“One more outburst from you, Mr. Ericson, and I will hold you in contempt of court.”

Judge Sonia Kagan’s face had turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the exit signs above the double doors. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh; her expression was almost comical, like a bulldog chewing on a wasp.

“Mr. Young,” she hissed, turning her ire toward my attorney, “I strongly advise you to control your client.”

I had been warned. Several times, in fact. But it is difficult to filter the word crap from your vocabulary when it constitutes a significant portion of your daily lexicon. A guy once told me he’d never met anyone who used the word as a noun, verb, and adjective in a single sentence more fluidly than I did. Maybe I do say it a lot, but it flows like water downhill—without thought, without resistance.

As I opened my mouth to offer a rebuttal, I saw the judge tense up, her gavel hovering like a guillotine blade. My attorney, Bert Young, shot me a look that screamed, Shut up unless you want a roommate named Bubba tonight. Even the court reporter stifled a giggle, her fingers hovering over the keys, likely bracing for a torrent of F-bombs to paint the official record.

To my left, the gallery of traitors looked like they were attending a funeral. Robin, my soon-to-be ex-wife, looked shamed and downtrodden, her eyes fixed on her sensible shoes. Bruce, my former best friend, sat with the defeat of a conquered general etched into his sagging features. And Cheryl, his wife, just looked pissed off. She clearly didn’t appreciate her dirty laundry being aired in a municipal courtroom, especially when that laundry was stained with the sins of her husband.

By now, you might wonder how a guy like me—a 32-year-old city maintenance foreman—ended up being scolded by this simpleton in a black robe. It wasn’t just bad luck. It was a calculated demolition.

It all started on a Tuesday. Let’s call it Doomsday.

My name is Jack Ericson. I run the city maintenance department for Stonemore, Colorado. I started with the city two days after tossing my high school graduation cap. In the winter, I plow the major arteries of the city, battling blizzards to keep commerce flowing. In the summer, I’m the guy who fixes the potholes you curse at and clears the storm drains you ignore. I know the anatomy of this city better than I know my own blood vessels.

Robin worked a few hours a week at the church, mostly to take a break from the housework she barely did. We lived in a nice four-bedroom, two-story home in an older, established neighborhood. We couldn’t afford the rich side of town, known as “The Hill,” but we didn’t live in the ganglands either. We existed in the comfortable middle, flanked by neighbors we thought were family.

Tom and Jerry McBain lived next door. Ron and Cindy were directly behind us. And Bruce Harris—my childhood friend—lived behind the McBains with his wife, Cheryl. Our four households got along so well that we had no fences separating our backyards. It was a communal green space, a symbol of trust.

Bruce and I had been inseparable since middle school. I was the roughneck; he was the golden boy. His parents were devoutly religious, while my dad often told me, “Jack, as long as you don’t knock a girl up or cost me money, I don’t give a damn what you do.” If Bruce’s parents were going to nail him for a transgression, I’d take the blame. I knew they hated me, so their opinion was a currency with no value to me.

Bruce grew up to be a preacher at a local church. I only darkened the door of a sanctuary on Easter and Christmas, mostly to appease Robin, who attended religiously. While Bruce was at Bible College, he met Cheryl. She was a knockout—5’7″, blonde hair, blue eyes, with a figure that stopped traffic. Despite her Playboy looks, she was a prayer machine.

I thought Bruce was the yin to my yang. I would have taken a bullet for him. I would have buried a body for him.

I was about to find out he was the one holding the shovel.

---

Monday evening brought a nasty June thunderstorm that battered Stonemore with high winds and hail. My quadrant took the brunt of the abuse. I had six crews running dump trucks, picking up shattered tree limbs, while I drove around in my pickup checking storm drain complaints. By the time I cleared the debris and managed the street sweepers, I was running on fumes and caffeine.

When I finally got home Tuesday evening, I heated up leftover meatloaf. I didn’t mind the leftovers, but it stung that my wife hadn’t cooked a fresh weekday meal in months. I wanted to drink a twelve-pack and pass out, but the red mark on the calendar meant I was on emergency standby. One beer was my limit.

I ate alone while Robin showered upstairs. It was 7:00 PM. She offered a half-hearted “How was your day?” before disappearing. This routine had been the soundtrack of our marriage for months. The intimacy was gone. Our love life, once vibrant, had reduced to twice in three months, and even those moments felt like she was performing a chore.

