Cheating Wife Begged Me Took Her Back After She Opened Our Marriage. I Got Epic Revenge. Audio Story

[Music] Years of routine had cemented my life into a predictable rhythm: steady work, an active lifestyle, and a marriage I believed was built on mutual respect. But cracks began to appear as my wife's frustration surfaced in sharp words and icy silences. The person who once felt like my greatest ally seemed to view me as a stranger, or worse, an adversary. Yet I couldn't bring myself to believe that the foundation we built would crumble completely. Despite the growing distance, I clung to the hope that this was a phase, one of those difficult stretches every couple

encounters. It wasn't until I stumbled upon unsettling clues—small, subtle changes in her routine and a growing secrecy in her behavior—that I realized this was something far deeper than a rough patch. The day I decided to follow her after work was the day my illusions shattered, plunging me into a reality I never thought I'd face. A deep, involuntary groan rumbled from my chest as I struggled to shift positions. Consciousness had only just returned, yet my body seemed paralyzed, ignoring the frantic signals from my muddled mind to move quickly. Pain flared from every part of me, its

intensity disorienting. As I lay sprawled on the gritty ground, dust rose with each strained breath, stinging my throat and filling my nose. Every inch of me ached; my ribs throbbed, my head pounded, and my limbs felt like lead weights pressing me down. Even the smallest movement sent shocks of agony rippling through my battered body. Somewhere, I'd read that the human body can't feel pain from multiple areas at once, but I'm here to say whoever wrote that article was a fool. Along with a groan, I heard a voice cutting through the darkness. "Hey, idiot, you awake

and ready for round two?" A mocking laugh followed—cold and derisive, nothing like the sound of genuine amusement. I lay still, struggling to gather my thoughts. The first thing that came to mind was my name: Charlie Wilson, I muttered, barely above a whisper. "That's it, that's my name. I'm 33 years old, an accountant. I'm 6 feet tall, about 200 lbs. I work out three times a week and run a 5K twice a week as part of my routine. Sometimes I mountain bike. I'm married to Pam Wilson; she's 30, and we've been married five years. We don't

have kids—not because I don't want them, but because Pam does. She wants to live a bit more before committing to kids." Now I remembered: that's why I was lying on the ground, breathing in dust. Our home life had seriously fallen apart over the past six to eight weeks. It wasn't just the lack of closeness in the bedroom; no, it was the whole deal—mocking comments about everything I did or didn't do, angry outbursts over the smallest things, insults about my masculinity, my skin color, my hair, my family—everything. Pam had stopped cleaning up after herself and even

refused to cook—something we'd always shared before things got cold. Yeah, I remember when we met, how we started dating. But right now, I didn't feel like wasting time on those memories. Finally fed up with the misuse and neglect in our marriage, I'd taken a day off to follow Pam while she went to her job at the local supermarket. After her shift, things took an interesting turn. You know the old Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times?" Well, it hit today, or rather tonight. It was a warm September day, turning into an equally warm September

evening. The temperature must have still been in the upper 60s as I lay there in the dirt, reflecting on what had happened. Pam left work and drove to the nearest convenience store. I watched her pull a small overnight bag from the trunk of her car. By the way, she was driving a nice car—courtesy of me; her meager wages hardly covered her clothes and makeup. I didn't mind covering all the bills—at least, I didn't mind it until now. I loved her and wanted the best for her. When she came out of the store, she was wearing

the shortest micro skirt I'd ever seen. If she hadn't been wearing a string and been shaved, you'd have been able to count every hair on her mound without even trying hard. Her blouse was sheer, and she wasn't wearing a bra. She swung her hips as she walked to her car, heading for the sleazy bars on the outskirts of town. I followed her; she pulled into the absolute worst bar in town—a biker hangout. Don't bother telling me there aren't bad bikers out there; I know—I’m a biker myself. But this wasn't the type of place where you'd

find poker runs or charity events on weekends. Pam parked her car at the end of a row of bikes, making sure her lap was visible to everyone as she got out. A couple of bikers standing near the door just smiled and nodded as she walked past—clearly, she was no stranger to these guys. I parked some distance away from the bikes and got out of my old truck. Sure, I could afford a newer one, but this truck meant something to me. My dad bought this Dodge Power Wagon in the '80s, and he kept it in perfect

condition until his end in an industrial accident. I worked hard to keep it as original as possible, except for the lift kit and new 20-inch tires. The original chrome bumper had long since been replaced with a heavy wooden one. The truck was a little loud, but it was mine. The guys outside gave it a glance as I closed the door. It wasn't unusual enough for them to keep staring, so they went back to their conversation. As I got closer, I caught the scent. Of Dopey in the air, which made sense given the location, I was

wearing jeans and an old t-shirt—not my usual suit. Following my wife around wasn't something you do in business attire. I didn't exactly fit in, but at least I wasn't in a suit. I headed inside; there was no cover charge at this place. I made my way to the bar and ordered a beer—no fancy craft brew today, just whatever was on tap. While sipping my beer, I casually scanned the back bar mirror. Pam was easy to spot; there weren't many women here tonight, and Pam stood out head and shoulders above the rest of the biker girls.

