Just before lunchtime, the two police officers who had responded to the morning's incident came in and asked to speak to the clerk who had fired the gun.
"How is he?" she asked, as she handed over the chrome-plated revolver.
"The chief? He says he never had so much fun in his life," said one of them, in a low voice. "The squibs we got from the community theatre worked perfectly. When we were wheeling him out, he was having trouble keeping his eyes closed and not laughing."
"We should do this every week," said the other cop. Looking at the crowd waiting meekly in the waiting room, he observed, "It looks like it worked really well."
"Yeah," said the clerk, "But if you do it too often, they get used to it."
"Soooo," said the first one, "Lunch? The chief's buying."
"Deal," said the clerk. She grabbed her purse, gave the other clerks the high sign, and left with the two officers.
Showing posts with label revenge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label revenge. Show all posts
Friday, May 27, 2016
Dealing with the Customer From Hell: the DMV
It was a busy day at the Motor Vehicle Registration department. The waiting room was full of people cluttching their numbers and scanning the "NOW BEING SERVED" display above the door, waiting impatiently for their number to come up. Most of them weren't happy to be there, having put off this errand for as long as they could. The mood in the room was ugly. Most of them customers took the chance to take out their bad feelings on the clerks behind the counters in the next room.
At one point, a guy with an old corduroy jacket and a plaid flannel shirt stood up, muttered "finally!" and stomped into the next room. He sat at a desk opposite a slightly overweight woman in her 30s. She had short, dark hair and an expression that pleaded with him not to be the next person who dumped on her.
Too bad. What should have been a simple renewal of a truck license escalated quickly into a shouting match, simply because the guy refused to do what everybody else before him had to do, in order to renew the license. Sure, it was bureaucratic and onerous, but it wasn't the clerk's fault. In only a couple of minutes, he was standing, waving his fists in the air, and condemning the clerk and the entire DMV to hell. He was in the middle of questioning her education and her parents' intelligence when everything changed at once.
The clerk stood up, pulled open a desk drawer, pulled out an old-West-style revolver, and shot the man - twice, right in the chest. He didn't even have time to react. One moment he was yelling, and the next moment he crumpled to the ground and lay there, like a 230-pound rag doll.
The waiting customers screamed. A few of them ran out the front door and didn't return. Those who remained whispered among themselves in fear. The other clerks, startled by the noise, looked up and saw what had happened, then chose to just sit there and watch the aftermath. The customers they were serving looked from their clerks, to the clerk with the gun, to the body on the floor, and then back to their clerks.
In less than a minute, two police officers and two paramedics ran through the front door, pushing a gurney. By this time, the clerk had put her gun away and closed the drawer. Still standing, she watched as the four men muscled the guy onto the gurney and rushed him out the door.
The clerk sat down, straightened the papers on her desk, and muttered, "Asshole." Then she barked "NEXT!" and pressed the button to advance the "NOW BEING SERVED" number on the display.
The customers who remained were quiet and polite, conducting their business and leaving as quickly as possible. Word of the incident passed in whispers to the new customers who came in, and the rest of the morning was busy, but peaceful.
At one point, a guy with an old corduroy jacket and a plaid flannel shirt stood up, muttered "finally!" and stomped into the next room. He sat at a desk opposite a slightly overweight woman in her 30s. She had short, dark hair and an expression that pleaded with him not to be the next person who dumped on her.
Too bad. What should have been a simple renewal of a truck license escalated quickly into a shouting match, simply because the guy refused to do what everybody else before him had to do, in order to renew the license. Sure, it was bureaucratic and onerous, but it wasn't the clerk's fault. In only a couple of minutes, he was standing, waving his fists in the air, and condemning the clerk and the entire DMV to hell. He was in the middle of questioning her education and her parents' intelligence when everything changed at once.
The clerk stood up, pulled open a desk drawer, pulled out an old-West-style revolver, and shot the man - twice, right in the chest. He didn't even have time to react. One moment he was yelling, and the next moment he crumpled to the ground and lay there, like a 230-pound rag doll.
The waiting customers screamed. A few of them ran out the front door and didn't return. Those who remained whispered among themselves in fear. The other clerks, startled by the noise, looked up and saw what had happened, then chose to just sit there and watch the aftermath. The customers they were serving looked from their clerks, to the clerk with the gun, to the body on the floor, and then back to their clerks.
