want to fight. They take offense where none was intended. They find fault with EVERY SINGLE THING their husbands do and say.

When a faithful, well-intentioned man starts getting attention, approval and caring from a different woman, and he realizes that not every woman in the world is like the Queen Bitch his bride turned out to be, you can bet the last dollar in your wallet that he will start spending time with that other woman, and it will turn into something more intimate and fulfilling than anything his wife can offer him.

And even though that (formerly) faithful, well-intentioned man will feel all the guilt of cheating on his wife, and will carry the weight of all that guilt on his shoulders, it is his wife's fault, not his.


What to Do About It

I have seen committed couples work their way through chronic sickness, chronic severe pain, and even Alzheimer's Disease. The men remained faithful to their wives. Why? Of course, we can credit the character and integrity of the men, but I know the women as well, and the women never  let their illness or pain overpower their love for their men. One of the most faithful, committed couples I know includes a woman whose bipolar disorder is sometimes physically debilitating. Yet she always treats her husband with consideration and gratitude.

I have seen couples who have been married 50 years or more, who act like newlyweds. No, not physically. But I've watched the woman get as excited as a schoolgirl while she waits for her husband to come home from a meeting or an trip.

One of the couples I really admire doesn't fit into either of those two molds. They're a very calm, very normal couple, married for 20 or 30 years. For all those years, every single day of their marriage, she has treated her husband as a human being, as someone of value and worthy of her respect.

Women, that's what you can do. A husband isn't a fish that you can catch. You can't put him on a stringer or in the freezer, or consume him and throw away the bones, or put him on the wall as a trophy. If that's what you have done to your husband, then you don't deserve him.


Equal Time for the Women

I know that if the genders were switched in this article, it would be an equally valid article entitled "Why Women Cheat on Their Husbands." But there are a lot more good women than good men in the world, and I thought that someone should speak up in defense of the good men - even those who end up straying - before the women drive them to extinction.

----------------------
UPDATE:  Here's a pingback to Matt Walsh's blog entry on society condoning the shitty way women treat the men in their lives. It's worth reading, even if you're a liberal. I posted a comment there on Feb 24 at 3:53 p.m. http://themattwalshblog.com/2014/02/22/your-husband-doesnt-have-to-earn-your-respect/

ANOTHER UPDATE: That Matt Walsh link doesn't work anymore. It looks like Matt restructured his website when I wasn't looking. The original link to the Feb 22, 2014, article is now https://themattwalshblog.com/your-husband-doesnt-have-to-earn-your-respect/. Matt did follow it up with another article on Dec 14, 2017: https://themattwalshblog.com/effective-way-destroy-husband-ruin-marriage-encourage-infidelity/, which pretty much repeats what I've said here - and in other posts I've made since this one was originally published.

 I don't agree with everything Matt posts on his blog (and it's okay that we disagree, by the way), but we definitely see eye to eye on this topic.

Tales of Revenge 2: The Science Teacher

This may or may not be a work of fiction. It may or may not be based on real people and real events.

August 8, 2012

Denise Arbogast
Principal
Herman Melville Middle School

Dear Ms. Arbogast:

It has been a pleasure teaching science at your school for the past eight years. Your predecessor was an intelligent and perceptive administrator. I wish I could say the same about you.

You required us to administer the Acuity test to our 7th and 8th graders three times before the TCAP testing in March. My classes' average scores were below the state average, all three times. You didn't like that. I understand your concern. Your raise this year was partially based on TCAP scores, and you believed, like everybody else, that Acuity results can accurately predict TCAP results.

Researchers have done studies, right? Those researchers work for the Acuity company, lady. I don't work for Acuity. And I don't teach to the test. I teach to the subject.

So the day before school let out for the summer, you told me that I would not be teaching science next year. Instead, you said, I would be teaching social studies.

Did you think I would do less damage to your career in social studies?

In July, the TCAP scores came back. My classes' average scores not only beat the state average, but every student in my classes was in the 98th percentile or higher. See, you did get a nice raise. You're welcome. And now you say you want me back in the lab, teaching science again.

Your faith in me is touching. So touching, in fact, that it will be a cold day in hell before I ever teach anything in your school again - wherever that school happens to be.

Remember when the accreditation committee visited Melville MS in January? A high school principal from the neighboring town was part of that accreditation committee. He observed my teaching style, and thought you were damned lucky to have me on your faculty. Well, two weeks ago he reviewed our TCAP scores as part of his follow-up work, so he knows how my classes did. When he learned that I was no longer teaching science at your school, he recruited me to teach chemistry.

I guess that leaves two holes in your faculty list: one in science and one in social studies. I hear that word has gotten around, about the shoddy way you treat your teachers. Good luck filling those holes.

Tales of Revenge 1: Blackmail Boomerang

Mr. James Gresham
P.O. Box 3451
Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan 49783

October 11, 2011

Dear Mr. Gresham:

Thank you for staying at our getaway lodge last weekend. We are glad you enjoyed your stay. In fact, as the enclosed vidcaps show, we know that you really enjoyed your stay. How old is she? 20? 21?

We got the whole thing on video. We're planning to send a DVD to your wife. I'm sure she'll find it entertaining. But we thought we would offer it to you first. Divorce is SO expensive these days. And our getaway lodge could use a few upgrades. Like about $25,000 worth. So we will sell you the video for 25 Gs instead of giving it to your wife for free. I'm sure you will find that it's cheap at twice the price.

If we do not receive the money within 30 days, we will send the DVD to your wife. We look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,
The Management

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October 14, 2011

Dear Sam and Giovanni:

I have received your correspondence of October 11, 2011. My wife would be interested in that DVD, except that she died of cancer two years ago. Your Google search would have turned that up, if you were any good at it. (As you can see, my Google search found your names quite easily. "Sam"? Couldn't your parents be any more imaginative than that?)

The woman that I was with at your getaway lodge is my second wife. Not that it's any of your goddamn business, but she is 26. Before I married her, she was a single mother and a longtime friend of the family. We are happily married and still in the newlywed stage, which is why we decided to spend a weekend at that shitbox you call a getaway lodge.

The vidcaps were intriguing. We would both be interested in seeing the entire video, for which I will pay the sum of $10. That's ten dollars, more than enough to cover your expenses plus postage. We also want your assurance that you have destroyed every single copy of the video, except for the one in our possession.

I have a friend who likes websites that feature these kinds of videos. He knows them all. And he has a memory for faces. He recognizes women on the street from the videos, and introduces himself to them. He hasn't been wrong yet. If my perv friend tells me that he saw my video on the Web, I will go straight to the police with your letter and the vidcaps, and I'll see your sorry little asses hauled into jail for blackmail, voyeurism, and anything else I can stick against the wall.

Also, I want $25,000 from you to compensate me for the trouble you have caused me. If I don't receive that money within 30 days, I will paste your names, the name of your shitbox hotel, and the story of your little video enterprise, all over the Web. You will go out of business overnight.

After you declare bankruptcy and the bank takes back your little shitbox hotel, I will buy it from the bank just so I can have the pleasure of burning it to the ground. After it is leveled, I will plow up the parking lot, spread 12 inches of fine organic matter on top of it, and plant it with corn, the way it used to be before you built your little shitbox there.

It's your choice. I look forward to hearing from YOU soon.

Sincerely,
Jim Gresham