She was already sitting on the lap of the biggest guy I'd ever seen. He was at least a foot taller than her while sitting down, and she was perched on his lap. This guy had to be well over 6 feet tall and at least 250 lbs, and it wasn't all muscle—he had a beer belly. He clearly worked out. I was about to finish my beer and leave when Pam stopped kissing the giant and glanced around, making sure all the other women saw she had the alpha male locked down. Her eyes found the back of my

head. She looked away, then looked back again. Crap! She recognized me, I muttered to myself. I shot off the stool like it was coated in grease, desperate to get out. Pam's voice rang out behind me, "That's my husband! Charlie, stop him! Someone! He's going to ruin this for all of us." Before I could get far, a guy grabbed my arm. I spun around and shoved him into the wall—hard enough to break free. I took a few steps toward the door, and another guy swung at my head. I have a hard head, and I wasn't always

an accountant. Growing up in a rough neighborhood taught me how to handle myself. His punch grazed my head as I ducked, and I countered with a solid strike to his solar plexus. He grunted, doubling over, struggling to breathe. I didn't stick around to make sure he went down. I was almost at the door when another huge guy walked in. "Behemoth!" he yelled. "Get him! Get him now!" someone shouted. The guy blocked my way, making sure to keep me inside for a moment. My old football coach always said we had to block through our opponents, so

I dropped my shoulder and aimed for the open space outside the bar. I punched him in the chest and drove him back, but I didn't shake him off completely. He wrapped his arms around me, and just as we cleared the door, he hurled me over his left shoulder. My momentum carried me down the stairs, and I hit the dirt hard. I got up quickly, but now Behemoth was in the fight. God, he was huge and built! He hammered through my defenses as I tried to protect my face and torso. I don't even know if I

managed to land a single punch on his rock-hard body—all I remember was pain: every hit, every punch, every kick. Once he had me on the ground, he didn't even seem to break a sweat as he took me apart, and he kept taunting me the whole time, saying, "Take this, loser. You think you can come into my place and cause trouble? I'm going to screw her three times tonight just to show you who's in charge! I drill her every night she comes here, and then you get my sloppy seconds when she gets home." The insults went

on and on until I was barely moving. As I lost consciousness, I could hear Pam laughing at my knocking body. Behemoth told the others to watch me, warning, "If he gets up, let me know! I want another shot at this little crap before I'm done with him." When I regained consciousness, I had to come up with a plan to get out without taking another strike or continuing the one I'd already received. I didn't know what would happen next, and I wasn't eager to find out. One of my eyes wouldn't open; it didn't feel swollen, so

I assumed it was blood blocking my vision. I worked my right hand, which had been trapped under me when I fell, until I could reach my eye. It had been some time since I blacked out. As I rubbed the dried blood away, I finally managed to get my eyelid open and could see a little. My left eye seemed fine. Not knowing where the watchers were, I hoped I was hidden in the shadows. I began to slowly inch toward my truck, moving a few inches at a time as quietly as I could, stopping to make sure

no one had noticed. Then I moved a little more. I kept this up, inching closer to the truck. Once I was behind the bikes, near Pam's car, I carefully got up on my knees. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out from the pain. My breathing was shallow and ragged, so I guessed I had some broken ribs. Even taking a small breath hurt like hell—a sharp pain reminded me to move slowly, carefully. Once I was on my feet, I looked around. My watchers were clearly distracted, probably due to

the extra dope and booze they had been given. They were seated next to the building, barely paying attention to anything happening around them. The Taliban would have had a field day with these idiots. I turned and checked my surroundings—no one was near my truck. I hunched over and moved slowly toward my ride. I unlocked the door and opened it. Now would be the time for an alarm, with the dome light flicking on like a beacon. In the otherwise dark parking lot, I regretted jacking up the truck so high as I struggled to climb in. The

only thing keeping me from getting caught was the fear of being seen before I reached safety. I sucked it up and got inside. I slid into the seat, put the key in the ignition, and shut the door. The dome light turned off. I took a few calming breaths, trying to figure out my next move. Starting the truck would break the silence and alert my attackers. How could I get away? As I looked out, a smile slowly spread across my face. Crap! My teeth and lips ached, so the smile quickly faded. Right in front of me,

about 30 yards away, was Pam's car and all the bikes lined up neatly. Did I have the power to make it happen? I couldn't crawl back out and engage the hubs, so I'd have to do this in two-wheel drive. This old truck didn't have the automatic hubs like newer ones. It was time. I cranked the engine, and it fired on the first try. Dropping the transmission into low, I floored the gas. The watchers by the door, blurry-eyed, looked up just in time to see my truck charging toward Pam's car and the bikes. The huge piece

of timber in front of my truck slammed into the left side of Pam's car. The car was so light it almost lifted off the ground. I know because I lifted it. It crashed into the bikes on the other side. The noise was deafening, fully waking up the watchers who began screaming. I kept pushing forward until my progress was halted. I quickly backed up, relieved nothing got stuck, then twisted the wheel and hit second gear, clearing the worst of the wreckage. I twisted the wheel again and hit the rest of the bikes, this time with enough

force to shove them right up against the bar's door, blocking anyone trying to exit. Unfortunately, I couldn't smash into the building itself; I would have loved to drop the whole mess right on Pam and her lover. I backed up, spun the truck around, kicking up a cloud of dust as I sped out of the parking lot and away from town. I was hurting, and my breathing hadn't gotten any better despite the effort of steering and shifting gears. I needed a hospital, but not the local community one. No, I was heading about 50 miles west to