In less than a minute, two police officers and two paramedics ran through the front door, pushing a gurney. By this time, the clerk had put her gun away and closed the drawer. Still standing, she watched as the four men muscled the guy onto the gurney and rushed him out the door.
The clerk sat down, straightened the papers on her desk, and muttered, "Asshole." Then she barked "NEXT!" and pressed the button to advance the "NOW BEING SERVED" number on the display.
The customers who remained were quiet and polite, conducting their business and leaving as quickly as possible. Word of the incident passed in whispers to the new customers who came in, and the rest of the morning was busy, but peaceful.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Dealing with the Customer From Hell
I work at Old Navy, a fashion-casual clothing store that caters to younger consumers. One of my co-workers was a skinny 19-year-old girl with long, dark hair. Her name was Tiffany. She looked kind of frail and we always watched out for her.
One very busy Saturday, she was checking people out, when this guy plopped down about $400 worth of denim goods on the counter. As she rang them up, he stopped her and complained about Each. And. Every. Item.
One was defective. Another was mislabeled. Another was from the clearance rack and yet she'd rung it up at full price. None of this was true, mind you. He was just playing with her head, trying to get a freebie — or at least a discount.
He was the Customer From Hell.
Whenever we get a customer like this, a secret, telepathic signal gets sent through the store. All of the sales associates gravitate to its source, which in this case was Tiffany. We all found places to quietly observe what was going on. We liked to fool ourselves into thinking that we would rush to her aid if she got into real trouble, but most of us just wanted to watch the train wreck.
Tiffany was getting rattled. Her face was whiter than usual, and beads of sweat were forming on her forehead. Her fingers were actually trembling as she removed the anti-theft tags and rang up the items.
The customer was getting louder and more belligerent. About halfway through the pile, he started yelling at her as she rang things up: "Good grief! This store is nothing but a major rip-off operation! All of your merchandise is shitty and overpriced! Your ads are deceptive! You're doing your best to rip off your customers!"
She was doing a damned good job of trying to appease the guy, but anybody could tell that she was on the verge of tears.
Then he started to insult her personally. "Goddammit, are you really this incompetent? Or are you just trying to rip me off? This was supposed to be on 30 percent discount, and you only rang it up for 20 percent! Damn, you're slow!" I really, truly, honestly saw her lower lip start to tremble.
And that's when this middle-aged man walked up to the Customer From Hell. It's as if he had also gotten the telepathic signal. This new actor looked like he was in his 50s. He still had a lot of hair, and it was mostly brown. It had some graying highlights along the temples, but that was about it. He was dressed casually, but not like a slob. His demeanor was that of a senior citizen who had wandered into the wrong store looking for gifts for his grandkids.
He tapped the Customer From Hell on the elbow and asked, "'Scuse me, sir, is there something wrong?"
The response: "Damn right there is! This store is overcharging me for shitty goods! And this worthless piece-of-shit chick is trying to rip me off!!"
Grandpa asked, "Well, maybe I can help." He turned to one of my co-workers who happened to be standing nearby, attracted to the smell of blood. "Where's your manager?"
The co-worker, suddenly fearful for his life said, "I'll go get him." And he ran off to the back of the store. Sometimes managers pick up the telepathic signal, but often they don't. Our manager was having an oblivious day.
So Grandpa, the Customer From Hell and the skinny girl all stood there, as if frozen in a tableau, waiting for the other kid to come back with the manager. The Customer rocked back and forth on his pompous, overbearing toes and heels. Tiffany was trying her hardest not to cry, but I couldn't tell if she would last. Maybe she would just pass out. And the old guy had a look of intense concentration on his face, as he carefully examined every detail on a poster on the wall, twenty feet away.
Finally, the manager came running up with the kid. He apologized for the delay. Apparently the kid had taken some extra time to explain the whole situation to him. The manager looked like a slightly paunchy Old Navy model: he was wearing a pair of Urban Pipeline jeans, and one of the top-of-the-line polo shirts that usually hangs on the back wall of the men's section. Grandpa read the manager's name off of his name tag and said, "Ah. Grant. I'm glad you're here. This gentleman seems to be having some trouble with his purchases, and I thought that maybe I could help."
