Posted by hisdinner on July 03, 2005 at 21:17:09:
2003 Justified
Brad was standing in the center aisle of House2Home when it struck him: He must kill Marci. The certainty of it fell over him like a swath of Laura Ashley drapery fabric; his wife needed killing. No trial separation, no pile of paperwork divorce, the woman had to get wasted and he was jiggy with it, by god. He took the Palm from his pocket and started stylussing a brief memo. He shook his thinning head of styled hair, practiced his rueful boyish grin, then he replaced the gizmo after a quick glance to check incoming messages. Got to talk to Bob, yeah, those tech stocks are cold, hard, losing bitches. Move them out and take another look at those nursing home numbers. Something with a quick turn around.
"Cocooning," that's what Marci was ragging on about, that was the word that sent him into this epiphany of bloodlust, yes, her talk of cocooning had forged his murderous intent. And ...what the fuck is cocooning, he wondered, as he automatically followed the almost-pert ass of his wife up and around the display of Feng Shui accessories. I'll fucking show her a cocoon, he thought, yeah, I'll drill a fucking fengshui cocoon right up her Tai-boed but still cellulited ass. Just thinking about it made Brad's monkey stand up a little higher. He grinned, bone-deep satisfaction showing in the way he reached down and casually adjusted the hang of his package.
Ahead in the patio aisle, Marci had stooped over the display of wicker and she was measuring something and she had the goddam Customcolor strips out, Christ, he never fricking saw her without them. Here's what had happened, just this morning, and guys, he was still stoked and steamed and pressed. They were sitting in the breakfast nook, yeah, cost twice what a regular dining area would have set them back, but she had to have it, and when Marci said, "I have to have it," well, you either put up the cash or you prepared to put UP. I mean, she would shovel shit in your face for weeks if she didn't get every little home improvement that she wanted. And Brad caved again, yeah, he always did.
First it was the window treatments, where those nellies got away with charging double because they got your wife suckered into thinking a Treatment is worth double what an ordinary set of blinds cost, and she's got you by the balls, we all know it's true, yeah, we all just want to get home and watch the game, and so we cave. But anyway, Brad continues, ranting to the guys who live in his head and are always good for a few beers over his carb limit, anyway, he tells them, we're sitting there with our nonfat lattes and she's flipping through the color strips and suddenly she's all syrupy and sweet talking and saying, "Oh, honey, we need to start cocooning."
Brad had been taking in the coffee that morning, and figuring out how long till he could either get a beer or knock off a piece, like that would happen before noon or next month, and suddenly, it was like someone hit the mute button on the goddam remote. He looked over at Marci, playing with one of her fingernail wraps and he says, "We need to what?" Oh, wrong , wrong move. Brad could have slapped himself upside the head for that one. Geez. By now he ought to have recognized that gleam in her eyes, the look that screamed major renovation, radiating out of her custom-lasered eyes. She jumped into this pitch like she's just finished taking the seminar with fucking Martha Stewart or some other rich cunt who had found a new way to drain them dry. And it's all about cocooning this, cocooning that, Marci whines, see honey, we just get this stuff and then we can stay at home and our house will be so cozy, we only need to redo like forty things and we will have our own little cozy cocoon.
Okay, well, when Brad was a kid what you did was, when you came across some of those cocoons, you either got out the lighter you had copped off your dad, and lit them on fire to see how they burned, or another really cool way, if you had a magnifying glass, you could burn them, only with pinpoint accuracy, like Cyclops zapping them with his laser-eyes. Put a bunch of little smoking holes in those fuzzy little gray wads. Brad smiled at the picture of his twelve year old self, out there, yeah, waaay out there, some wild and crazy guy, damn straight. Cocooning, what is that shit? That's like dayplanning, oh yeah, you can't just say, I'm so horny, hey let's go fuck, Marci. No way, you had to have your fuck all set up in advance in your Dayplanner. Cocooning sounded to Brad just like a whole nother way to suck up his money and put a bunch of frilly precious moment crap in his way and it sure as hell wasn't going to add any thump to his pumper. No thump, no pump, and something about that word, cocooning, it just made you want to give it up and chop it off. Or kill her.
As Brad and his typically attractive wife Marci went through the aisles of this latest in a long string of trendy home shops, it should have been clear to anyone around him that he had been transformed, mutated. A distinctly different species now, he had lost that fuzzy-edged look of absent-minded irritation. His eyes grew hooded; they sparked with cunning. He didn't slouch behind the semi-petite, Karan-clad lady, he stalked. His almost flat stomach tensed, his legs bent for immediate action, he rose up on the balls of his LandsEnd loafers. Study that face, and watch the myriad plans roll across his incipiently jowly features. Any woman who brushed past him in the camping aisle would be disconcerted by his predatory scent, and any man who passed Brad might catch that scent too, and want to join the hunt. Brad felt virile and reborn into a body filled with purpose, and his energy level soared. This far surpassed his best cross training session down at Gold's. He felt the rush of endorphins as Marci, object of his fever dream, and oblivious as always, came into focus at the register.