a trauma center. For the first few miles, I saw no one behind me; the two-lane highway seemed empty for some reason. Then a couple of headlights appeared in the distance, and a few more followed close behind. No red or blue lights, though—no cops. Soon, the headlights grew closer. I saw they were motorcycle headlights. I guessed I hadn't taken them all out. A couple of bikes came up beside me, and I heard the sound of chain pieces bouncing off the metal. Damn it! I didn't think they could hurt the truck, but they could definitely mess up

the paint. My mind raced, trying to figure out how to stop them or escape. I knew their top speed was likely faster than my old truck, so outrunning them wasn't an option. In desperation, I swerved over the center line and forced the two bikes alongside me off the road. Those big bikes didn't handle ditches well, and both of them crashed. While I took out the ones on the left, a few others came up on my right. Another quick swerve, and I sent them into the dirt on the right side of the road. I caught a

glimpse of one guy cartwheeling off his bike. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. I still had several more bikes behind me, dangerously close. I hoped they wouldn't get the idea to jump into my truck bed. That would bring them too close for comfort, as if they weren't already too close. Suddenly, I slammed on the brakes and felt a small thump. I hit the gas again, and when I looked in the rearview, there were no more headlights behind me. Crap! In every movie, the bikers always pester the car driver until they win. Is it really that

easy to beat a motorcycle? When I neared Centerville and the trauma center, my mind began racing again. How could I keep Pam from finding me? She and Behemoth would probably think I'd either go home to lick my wounds or head to the nearest hospital. When they couldn't find me there, they'd probably look further afield. If I ended up in a regular bed at the trauma center, how could I protect myself? I kept thinking as I slowed down to a crawl. Finally, I remembered an acquaintance who owned some land near Centerville. He rented out the pasture

and rarely checked on it, so it might be the perfect spot for me. I headed to where I thought his small ranch was. The place had been abandoned for years, but the old farmhouse and barn were still standing, surrounded by tall trees. I pulled in and parked my truck behind the barn. I left my wallet and ID in the cab, placing my keys on top of the rear wheel where they wouldn't be easy to spot. Damn, it hurt to walk, but I needed to get some distance from the truck. Once I made the emergency call,

local law enforcement would be out looking for my truck. I made it about a mile before the pain and shortness of breath became unbearable. I sat down on the gravel road's edge and pulled out my cell phone. I dialed emergency, whispering when the operator answered, "Help me! I was abducted and woke up on the side of the road. I don't know where I am. Please send help." Other than lying about knowing my location, everything else I said was true. I really needed help. The operator tried to get me to find landmarks, but I just let

the phone drop to my side. I knew they could locate me via my phone's GPS; all they had to do was ping it, and they'd get a pretty accurate location unless I was on the edge of the coverage area. I did whisper that I was on a gravel road, but there were no signs to offer more details. I then lay down to rest. I must have fallen asleep or lost consciousness because the next thing I knew, someone was bending over me. At first, I couldn't tell who it was. Had Behemoth or one of his cronies

found me? It was definitely a man, so it couldn't have been Pam. Besides, I'd wrecked her car, so unless she had another ride, it wasn't her. It was starting to get light out; daybreak couldn't be far off, but what day was it? Had I been lying here for more than a day? The voice kept asking questions. I made up a name for him in my head. My voice was still a whisper. The striking combined with not having anything to drink for who knows how long made it worse. "My name is Sam Adams. I live in

Wilsonville. I'm 40 years old, and I'm allergic to penicillin." Of course, no one could refute my claims without ID, and the man asking the questions didn't know that. I just had to stick to my story. I told him I must have been mugged, knocked out, and dumped here. I asked him what day it was. I nearly sighed with relief when it was clear I hadn't been unconscious for more than a day. Soon an ambulance arrived, and I was taken to the trauma center. The paramedic in the back with me started an IV and gave me

something for nausea and pain. I didn't complain much, except when the stretcher hit a bump. We were at the trauma center in just a few minutes. A nice nurse carefully washed the dried blood off my face, and the doctor tut-tutted over my injuries. I stuck to the story that I'd been abducted, knocked out, and dumped in a rural area. I told them my wallet was missing, so I had no ID. I gave them a birth date that combined my mom's birthday with my brother's birth year. I could easily remember that lie. The birth date would

make me 36 instead of 40, but I figured they wouldn't care since I had been unconscious a few times since the striking. Soon a police officer entered and began questioning me. I gave him the name of a nearby town where the abduction supposedly took place. There were plenty of small towns around Centerville, so it wasn't hard to come up with something. But when he asked for my home address, I realized I'd have to come up with another lie. Too many lies might be hard to keep straight. I also told him I was divorced and had

no family. That one would be easier to manage. Then the cop asked a strange question: "Do you ride a motorcycle?" That one was easy to answer, and I didn't need to worry about the truth. "I used to, many years ago," I said, "but I haven't owned a bike in a long time. Why do you ask?" I added, curious. "We're investigating an accident, or actually a series of accidents, about 20 miles from here," the officer explained. "Two bikers were eliminated in one crash, and six others are injured, ranging from broken bones to critical head trauma. None

of the riders can tell us what happened. We have detectives looking into it because it doesn't add up. These guys are hardcore riders, and crashes like this just don't make sense. The theory is that a rival motorcycle gang might have caused the wrecks." I shook my head, trying to seem as clueless as possible. "I don't even know anyone in a bike club," I replied. "No one I work with owns a bike or does poker runs." The officer leaned forward, studying me. "Any idea who might have wanted to hurt you?" "Nope," I answered quickly. "I'm divorced,