The manager, with squinting eyes and furrowed brow, looked at the old man and asked, "And who are you, sir?"
The Customer From Hell echoed, "Yeah, who the hell are you?"
The old gentleman smiled benignly and said, "I'm glad you both asked. You see, my name is Art Peck. I'm the CEO of The Gap, Inc." (Yes, he said "Inc." Pronounced it like "ink.") "Old Navy is actually owned by The Gap."
Grant, the manager, went as white as the skinny little cashier. The Customer snorted. "Good. Now maybe I'll get some satisfaction around here."
Art Peck asked the Customer, "And what's your name?"
He told him his name. Then Peck asked him, "So that we may handle your complaint properly, may I please see your driver's license?"
The customer smirked, pulled out his wallet, removed his license and handed it over to Peck. "Now we're getting somewhere," he sneered.
Peck pulled out his smartphone and took a picture of the driver's license, then gave it back to the guy. With a smile, he said, "I was here the day Tiffany was hired. She has always been a model employee. I can personally vouch for her integrity."
Tiffany, the skinny girl, stared at him with her mouth slightly open. Her watery eyes were now wide open and focused tightly on Peck.
Peck continued, "While it is true that we buy most of our clothing from Asian manufacturers, it is of the highest quality. It must meet MY standards before we're allowed to sell it. And our returns policy is one of the fairest you will find."
The Customer From Hell started shifting from one foot to the other. He was getting impatient. "So, how are you going to make things right by me?"
Peck's smile faded a bit. His eyes became slightly less friendly. He looked like a bird of prey surveying its next meal.
He said, "We keep our checkstands under constant video surveillance. This is to protect you, the customer ..." and the Customer smirked yet again.
"... but it is also to protect our employees. I have this entire transaction on video, and I will be using it in a training video for our new hires. Now," and he called the customer by name, as his smile turned to a ferocious glare, "I will send a copy of the video, AND your driver's license, to every one of our one-thousand-plus stores in the United States. I will see to it that you never shop in an Old Navy store again. Now," and his voice turned to cold steel, "get out of my store."
The Customer From Hell froze. This wasn't what he had expected, and he didn't know how to react. The skinny cashier froze. This was the last thing in the world she was expecting, too. Actually, all of us froze in total disbelief. The only person who moved was Mr. Peck.
He stepped directly in front of the Customer From Hell, their noses almost touching. With a voice like a Marine drill sergeant, he barked, "I said, get the hell out of my store!"
The Customer From Hell took a small step backward, and stammered, "You — you can't —"
Peck got into his face again and yelled, "NOW, ASSHOLE! NOW-NOW-NOW!" And he actually stomped his foot for emphasis on that last "now". I didn't think people really did that.
The next thing that happened, well, it was so fast, it takes longer to tell than it did to happen. The Customer From Hell turned even whiter than Grant had. Then he turned as purple as a beet. Mr. Peck clenched his fists at his sides and leaned forwards onto the tips of his toes. I kid you not, they almost touched noses. The Customer looked like he was going to shit his pants. Then he just turned and ran out of the store.
You know how, in the old Road Runner cartoons, the coyote runs away so fast that he vanishes with a zip, leaving a coyote-shaped cloud of dust where he was standing? Yeah. Well, it seemed like the Customer From Hell disappeared that fast. I'm surprised he didn't leave a customer-shaped hole in the glass door on his way out.
Then Tiffany did start crying. But she quickly composed herself, grabbed a couple of Kleenex, and set about drying her eyes and her nose. The rest of us exhaled, probably for the first time in five minutes. The manager walked up to Peck, grabbed his hand and started shaking it vigorously. "Mr. Peck, thank you for intervening. I had NO IDEA you would be here today. I would have cleaned the place up if I'd known you were coming."
He started to make more excuses, but Peck cut him off with a wave of his free hand and said, "There's no need, Grant, I've been checking this place out for the last half hour and it looks just fine. You can go back to your office. I'd like to have a little talk with Tiffany here." Peck watched as Grant walked back into his office at the back of the store. Then he went to the counter, dramatically pushed the $400 worth of denim out of the way, and laid down an assortment of toddler's and little kids' gear.