I watched the Rockies play the Padres on TV, wishing for a shot of Jägermeister to numb the silence of the house.

Around 10:00 PM, just as I was drifting off, my phone screamed. City Dispatch. A water main break near Birchwood Mall.

I packed snacks, kissed my sleeping marriage goodbye, and headed into the night. The job was brutal—breaking pavement with a backhoe at 1:00 AM, hauling mud until dawn. By noon the next day, we were ready to repave. I returned the equipment to the yard, exhausted, grime under my fingernails, and pulled into my driveway at 1:45 PM.

I was off until Friday. I expected a quiet house.

I grabbed a beer and a sandwich. As I closed the fridge, the suction seal popping was the only sound in the kitchen. But then I heard it. A noise drifting down from the second floor. The unmistakable, rhythmic sound of a woman in the throes of passion.

“No wonder you don’t touch me anymore,” I muttered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.

I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I walked to the coat closet, reached to the top shelf, and grabbed my Kimber .45. I racked the slide.

I moved up the stairs, a ghost in my own home. The noise grew louder—a guttural, animalistic sound. I checked the master bedroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. The guest room. Empty.

That left the craft room.

I kicked the door open, weapon raised, adrenaline flooding my veins.

Empty.

The sound wasn’t coming from inside the room. It was coming from the open window overlooking the backyard.

I moved to the window and looked down. What I saw defied logic. Tommy and Brenda, the McBain children, were by their pool, engaged in an act that I can only describe as incestuous. I froze. I thought this only happened in bad jokes about the deep south. It was like watching a train wreck; I wanted to look away, but my brain couldn’t process the data fast enough.

“They’re watching us! Look at them!” Brenda cried out, looking up toward the houses.

“Oh hell, that’s so hot,” she moaned.

She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking to her left.

I followed her gaze.

In the window of the house next door—Bruce’s house—I saw a bare back. A man was clearly driving into someone with a fervor he never showed in the pulpit. I watched, paralyzed, waiting for him to turn around, praying it was Cheryl.

Then, he turned.

It was Bruce. And beneath him, her face twisted in ecstasy, was Robin.

“Holy crap!” I yelled, the sound tearing from my throat so loudly that the incestuous show below ground to a halt.

Across the yard, Bruce froze. He looked up, locked eyes with me, and stopped.

I raised the Kimber. I had a clear shot. Center mass. But my peripheral vision caught Tommy and Brenda scrambling, naked and terrified, toward their back door. The distraction broke my focus for a split second. By the time I looked back at Bruce’s window, they were gone.

“Goddamn filthy woman!” I screamed, the rage finally detonating.

I ran downstairs, swapping the pistol for my Mossberg 12-gauge. I loaded it with buckshot, my hands shaking not from fear, but from the sheer desire to destroy. “Bruce and the promiscuous are going to die,” I growled. “Cheryl’s cat and the parakeet are fair game too.”

I stormed out the front door, the shotgun heavy and comforting in my hands. But halfway down the driveway, I stopped.

The cool air hit my face. I looked at the shotgun. I looked at the quiet street. If I pulled this trigger, I lost everything. I would trade my freedom for their lives, and they weren’t worth it.

I understood everything now. The dirty house. The lack of meals. The neglected child—wait, we didn’t have kids, thank God. But the neglect of us. She wasn’t tired. She was exhausted from servicing the neighborhood preacher.

I threw the shotgun into the truck, got in, and left black tire marks on the asphalt as I sped toward Lowe’s.

Cliffhanger:

As I drove, my mind raced through the logistics of revenge. Violence was too easy. Too quick. I needed something that lasted. I bought three new locksets at the hardware store. When I returned, the driveway was empty of Bruce, but blocked by the McBain kids. They looked like they were marching to the gallows. But I didn’t care about their sins. I cared about the man sitting at my kitchen table when I walked inside.

Bruce was there. In my house. Waiting for me.

---

“What are you doing in my house, you cursed sucker?” I demanded, dropping the bag of locks on the floor.

“I came to talk to you as a friend,” Bruce replied, his voice trembling with a faux righteousness that made my stomach turn.

“Friend?” I laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. “With friends like you, who needs enemies? Do you think I’m just going to say, ‘Hey Bruce, how was my wife this morning?’”

“Jack, it doesn’t have to be this way,” he said, holding up his hands.