live alone, I work on a non-union construction site and we haven't had trouble with the union guys in a while. I go out for a beer once a week, but I have a drinking problem, so I don't let myself get too drunk. Last time, I didn't sober up for three or four weeks. It was hell getting my reputation back. My ex-wife remarried and seems to be doing fine. She probably left me because of my drinking. I don't think her husband's jealous; she probably tells him all the awful things I used to do." The officer finally

left, and the nurse returned. "The doctor wants you to stay here tonight; he's concerned about your kidney function. There was some blood in your urine. You've got broken ribs too, which need time to heal. There's not much we can do about those, except give you some pain medication so you can breathe properly." I nodded and let them do their thing. Once she left, I pulled out my cell phone and called my brother Dave. "I know it's early, but I need some help." Dave's pretty laid-back, so he took it without question. I told him what had

happened and where I was, including my fake name to use if he came to see me. "What do you need right now?" he asked. He'd always liked Pam but didn't give me any grief. I figured that might come later, but not now. "I need my stuff from the house. If you could arrange for a mover who won't ask questions and make sure that…" "Woman doesn't interfere, then my things could be moved to a storage facility. Can you handle that?" He didn't hesitate. Growing up in a rough neighborhood, he knew a few guys who knew some

other guys who were experienced at quick moves. I texted him a list of what I wanted taken from the house. I didn't care if they had to force the door. Next, I called a realtor, an old friend from the neighborhood. "Mike, I need a quick favor." "No problem, Charlie. What's going on?" Mike's voice was calm, like always. "Pam's cheating on me with a biker. I don't know his name, but he hangs out at Mario's out by the edge of town. I'm not too worried about him right now; we'll deal with that later. What I need

is to list my house and sell it fast so Pam can't move that idiot into my place." I paused for a moment, trying to keep my voice steady. I bought the house right after we got married. Pam's credit had ruined our chances of getting a house together, so the mortgage and title were in my name only. I'd always planned to add her to the title, but I'd put it off. Maybe deep down, I'd known this day was coming. Sure, she was entitled to half, but we hadn't gone to court yet, and I planned to make

things as difficult as possible for her. "All right, Charlie, I get it," Mike said, his tone serious. "But what happens if Pam's at the house when I show up to do the market assessment and put the sign up?" "Right now, she's just a tenant," I replied. "She doesn't have any say about the ownership." Mike was quiet for a second, then asked, "Okay, but how do I handle it if she's there?" I thought for a moment. "I think you should act as my rental manager. Take her a lease agreement, month to month, and tell her she

has to maintain the property in sellable condition and be ready for showings. Make it clear that if she doesn't sign, she'll be evicted." Mike chuckled, though it wasn't exactly a cheerful sound. "I don't think she's smart enough to fight it until she gets a lawyer, and I don't think she'll do that until she gets served." I told him about the movers who'd be coming soon. He chuckled and said he'd pick up a new lock for whichever door got breached. After that, I was moved to a new room, given breakfast, and managed to get some sleep.

I wasn't planning on calling a lawyer just yet; let her stew for a few days. Dave called me back later that afternoon. "Charlie, it's all done," he said, his voice steady. "The guys went over, grabbed your recliner, microwave, washer and dryer, the guest bedroom set, your tools and tool safe, and all your tools. They even took all the dishes, pans, and utensils, even though you didn't ask for those. They just wanted to make things as inconvenient as possible for Pam." I sighed, rubbing my temple on the bed in the master suite. Dave hesitated for a

moment. "Well, some bleach spilled on it. I don't think it's salvageable. The room might need a couple of days to air out." I had to chuckle, though it twisted something inside me. "Was she there?" "They didn't see her anywhere," Dave replied. "I think they were hoping for a confrontation. You know the guys, they don't like witches." I agreed, though my tone was flat. He wrapped up the call, telling me he'd come pick me up when I was released. Now, you might be wondering how I was handling the finances. Did she have time to clean out

the accounts? Well, didn't I mention I'm an accountant? A good one. Some of my clients come from the old neighborhood and deal with, let's say, less than legal income. I make sure their money looks clean for the IRS. I also only allowed Pam to have access to her personal account and a joint account. I regularly deposited into the joint account, but she couldn't touch the savings or investment accounts. Sure, I'd have to share it with her later, but not until a judge decided. Right now, she had only her wages from her cashier job to rely

on, unless Behemoth was covering her expenses. I checked the account balances. She'd withdrawn all the available cash from the joint account. No problem; I still had my own account where my paycheck went, and it wasn't even at the same bank. Around 6:00 in the evening, Mark called me back. "I didn't know he had no love for Pam until he told me what happened. 'Charlie, your wife was a little upset when I showed up at the house late this afternoon,' Mark began. Apparently, the front door was wide open when she got home, and stuff was missing.