"These are for the grandkids," he explained. Hey! He really was a grandpa!
With several curious glances at him, the cashier rang up his purchases. He swiped his credit card and signed on the touch-sensitive screen. The cashier read the name on her display and said, "Wait a minute, you're not Art Peck!"
He winked at her. "Never met him in my life. But I did see his name in the Wall Street Journal this morning."
One very busy Saturday, she was checking people out, when this guy plopped down about $400 worth of denim goods on the counter. As she rang them up, he stopped her and complained about Each. And. Every. Item.
One was defective. Another was mislabeled. Another was from the clearance rack and yet she'd rung it up at full price. None of this was true, mind you. He was just playing with her head, trying to get a freebie — or at least a discount.
He was the Customer From Hell.
Whenever we get a customer like this, a secret, telepathic signal gets sent through the store. All of the sales associates gravitate to its source, which in this case was Tiffany. We all found places to quietly observe what was going on. We liked to fool ourselves into thinking that we would rush to her aid if she got into real trouble, but most of us just wanted to watch the train wreck.
Tiffany was getting rattled. Her face was whiter than usual, and beads of sweat were forming on her forehead. Her fingers were actually trembling as she removed the anti-theft tags and rang up the items.
The customer was getting louder and more belligerent. About halfway through the pile, he started yelling at her as she rang things up: "Good grief! This store is nothing but a major rip-off operation! All of your merchandise is shitty and overpriced! Your ads are deceptive! You're doing your best to rip off your customers!"
She was doing a damned good job of trying to appease the guy, but anybody could tell that she was on the verge of tears.
Then he started to insult her personally. "Goddammit, are you really this incompetent? Or are you just trying to rip me off? This was supposed to be on 30 percent discount, and you only rang it up for 20 percent! Damn, you're slow!" I really, truly, honestly saw her lower lip start to tremble.
And that's when this middle-aged man walked up to the Customer From Hell. It's as if he had also gotten the telepathic signal. This new actor looked like he was in his 50s. He still had a lot of hair, and it was mostly brown. It had some graying highlights along the temples, but that was about it. He was dressed casually, but not like a slob. His demeanor was that of a senior citizen who had wandered into the wrong store looking for gifts for his grandkids.
He tapped the Customer From Hell on the elbow and asked, "'Scuse me, sir, is there something wrong?"
The response: "Damn right there is! This store is overcharging me for shitty goods! And this worthless piece-of-shit chick is trying to rip me off!!"
Grandpa asked, "Well, maybe I can help." He turned to one of my co-workers who happened to be standing nearby, attracted to the smell of blood. "Where's your manager?"
The co-worker, suddenly fearful for his life said, "I'll go get him." And he ran off to the back of the store. Sometimes managers pick up the telepathic signal, but often they don't. Our manager was having an oblivious day.
So Grandpa, the Customer From Hell and the skinny girl all stood there, as if frozen in a tableau, waiting for the other kid to come back with the manager. The Customer rocked back and forth on his pompous, overbearing toes and heels. Tiffany was trying her hardest not to cry, but I couldn't tell if she would last. Maybe she would just pass out. And the old guy had a look of intense concentration on his face, as he carefully examined every detail on a poster on the wall, twenty feet away.
Finally, the manager came running up with the kid. He apologized for the delay. Apparently the kid had taken some extra time to explain the whole situation to him. The manager looked like a slightly paunchy Old Navy model: he was wearing a pair of Urban Pipeline jeans, and one of the top-of-the-line polo shirts that usually hangs on the back wall of the men's section. Grandpa read the manager's name off of his name tag and said, "Ah. Grant. I'm glad you're here. This gentleman seems to be having some trouble with his purchases, and I thought that maybe I could help."
The manager, with squinting eyes and furrowed brow, looked at the old man and asked, "And who are you, sir?"
The Customer From Hell echoed, "Yeah, who the hell are you?"
The old gentleman smiled benignly and said, "I'm glad you both asked. You see, my name is Art Peck. I'm the CEO of The Gap, Inc." (Yes, he said "Inc." Pronounced it like "ink.") "Old Navy is actually owned by The Gap."