“You’re right,” I said. I slid a butcher knife across the table toward him. It spun and came to a rest pointing at his chest. “Pick it up.”

He stared at the knife, then at the Kimber I had tucked into my waistband. “Come on, Jack. You can’t seriously expect—”

“Pick it up, asshole!” I roared. “You love Jesus so much? I want you to meet him. Now. Pick up the knife and let me put the ‘Make My Day’ law to use. You trespassing piece of pious crap.”

Bruce jumped up, his face pale as milk, and bolted for the door. He stopped on the porch, safe behind the threshold, and turned back. “Jack, we’ve been friends forever. Are you willing to throw that away?”

“I lost two people today, Bruce. But I think when I get past the smell, I’ll realize it’s no real loss. Where is she?”

“She’s at my house. She’s afraid to come over,” he admitted.

“Tell her she has five minutes to get over here if she wants any chance of staying married to me. Now get off my property before I risk prison just to feel better.”

Bruce scurried off like a cockroach exposed to light.

Four minutes later, I heard the sniveling. Robin walked up the sidewalk, tears streaming down her face, playing the victim perfectly for any neighbors watching. She reached to hug me.

I stepped back. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself.”

“But I love you, baby! I only want to be with you!” she pleaded.

“Let’s go inside,” I said, my voice cold. “The neighbors don’t need tickets to this circus.”

We sat in the living room. She tried to sit next to me on the loveseat.

“Hell no,” I said. “Sit over there.”

“How long?” I asked.

“He loves you like a brother, Jack. He’s your best friend.”

“Jack was my friend. Friends don’t screw their friends’ wives. How long?”

“It’s just lovemaking, Jack. I still love you.”

“What a load of crap. ‘It’s just lovemaking.’ Whoever thought of that excuse deserves a cinder block to the head.”

“You still have me,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are. You’re choosing Bruce over me. You can’t give me five minutes, but you can bend over for him anytime? How wonderful.”

“We can stay married,” she said, her eyes widening with a delusional hope. “I’ll just have sex with Bruce. I don’t love him. Just as meat. He says I can take care of your needs once or twice a week.”

I stared at her. The sheer audacity was breathtaking. “How kind of him. I think I’ll find someone else to take care of my needs.”

“No! You’re my husband! No one else should have sex with you! We are still man and wife!”

“Not for much longer. Ex-wife is more fitting. You want to have your cake and eat it too.”

“I… I think Bruce wants me back in three minutes,” she stammered, checking the clock.

“That’s it,” I snapped. “Go. Go get the meat you crave. Get out.”

“I don’t see why we can’t keep things as they are,” she whined at the door. “You’re not home all the time. I can be his while you’re at work.”

I slammed the door so hard I felt the frame shudder. “Screw you! Go eat your cake!”

I locked the deadbolt. Then I spent the next hour changing every lock in the house. I sat down, opened a beer, and turned on the TV. Jerry Springer was on. How fitting.

I fell asleep, exhausted. I woke up at 9:00 PM to pounding on the door. It was Bruce again.

“What do you want?” I growled.

“I need a favor,” Bruce said. “Robin is crying her eyes out. Can’t you call her and tell her you’re not angry and everything will be okay?”

“Tell her everything will be okay? I’m done with both of you. What’s Cheryl going to say when she finds out?”

“She knows,” Bruce said, dropping the bomb. “She’s happy the sneaking around can stop. She wants the three of us to work it out.”

I stared at him. It wasn’t just an affair. It was a cult.

“Get off my porch,” I said. “Tell the promiscuous woman her stuff will be out here in the morning.”

I went upstairs to the craft room—the sniper’s nest. I grabbed my camcorder. I needed evidence. Looking through the lens with night vision, I saw them. Robin and Cheryl on the porch swing, talking quietly. Then Bruce. Then, shockingly, Tom McBain—my other neighbor—walked into Bruce’s backyard, stripped naked, and jumped in the pool.

Bruce joined him. They embraced.

I lowered the camera. What did I do to deserve this? It wasn’t just my wife and best friend. It was the whole damn block. I was living in the middle of a suburban Gomorrah.

I turned on the radio to drown out the noise in my head. The college station was playing heavy metal. Cannibal Corpse. The lyrics screamed: Make them suffer. Make them suffer.

A grin slowly spread across my face.

“I will,” I whispered to the empty room. “I will make them suffer.”