She was polite at first, but when I pulled out the new lock and started replacing the old one, she didn't take it too well. She wasn't happy when I put the key in a box on the door and secured it." I grimaced at the thought. "By the way, you're going to need a new front door. That one's too damaged and could hurt the sale," Mark added. I chuckled despite myself, but it was the pain medicine they'd given me that really helped ease the discomfort. "Did she have any issues with the fact that she's now a

tenant and has to pay rent?" I asked. Mark laughed bitterly. "Oh yeah, that went over like a lead balloon. When I told her the house was for sale, she nearly lost it. She yelled at me to leave. I told her I was the new rental manager and that only the property owner could force me off the premises. Then I handed her the lease to sign." Naturally, she refused and kept asking where you were. "Have you blocked her number?" she kept saying you weren't answering her calls. I didn't think you'd want her to know where you

are, and honestly, I don't know either. I groaned. "Well, that didn't exactly help her situation," darn it, Mark said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Did you tell her she'd be evicted if she doesn't sign the lease?" I asked. "Yeah," Mark replied, "but you know how some people think they know better than everyone else. I gave her 24 hours to sign, or I'd serve the eviction notice." "I hope she doesn't sign. If she doesn't, she'll be out within 30 days. I know a couple of sheriff's deputies who can't stand cheating wives, and they'll be happy to

help her move out, even if it's just to the curb." After we hung up, I checked my phone. Though I was a bit out of it, I realized I had actually blocked her number. There were several missed calls starting around midnight last night, along with multiple texts. Instead of deleting them, I decided to keep them just in case my future divorce attorney needed them, along with the voice messages. I managed to sleep pretty well that night, probably thanks to the pain meds, but I like to think the thought of making Pam upset helped more than

the medication. The next morning, the doctor came by. I was being discharged; my kidney function had improved, and my breathing was stable. But I wasn't going to be doing any running for a while; he was very clear about that. I promised to take care of myself and, of course, not get abducted again. When Dave arrived, I'd already corrected my name for admissions and called the office to ensure they got the insurance details to the nurse, since I still didn't have my wallet. Dave took me to my truck, and we headed back to our hometown. I

certainly wasn't going to call it my home anymore, since now I was homeless. Once we got into town, I checked in with work. At least my boss was furious about my disappearing for days. He calmed down when I explained that I'd been abducted, knocked, and left on the side of the road to die. He also wanted to know who might have wanted to hurt me. He mentioned that Pam had been trying to find me. I'm pretty sure he didn't appreciate my dry laugh when I told him she could go to hell. He probably had some

desire to be with Pam, and honestly, if his wife was okay with it, I didn't care. I arranged to take a couple more days off since it was a slow period at work, with quarterly reports done and tax season still far off. I quickly found an apartment near my office. The local economy wasn't great, but that made housing more affordable. I signed a year-long lease, paid the necessary deposits, and got the electricity and gas transferred to my name. I also called the cell phone company, switched my plan to month-to-month, and arranged to shut off Pam's

phone in a few days. That would give me time to inform her she was on her own. After that, I went to a furniture rental place, picked out a couch, a bedroom set, and then bought some pots, pans, dishes, and utensils. I knew Dave's friends had taken all that, but I figured I could give it back to Pam if she asked. I called Dave and set up a time for the movers to bring my things over. I sat in my new place, phone in hand, and dialed my soon-to-be ex-wife. To my surprise, she picked up

on the first ring. "Hello? Is that you, Charlie?" "Unless someone stole my phone, it must be you." "Why do you have to be so insulting?" I shot back. "Where are you, and why haven't you been home? Are you that stupid?" she responded coolly. "I stopped at a bar to have a beer and saw you with your new lover. I didn't even try to confront you. After the way you've been treating me these last few months, it was obvious you found someone new, and I was just your convenient bill payer. I tried to leave, but your

boyfriend stopped me. He beat me up while you just stood there and laughed. I had to crawl away and ended up in the hospital for a few days wondering if my ribs or kidneys would survive his attack, and you're asking me why I haven't been back to the house? Are you really that deranged? Why would I put myself anywhere near you so your new man can punch me again? Do you want me dead?" She started rambling, spitting out a stream of nonsensical blabber, but I cut her off. "I hope you're recording this," I said, my

voice cold, "Is that what you've been planning? Get me eliminated, then spin some story—maybe I was jealous of your innocent relationship with that idiot? Then you get everything: the house, my money, my pension, and my life insurance. Bravo! Too bad I ruined your little scheme." There was a pause, and then I heard her start to cry. "I need you to come home. Everything's gone wrong," she sobbed. "The house is for sale, stuff's missing. I think someone broke in before I got home and stole things." I scoffed, a dark amusement in my voice. "Yeah, someone I

know broke in and took my stuff, along with some things I needed to set up my new place. I'll be all set up by tomorrow. Sucks to be you, but I'm sure your new man will be there to support you." She was almost frantic now. "How could you be so cruel? That realtor told me I have to pay rent!" Why do I have to pay rent for our home? This isn't right! I couldn't help but snort at her stupidity. Yes, I actually snorted on the phone. I said, "What happened to us? Are you really that

clueless, or do you think I'm the one who's dumb? Look in the mirror if you want your answer. You decided to treat me like garbage and start a relationship with a dirtbag before you even left me. You spent my money on new clothes and went out drinking with him. That night wasn't the first time you were with him; everyone knew who you were and who you belonged to. Then you stood there and laughed as he struck me half to death. If I had made any noise when I woke up, he would have finished the job;