Buying what?? Marci had piled up the oversized cart with a dozen twisted rings of dead grape vines, and she was standing at the check out counter, about to hand his money over. You have to pay for someone's garden refuse these days? Never firmer was his resolve to blot her out. But he was cool, his manner gave away nothing as he closed the distance between them. He knew the time was not right, and he relished the chance to get home, and continue this reverie, unabated, over some beer and the Cubs game. Out, beeping their way into the Caddy SUV and driving home, this new Brad was fired with exhilaration, and he no doubt agreed to several expensive add-ons as Marci prattled on, without him. She had no idea that the number of her days was only seven. Yes......that long July 4th weekend, just the ticket.
He had begun to use the pool side cabana as his hideout, his escape from endless discussions of draperies and fabrics and fuss and bother. When they arrived, Brad wasted no time, stomping past the cleaning lady and her ripe little daughter (Those guys in his head giving a chorus of wolf howls for that nookie. Hey, Brad, slooow the heck down and cop a feel for us...) Just a quick ass slap, give her my best boyish fun-guy grin, she's hot for me, yeah, but wait til the day Mamacita lets her come here by herself to do those carpets, oh yeah, I'll nail that round brown ass in no time flat.
All this streamed through Brad's head like the 20 second porn videos on his computer as he covered the last stretch down the faux-adobe hallway and out to the gleaming blue and white expanse of the pool. The cabana lay ahead, off to the side, just before the patio gave way to banks of oleander and palm plantings. The cabana had started as a simple cloth tent, but that had been in favor less than three months before Marci had seen the wood and glass structure at the boss's winter home in Palm Springs. Had to have one, yes. But this time, thought Brad to himself, this time, Marci picked a winner, and not from her rhinoplastied nose, either. The cabana would have served a third world family's needs for housing. It was wired and plumbed and fully furnished.
Brad luxuriated in the enclosed space of his hideaway. Here he kept his stock of secret indulgences, his lager and cigars, his extra special movies. He snagged a cold one from the fridge and walked the three steps to his Laz-E-Boy. He sank into the burgundy leather chair, rescued from Marci's latest furniture purge. Brad lifted the remote, clicked on the game and settled into a fugue state in which he resumed the careful planning of her execution. Yes, execution. He had decided that he must really celebrate the taking of her life, and somehow elevate his wife far beyond her Junior League stature. Or at least have a kick ass time taking her out.
But when to do it? And exactly how? Brad longed to feel his fingers pressing deep into the soft flesh of her neck, to watch her jerk and burble, to see her panic as she felt the pressure of the air trapped in her windpipe as he choked her. But he would also love the spectacle of seeing her body jerk and quiver at the end of a tight noose. Oh, yeah... twisting, her body spasms propelling her in slowing circles, her face purpling, her tongue protruding. Brad lost himself in rapid stroking, thinking about that body, oh, he would fuck her first, so hard, he'd do her ass the right way, hard and use a little butter on her, take her ass the way he'd always wanted first, before the hanging. Or what about a nice beheading? Brad had a fine collection of swords in his den and it seemed a shame to waste the chance to use them. So many ways, so many tasty things that he could plan for her. His face scrunched up and Brad shot the mother lode, uh huh, he creamed the scene.
Brad sat back, and reached for a piece of his own special smokehouse ham as he mulled over the possibilities. His mouth filled with the deep mesquite and hickory blend he had perfected over five years of backyard tinkering. So satisfying, to stand there behind the potting shed and rub the pork roasts with his blend of garlic and herbs, then hang it up and set it smoking over the wood chips. That reminds me, Brad thought, Friday's ham ought to be done now. He rose and walked, blinking into the midday sun and turned past a high bank of oleander. And there it was. The smoker resembled an immense grandfather clock without the inner workings. It stood nine feet high. Each reddened iron side was a scant two feet wide, with narrow slits to let in air toward the base where the flames did their work. Hickory smoke drifted in the afternoon air. Brad could not think of an aroma he liked better. Getting a fricking woodie from that smell! Brad released the latches and the pent up smoke engulfed him. Damn! I can't believe how good this one looks, too. Brad grinned to himself as he adjusted the family jewels real quick before reaching up and taking down the dark brown ham. As Brad was releasing the tough cord from its metal hook, he was struck again.
Oh, yes, God. He would smoke her.
For the next four days, Marci found her husband's attentions almost annoying. He just couldn't seem to keep his hands off her. Just that afternoon, Marci had her Junior League Ball committee over for a lite lunch, and wouldn't you know, Brad, who usually avoided her girlfriends like the plague, Brad kept slinking through the sun porch. And once, right while she was demonstrating her idea for the centerpieces, he actually pinched her ass! Gee, Marci thought as she stowed away the Fiesta ware and wiped the Corean counters clean, Brad hasn't thrown his usual caveman fits about the remodel at all. He seems to spend all his time outside these days, or in the bedroom!