Cliffhanger:

The next morning, Cheryl Harris came knocking. She didn’t want Robin’s clothes. she wanted me to let Robin move back in because “We have an image to protect at the church.” She actually suggested I house and feed Robin while she slept with Bruce, all to save their reputation. I slammed the door in her face and called a lawyer. But legal papers were just the beginning. I knew city ordinances better than Bruce knew the Bible. And I was about to rain a plague of bureaucratic hellfire down on his sanctuary.

---

I called a coworker who had navigated a messy divorce and got the name of a law firm: Crosby, Stills, and Nash. I hoped for David Crosby, known for destroying opponents, but I got Bert Young. Scruffy, but sharp.

“Mr. Ericson,” Bert said, reviewing my files. “I think we can get you everything you want and take the preacher down a notch.”

I packed Robin’s life into garbage bags and left them on the porch. I canceled the credit cards. I emptied the joint accounts.

Then, I went to work on Bruce.

First, I called the City Accounting Department. I had allowed my crews to haul several loads of gravel to Bruce’s church for free—a favor for a friend. I kept the tare slips.

“Janice,” I said to the clerk, “Make sure that bill for the church gravel is entered as unpaid. And add the transportation fees.”

Bruce now owed the city $7,500.

Next, I called the water department supervisor. “Hey, you know that church on Vinewood? Pretty sure their water meter isn’t up to code.”

That was another $11,200 for a replacement.

I called a buddy in the Fire Department. “Tony, I think the Vinewood Presbyterian Church might be a little lax on their occupancy codes. Might want to pay them a visit.”

By noon, Bruce was calling me.

“What are you trying to pull, Jack?” he screamed. “The inspectors are telling me I have to redo the whole parking lot! You said everything would be fine!”

“Seems I forgot to turn in some paperwork,” I said, my voice dripping with false sympathy. “Don’t worry, I’m sure God will provide.”

My supervisor walked in, heard the conversation, and smirked. “Remind me to put a scathing Post-it note in your file, Jack.”

“I’ll need a Post-it to remind me to remind you,” I joked.

Bruce was getting hit from every angle. The Fire Marshal shut down the sanctuary for code violations. The County Assessor found an “error” in his property tax. The Police Department started patrolling the area around the church a little more vigorously.

Make them suffer.

But I needed the knockout blow.

On Saturday morning, I was working in the garage when Brenda McBain appeared. She held a USB stick in her hand, her face flushed.

“Hi, Mr. Ericson,” she said shyly. “I have a video you might find useful. Taken a week ago.”

I took the stick. “What is it?”

“Just watch it,” she said. “It… it explains a lot.”

That night, I plugged the USB into my laptop. The file opened. It was footage shot through a basement window of the abandoned King James Hotel downtown. The city owned the building; it was supposed to be boarded up.

But inside, there were lights. And people.

I saw Bruce. I saw Cheryl. I saw Robin. And I saw others. It was a full-blown orgy. But then, the camera panned to a man sitting in a velvet chair, watching the proceedings with a glass of wine.

My jaw dropped. It was Judge Kagan’s husband.

And next to him, adjusting her glasses, was Dr. Landers—the court-appointed marriage counselor everyone in the county was forced to see.

I sat back, the glow of the screen illuminating my smile. I didn’t just have evidence for a divorce. I had the keys to the kingdom.

I formulated a plan. I needed to serve the papers, and I needed to do it in a way that would shatter their “image” forever.

Cliffhanger:

Sunday morning. I walked into Vinewood Presbyterian Church. The congregation was thin, but the choir—Cheryl, Robin, and a few others—was singing loudly. I sat in the back. I caught the eye of Robert Donovan, the A/V guy. He owed me favors for fixing his driveway. I gave him the signal. When the offering plate came around, I dropped in the USB stick. It wasn’t money. It was a bomb. And the fuse was lit.

---

Bruce stood at the pulpit, babbling about forgiveness, conveniently skipping the Seventh Commandment. He asked for guests to introduce themselves.

My process servers stood up.

“I’m here to see Cheryl Harris,” a young woman said.

“I’m here to see Robin Ericson,” a pimply kid announced.

“I’m here for Bruce Harris,” the third man said.

They walked to the front. “You have been served.”

Bruce grabbed the mic, his face purple. “Why have you defiled my sanctuary?”

That was Robert’s cue.

On the massive projection screen behind the pulpit, the cross faded away. In its place, high-definition footage of the King James Hotel basement flickered to life. There was Bruce, naked as a jaybird. There was Cheryl. There was Robin.