I have no doubt about that." I paused for a beat before delivering the final blow. "So kiss my bum! You're now a renter, and Mike is the landlord. Don't talk to me about rent; just pay it or get out." She was quiet for a moment before asking, "But I need some money. There's nothing left in the checking account." "There won't be," I replied. "I'll keep paying the utilities until the house sells, but you'll pay the rent with your paycheck. You have a job! Stop spending on makeup and clothes for a while. You've got enough stuff

to get by, or better yet, have your boyfriend pay for you." Her voice cracked as she responded, "But you're my husband! You were supposed to take care of me!" "Yeah," I snapped, "and as my wife, you were supposed to cheer while your lover and his friends knocked me up. Guess we both lose, huh?" There was a pause on the line. Finally, she asked, "What about a car? My car's totaled, and I need a way to get to work." I couldn't resist. "Call your boyfriend. You can ride on the back of his bike; you’re already used

to straddling something that belongs to him." She shot back quickly, "He's in the hospital with a head injury and multiple broken bones! He was chasing you when you hit the brakes. He slammed into the ground and flew a few meters, landing on his head." "Karma, I guess. Too bad he didn't die," I felt a sick sense of satisfaction. "Tell him I'll be keeping an eye out for him. If I see him first, I'll avoid him. Otherwise, I'll be carrying my tool and shooting instead of talking." The excuses kept coming. Finally, I told her to eat

crap and die, then hung up. Her number was still blocked, so I didn't even have to turn my phone off. I tried to sleep; honestly, I did, but with no bed and too much pain to lie on the floor, I couldn't. I finally left the apartment and checked into a decent motel just to get some rest in a real bed. It took everything I had to get up the next morning. God, I hope I heal fast. I wonder if boxers feel this bad after going ten rounds with someone tougher than they are. I grabbed a

quick breakfast and headed back to the apartment. Before long, Dave's crew had unloaded all my things and set them up. I gave each of them an extra hundred bucks for their trouble. After that, the rental place delivered the couch and other items. I tipped them as well. I'd need to hit the bank for some walking-around money soon. I like to keep a couple thousand in cash stashed somewhere easy to grab. I'm not a saint, and someone might one day take an interest in my accounting for certain less-than-legal clients, so I've got my go bag ready—and

yes, it’s not in my former house. I sat down in my familiar recliner and started thinking about my future. Should I lay low for a while or just go about business as usual and act like everything's fine? When should I pull the trigger on divorcing my cheating wife? Should I string her along for a while longer, or should I act like we might get back together and then dump her? Nah, the last option was pointless; she'd just move on to Behemoth or whoever replaced him. Maybe I'll keep her guessing until she finally gets smart enough

to hire a lawyer. In our state, the reason for a divorce doesn't affect the outcome; unless she goes to jail for what her boyfriend did to me, no judge will care why we're splitting up. They'll just divide up what's public knowledge, and she'll get at least 50% of everything. The rest will be mine. So how can I make her life a little more miserable? I need my retribution; the gravy train's over, and now she'll have to fend for herself. I hope the house sells quickly. I priced it to go fast, even in this market. Her

boyfriend's in the hospital, and I don't know how bad his injuries are, but I hope he doesn't fully recover and ends up brain damaged, fed through a tube for the rest of his miserable life. The same goes for any of his buddies who were involved when he struck me down; they all need to suffer for what they did. Do I expect his friends to visit? Yes, eventually they'll try to fix what they believe was wronged against them. I went to the spot where the movers placed my tool safe and pulled out my Judge. It only

holds five rounds but can shoot both .45 Long Colt and .410 shot shells. I loaded it with .410 slugs capable of blasting through a concrete wall. I decided to carry it with me, both in the apartment and outside, with extra shells in my leg bag. I sat and thought for... A moment: the best offense is a solid defense. So, what's next? Who should pay for my wife's affair? I chose to wait and see what happened next. The next few days were quiet. I went back to work, keeping the judge on me just in case. Then

Pam's new number started texting me. She thought we just had a minor argument, but when I asked about Behemoth, she acted confused. I pushed, asking about her biker friend, and she finally said, "Steve is doing better, but he might not walk or ride again." I couldn't help but think, "Steve doesn't strike fear, but Grizzly? That's a name I can respect." She still wanted to know when I'd come home, to which I said "never," before hanging up and blocking her number. A few days later, a biker tried to follow me from work. With his leathers and

long beard, he stood out in the business district. I took a few sharp turns to lose him in traffic, leaving some frustrated drivers in my wake. I kept the judge within reach just in case. The next day, another biker, just as conspicuous, tried to follow. I led him to Pam's house, knowing he likely didn't know where it was. After he passed, I turned around and went back home, hoping for a quieter night. My bruises were healing, but they still looked bad. The following morning, two cops stopped by my work, asking about my whereabouts the previous

night. I had no alibi and was surprised when they mentioned Pam's house being vandalized. She'd claimed I did it, but I quickly pointed out that damaging the house would lower its sale price—something I wouldn't do while trying to sell. I told them the truth: she was having an affair with Steve, the man who knocked me up. If they were investigating, they should talk to him. The officers seemed to reconsider. They mentioned reports of loud motorcycles outside my house the night before and agreed to check on Pam's story. I explained that I had briefly stopped by

Pam's place to grab more of my things and that someone may have followed me, assuming I still lived there. I also made sure to mention that the house had been vandalized and that Pam would need renter's insurance. Now, one of the officers laughed. "Couldn't happen to a nicer person," he said. "I spoke to her yesterday," I said. "She's still refusing to sign the lease agreement. I'll stop by with an officer and let her know she's responsible for keeping the house in livable condition once the damage is fixed." "I assume you're not behind her discomfort?" "No,"

the officer replied. "I have nothing to do with it. A couple of bikers—probably Behemoth's friends—have been trying to follow me. Yesterday, I led one of them past Pam's house. I'm sure the damage was a case of mistaken identity. The police are looking into it and have questions for her boyfriend, Steve." He chuckled again, then I was interrupted by an unknown call. I checked the display: Pam. I answered, bracing for the worst. "What do you want?" she snapped. "Why are you trying to get the cops on me? Why would I damage a property I'm trying to

sell? Are you on something?" Her aggression caught me off guard, but I quickly regained my composure. "I thought you'd be smarter than that, Pam. You're accusing me of vandalism?" Now there was a pause, followed by the sound of her swallowing nervously. Her tone softened. "Charlie, I'm sorry. When you were mad at me, I thought you might have done the damage." After the cops left, I called Steve. He admitted some of his friends might have been looking for revenge. "You hurt a lot of guys and damaged their bikes," he said. I couldn't hold back my frustration.