Grant, the manager, went as white as the skinny little cashier. The Customer snorted. "Good. Now maybe I'll get some satisfaction around here."
Art Peck asked the Customer, "And what's your name?"
He told him his name. Then Peck asked him, "So that we may handle your complaint properly, may I please see your driver's license?"
The customer smirked, pulled out his wallet, removed his license and handed it over to Peck. "Now we're getting somewhere," he sneered.
Peck pulled out his smartphone and took a picture of the driver's license, then gave it back to the guy. With a smile, he said, "I was here the day Tiffany was hired. She has always been a model employee. I can personally vouch for her integrity."
Tiffany, the skinny girl, stared at him with her mouth slightly open. Her watery eyes were now wide open and focused tightly on Peck.
Peck continued, "While it is true that we buy most of our clothing from Asian manufacturers, it is of the highest quality. It must meet MY standards before we're allowed to sell it. And our returns policy is one of the fairest you will find."
The Customer From Hell started shifting from one foot to the other. He was getting impatient. "So, how are you going to make things right by me?"
Peck's smile faded a bit. His eyes became slightly less friendly. He looked like a bird of prey surveying its next meal.
He said, "We keep our checkstands under constant video surveillance. This is to protect you, the customer ..." and the Customer smirked yet again.
"... but it is also to protect our employees. I have this entire transaction on video, and I will be using it in a training video for our new hires. Now," and he called the customer by name, as his smile turned to a ferocious glare, "I will send a copy of the video, AND your driver's license, to every one of our one-thousand-plus stores in the United States. I will see to it that you never shop in an Old Navy store again. Now," and his voice turned to cold steel, "get out of my store."
The Customer From Hell froze. This wasn't what he had expected, and he didn't know how to react. The skinny cashier froze. This was the last thing in the world she was expecting, too. Actually, all of us froze in total disbelief. The only person who moved was Mr. Peck.
He stepped directly in front of the Customer From Hell, their noses almost touching. With a voice like a Marine drill sergeant, he barked, "I said, get the hell out of my store!"
The Customer From Hell took a small step backward, and stammered, "You — you can't —"
Peck got into his face again and yelled, "NOW, ASSHOLE! NOW-NOW-NOW!" And he actually stomped his foot for emphasis on that last "now". I didn't think people really did that.
The next thing that happened, well, it was so fast, it takes longer to tell than it did to happen. The Customer From Hell turned even whiter than Grant had. Then he turned as purple as a beet. Mr. Peck clenched his fists at his sides and leaned forwards onto the tips of his toes. I kid you not, they almost touched noses. The Customer looked like he was going to shit his pants. Then he just turned and ran out of the store.
You know how, in the old Road Runner cartoons, the coyote runs away so fast that he vanishes with a zip, leaving a coyote-shaped cloud of dust where he was standing? Yeah. Well, it seemed like the Customer From Hell disappeared that fast. I'm surprised he didn't leave a customer-shaped hole in the glass door on his way out.
Then Tiffany did start crying. But she quickly composed herself, grabbed a couple of Kleenex, and set about drying her eyes and her nose. The rest of us exhaled, probably for the first time in five minutes. The manager walked up to Peck, grabbed his hand and started shaking it vigorously. "Mr. Peck, thank you for intervening. I had NO IDEA you would be here today. I would have cleaned the place up if I'd known you were coming."
He started to make more excuses, but Peck cut him off with a wave of his free hand and said, "There's no need, Grant, I've been checking this place out for the last half hour and it looks just fine. You can go back to your office. I'd like to have a little talk with Tiffany here." Peck watched as Grant walked back into his office at the back of the store. Then he went to the counter, dramatically pushed the $400 worth of denim out of the way, and laid down an assortment of toddler's and little kids' gear.
"These are for the grandkids," he explained. Hey! He really was a grandpa!
With several curious glances at him, the cashier rang up his purchases. He swiped his credit card and signed on the touch-sensitive screen. The cashier read the name on her display and said, "Wait a minute, you're not Art Peck!"
He winked at her. "Never met him in my life. But I did see his name in the Wall Street Journal this morning."
Saturday, July 6, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
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.
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
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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
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
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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
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