The silence in the church was heavier than lead. Then, chaos.

Four old ladies reached for their phones to call the cops. One elderly woman walked up to Bruce and hit him squarely in the groin with her cane. Robin screamed.

I turned and walked out the door, the sound of their empire crumbling filling the air like sweet music.

But the war wasn’t over. I still had to face Judge Kagan.

Days later, my attorney Bert informed me we had a court date. “She’s tough, Jack. She hates husbands. And she mandates counseling with Dr. Landers.”

“I’ll go to counseling,” I said. “I have a few things to get off my chest.”

The session with Dr. Landers was a farce. Robin sat there, crying, claiming she was a “sexual explorer” and that I was “narrow-minded.” Dr. Landers nodded sympathetically.

“Mr. Ericson,” Dr. Landers said, looking down her nose at me. “Neanderthal thinking doesn’t comprehend multiple partners in a happy marriage. You owe it to yourself to be open-minded.”

“I’m done,” I said, standing up.

“If you leave, I will report you to Judge Kagan. You will go to jail,” Landers threatened.

I leaned across her desk. “Tell the Judge the gig is up. I know about the Casanova Club at the King James. And my buddy Mike Star, the investigative reporter, knows too. I saw the elk head on the wall, Doctor. I saw who was sitting under it.”

Dr. Landers’ face went from smug to ghostly white in a heartbeat.

“Screw you,” I said, and walked out.

The next day, I enacted the final phase of my plan. I went to the head of City Maintenance. I proposed turning the land behind the old King James Hotel into a snowplow storage depot. To secure it, we needed to fence off the entire property immediately.

“Great thinking, Jack,” my boss said. “You just saved the city half a million dollars.”

Within 24 hours, my crews were welding shut the access points to the hotel. The club was closed. permanently.

The court hearing was anti-climactic. I didn’t even show up. My lawyer, Justin (who I’d nicknamed Bieber just to annoy him), went in with the leverage.

When Robin arrived at court, she expected a fight. Instead, she watched as Judge Kagan’s face turned ashen after a whispered conference at the bench.

The gavel banged.

“Decree granted,” Kagan mumbled.

I got the house. I got my retirement. I got 60% of the liquid assets. Robin got nothing but her freedom to be “meat.”

Cliffhanger:

The fallout was nuclear. Mike Star ran the story. Judge Kagan was removed. Her husband was indicted. Dr. Landers and her husband were found dead—a murder-suicide. Bruce was forced to resign and fled to Iowa. Cheryl divorced him. Robin was left destitute, living in a small apartment. But I wasn’t there to see it. I had sold the house, packed my truck, and headed west. I wasn’t alone.

---

Epilogue: The Jackpot

Las Vegas, Nevada.

The desert heat was a dry blanket compared to the humidity of the midwest. I pulled my truck into the driveway of my new stucco home. The lawn needed mowing, but I’d wait until Saturday morning.

Inside, the air conditioning hummed—a modern hymn of comfort.

“Hi baby,” a voice called out.

Brenda walked into the kitchen. She had changed. The awkward, self-conscious girl from next door had blossomed. She was studying at UNLV, confident, beautiful, and most importantly, loyal.

“Did you make sure the tourists didn’t cheat the house?” she teased, kissing me.

“The house always wins,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. “And when you graduate next month, you’ll be working for the man just like me.”

“At least until I knock you up,” she joked.

“Still can’t believe Robin screwed Mr. Harris,” I said, shaking my head. It was a distant memory now, like a movie I saw once and barely remembered.

“Her loss, my gain,” Brenda smiled.

I had left Stonemore three days after the confrontation. Brenda followed me two weeks later. We married a year after that. Her parents, Tom and Jerry, gave us their blessing. “Jack,” Tom had said, “You’ve always been rough, but I know you’ll treat her right.”

They were right.

I walked into my den and turned on the TV to watch the Rockies game. My life was quiet. My life was clean.

I thought about Robin, probably freezing in Wyoming with that rancher she chased after Bruce dumped her. I thought about Bruce, preaching to an empty room in Iowa.

I took a bite of pizza and looked at Brenda, who was highlighting her textbooks at the kitchen table.

From one risky woman to another, I had traded a counterfeit bill for solid gold. My life was as good as a morning crap. And for the first time in years, the calendar was clear.