"I heard someone! I was the one knocked out cold after your idiot of a boyfriend touched me! I don't know how you can say I hurt anyone! I was in the hospital!" Pam's voice wavered, but she pressed on. "Steve and his crew think you're the one who ran them off the road. They were just trying to stop you from going to the cops. You didn't have to hurt anyone." "Jesus," I muttered. "Do you hear yourself? I was the one knocked unconscious! Your boyfriend had people waiting to finish me off when I woke up! You stood

by and cheered him on, and now his friends trashed your house, and you're trying to pin it on me? Keep popping those stupid pills, and you'll be turning tricks for Behemoth soon!" She started to protest, her voice rising in anger, blaming me for everything. "Shut up and listen!" I interrupted. "Mike will be over today to assess the damage for the insurance claim. I'm only insuring the property as a rental now, not as a private home. You'll need renter's insurance." "But this is our home, not a rental! Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice

tinged with confusion and disbelief. I had to take a breath. "What part of your cheating and throwing away our marriage don't you get? This is on you! I was happy to support you, but you chose to start an affair and stand by while he struck me. You wanted me hurt! This is all on you!" I ended the call and tried to focus on my day. My ribs were sore from breathing deeply to calm down; my face ached from the healing abrasions, and I was furious. As I left work, another biker was waiting. He didn't try

to hide; he just followed a couple of cars behind me. I drove towards Centerville, then made some sharp turns to lose him. I stopped abruptly and turned my truck sideways, blocking the street. He couldn't maneuver, and his bike was too big to slide like a dirt bike. I got out. My judge held it up just enough to show I meant business, but not to threaten his life. He looked sick trying to bluff. "Hey, mister, I don't know what your problem is, but I just want to get home. Why the sudden stop? And the tool?" I

interrupted. "You followed me since I left work. We’re 40 meters from where you think you belong. No more warnings. You screwed up last week and watched Grizzly strike me down. Some of your friends paid for that mistake; others are still recovering. Last night, you vandalized Grizzly's girlfriend's house thinking you had me, and now here you are, all alone, practically begging me to do you like a bad habit. How much dumber can you get? One shot from this tool and you'll be lying in the street with a huge hole in your chest, life draining out. You'll

be conscious long enough to know you're dying and there's nothing you can do about it." He started to bluster but stopped when I cocked the judge. "I told you, no more warnings. If you survive, I hope you tell your buddies how serious I am. I've sworn out a protection order against you and your friends. If this goes to court, I'll plead self-defense. I don't think anyone will care if I take a few of you out. Hell, maybe I'll even get a humanitarian award for it." I stepped closer. "Look around. Do you see anyone watching us?

The neighbors probably heard your bike but don't want to get involved. No sirens; the cops either don't know or don't care." He glanced around; no one was in sight even though it was early evening. I clicked the cylinder two stops. He looked even more terrified. I raised the judge and shot out his headlight with a .410 birdshot shell—no penetration, but it sent a clear message. "Now get this piece of crap, turn around, and head home. It's getting dark, and you've got no headlight. I might follow, and I'm guessing you won't fare well in a nighttime

collision." He nodded and quickly turned his bike around, peeling off like a scalded dog. I waited until he rounded the corner before heading toward downtown, keeping a lookout for any of his buddies. When I got to my apartment, I parked behind the building as usual, swapped the empty shell for one with slugs, and went inside. No more Mr. Nice Guy. The rest of the evening was quiet. I hoped it would stay that way, but the peace only lasted a month until Steve got out of the hospital. One night, I drove home, checking my mirrors—no sign

of anyone following, so I relaxed and parked as usual. After a frozen meal and some football, I was ready for bed when there was a loud banging on the door. Steve had found me. I turned on my phone's video recorder and called emergency, explaining I was in danger. The dispatcher could hear the yelling and assured me help was on the way. I considered opening the door, but I didn't want to risk it looking like entrapment. Instead, I waited for him to break in. When he did, the door crashed open, one hinge torn from the frame.

Steve, grinning, charged in. "Well, craphead, time to pay for your mistake." He raised his hands to strike but didn't notice the tool in my hand. I defended myself by firing two shots in his direction, aiming to stop his advance. His hands dropped, and he staggered toward me with a confused look. I sidestepped him and saw two more bikers entering. They were here to finish the job, but I didn't give them the chance. I aimed carefully, and each shot effectively neutralized the threat without further escalation. Those slugs have great stopping power. It wasn't like the movies;

there were no dramatic slams against the door, just bodies dropping and groaning. I called emergency again, telling them to send ambulances. As I reloaded the judge, I started hearing sirens and the roar of motorcycles. It seems Steve's friends didn't want to stick around for an interview. The two bikers I shot were still alive, breathing and writhing in pain, likely hit in the abdomen. Steve appeared severely injured, struggling to breathe as he clutched his chest. He wasn't defeated yet, still muttering curses. "You a-hole! Why didn't you just die? When I punch you, she belongs to me

now." I looked him straight in the eyes. "I told her to tell you I'd avoid you, but if you came after me, I'd put you down like a rabid dog. Clearly, you didn't learn your lesson. Hope your friends do before I deal with them. You think you're tough?" I turned off my phone's recorder, then leaned close to his ear. "I have a friend who won't say a word. They'll just make you and your buddies disappear. No one will know where you went. Families will wonder, but there will be no answers—just a hole in the ground."

Steve's eyes glazed over, and he took his last breath before I could say anything else. The cops arrived, and I made sure to show I wasn't a threat by kneeling on the floor with the judge, open shells in front of me, hands behind my head. The first officer kept his tool on us while I was cuffed. They cuffed the other two bikers even though they weren't a threat at that moment. A quick search found knives and tools on the bikers, and Behemoth was carrying brass knuckles when they examined his body. Ambulances arrived, and the two

bikers, looking pale, were rushed to the trauma center. The cops interviewed me after reading my Miranda rights. I had them contact an attorney I knew, and I gave my statement without holding back. They took my phone, timestamped the emergency call, and found photos of my injuries. And messages from Pam. I knew the DA would have plenty of evidence. I was booked on manslaughter, attack, and firearm charges. A detective warned that more charges could follow, but once my attorney arrived, the questioning stopped. The next morning, I was released on my own recognizance. The press had already

spun the story in my favor, and the DA had received calls demanding my release. Though charges were still pending, I wasn't worried; I had friends who would arm me again if needed. The DA also told me that Pam was changing her story, claiming Steve had come to make peace and asked me to be his accountant. I laughed. The DA said the recordings told a different story and he hoped the violence would die down. I just nodded as I left. Pam was waiting outside. "You butcher! How dare you liquidate my man? He just came to bury

the hatchet!" She tried to slap me, but two cops were nearby and quickly cuffed her. My attorney had them press charges for domestic attack, and they took her away. Hopefully, the DA would play the recording of the break-in and the attack for her, but I doubted it would shut her up since my apartment was still a crime scene. Dave took me to his place. It was time to end this. My attorney started the divorce proceedings with Pam, then left. Dave and I had a council of war about Steve's friends and how they needed to learn

the consequences of their actions. My old friends would help deliver that lesson. First order of business: the owner of Mario's, the bar where all this started, suddenly sold out to a group of investors. The place was set to close down and undergo a major renovation. I heard the new theme was going to be a venue for kids' birthday parties. The bikers would need to find a new spot to gather, drink, and do whatever else they got into before Mario's closed for good. A couple of tough-looking guys who made no effort to hide the fact they

were packing serious heat walked in and sat down at the table used by the bike club for their business. I later heard that everyone at that table walked away knowing that any further attempts at retaliation against me would be considered a problem for my friends. A few names were even dropped—old acquaintances and business partners with less than stellar reputations. I'm pretty sure the message hit home. It took a few weeks, but eventually, the charges were dropped. Pam tried to make a fuss, but the DA made it clear that lying to the police was a felony,

so she finally admitted that Stevie wasn't trying to hire me for anything; he just wanted to make me pay for hurting his friends. She didn't seem sorry about it. I guess she truly thought she loved him and that he felt the same. It cost me half of my publicly known assets to get her out of my life, but it was worth it. And just to be clear, only my publicly known assets. A little birdie told me that a very unpleasant woman paid Pam a visit after the final hearing, and Pam decided to move far enough

away so we wouldn't cross paths. My friend didn't give me the full details, but it seems the conversation involved some strong persuasion to help her understand what needed to happen. Pam even tried to sue me again for hiding assets, but after that visit, she quickly realized that money wasn't worth the trouble. I don't know exactly what was said or how it was said, but whatever it was, she got the message loud and clear. While Pam was still living in the house, it was quickly repaired. I also paid for some upgrades the contractor promised would increase

the house's value. Oh yes, she paid the rent as I'd instructed. I guess she realized I wasn't joking after Steve paid the ultimate price. After the final divorce decree and Pam's move, the house was sold. I made sure to deposit half of the proceeds into her account; that was the last of my known assets. And yes, I got my tools back. The police gave me a warning that they were keeping an eye on me, but I just smiled and reloaded. The judge, even after my unnamed friend sent a warning to the bike club, I was

ready for someone to try to take me down. Some people never seem to learn their lessons. I'm still working at the same accounting firm, and I still have some of my old friends from the neighborhood as clients. My boss is happy with the revenue I'm bringing in, so he doesn't question who my clients are. I also keep my go-bag stashed somewhere just in case things start getting a little too hot around here, especially after I had to take down one attacker and wound a couple of others. It's amazing how something like that can get a

few sharp cops watching you, adding up little clues and bits of evidence until they start connecting the dots. Recently, my boss sent me down to Baja, Mexico. A new client needs help figuring out how to clean up his dirty money and turn it into legitimate business revenue. He's a nice enough guy, but for some strange reason, he keeps asking me if I like stew. As for dating, once in a while, I'll go on a real date with a real woman; mostly, I have a few friends with benefits. But the true loves of my life right

now are the two new German Shepherd puppies I adopted. If you wake up to two little puppies wagging their tails and showering you with kisses, you know your life is pretty damn good. [Music] [Applause] [Music] [Applause] [Music]