Last night was almost kinky, she giggled. Marci recalled Brad's insistence on giving her a thorough rubdown after her tennis game with Monica. I think it was Shiatsu, the way he kept poking and prodding at my butt muscles. She smiled as she relived the fucking that came after. Not his usual five minute slam-bam, no, this new Brad was really making the effort, Marci thought. I can have a new family room and an hour long massage and he'll even fuck me long enough to get me off. His hands, oh, man, that was so hot, the way he stroked and tugged and pulled and pressed my whole body, I felt so, so, well-done! She giggled again, hopped out the door and into the Beemer. Gotta get those nails done.
At midnight, Marci turned her gel-packed eyes away as Brad made one last trip out to the smoker. As he rounded the corner of the shed, he caught slight of the neighbor's bulldog, waddling off sideways with one of the shelves Brad had piled in the corner. The slats had been removed to hollow out the smoker, no need of shelving for this next batch. Hollowed out, with new fittings from top to bottom, it was ready. The metal hook caught moonlight, and the leather side straps hung there, a little stiff, but he had oiled them and their first cure had brought out the suppleness he thought would best accommodate Marci's thighs. He had kept his bindings simple. A neck strap had replaced the poultry rotisserie, reinforced to carry Marci's slack and oiled weight. Reaching into the underbelly of the iron cooker, he fired it up and spread the wood chips thickly on the screen above the fire. Brad stood up, adrenaline quavers running through him, and pulled off his Izod shirt as he reached the French doors of the bedroom.
It took so very little to get her into kill position, just the offer of another warm massage. Marci groaned and stretched out on the high massage table, letting her face fall into the hollow. Brad drew out his herbal mix and, starting at her toes, began to work it in. Her skin accepted the oil and herbs, and she seemed satisfied when he explained that the rougher texture was the latest in emollients and better than a loofah for sloughing off that superfluous skin. He had his patter down, oh, yeah, he'd primed up, watching that crackpot women's channel to bone up just enough for this moment. If she smelled the garlic, she didn't remark on it, Marci just cooed and moaned as his hands kneaded the oil right to the bone, thighs, ass, reaching up to her back, mmm, a rack extraordinaire. Give me my babyback, babyback, babyback ribs. Brad chortled and pressed her tanned oiled flesh.
He hoisted himself onto the table, his knees and lower legs tightly lining up against her flanks, and moved his hands in circles to the center of her back and upwards. She shivered. Does some little tiny part of your barbie-doll brain sense what's coming, baby? Wolfish teeth leered down at Marci's nape. Take it slow now, take it eeeasy. He sang to himself as his finally allowed his fingers to slide around her throat and start to squeeze. His thumbs overlapped then settled into parallel grooves as his fingers latticed around her larynx. Brad got the all time Big Boy. And then she started to buck and thrash, oh, it's rodeo time, cowboy. Hang on to your hat and ride it out! Yeee-hah!
For the next few minutes, the telegraphed sensations from Brad's fingers sent his body wave after wave of pleasure. He felt Marci's every attempted breath die under the pressure of his grip. He watched Marci's arms flail, then flop weak and quivering off the table. He kept the pressure on until her arching back slumped away from the bulge in his pants. Brad swung down and surveyed the length of her. Oh, sweeeeeet. Grasping her limp body at the juncture of her waist and hips, he pulled her toward him, Marci's legs sliding out to either side of his body. He reached around again and took out the butter. Brad allowed himself one long, loving bite on the rounded crest of her buttocks before he buttered up her asshole and fucked her till he exploded like a shuddering wild dog.
Wheels jiggled on the cement as Brad rolled the table out into the night. He rounded the corner, leaving her body dripping oil and cum, he opened the iron door. Temperature seems just about perfect, he thought, as he got his body under her and oof! lifted her high up, and slipped the leather strap around her neck. Whew! Time for a cold one while I finish these last preparations, Brad decided, scooting around to the cabana to retrieve it. When he returned holding a green sweating bottle, Marci's body had nearly stopped swaying. He enjoyed attaching the support straps around each thigh, snugging them up to hold her open to the smoke. He sprinkled her breasts with his oil and herb concoction and oh, man. one more woody about to come up to bat, guys, hang on for the final inning! He imagined himself in a stadium, filled with cheering crowds of Guys, guys just like him. Oh yeah, the crowd goes wild, yeeeeeeahhhhh! Brad gave her hardened nipples one last pinch, chugged back a long draught, and closed the smoker. He padlocked the door, and pocketed the key, and walked off to dreamland.
Jerry and Mike and Frank were swilling down the beer and yelling and spilling pretzels on the Aubusson as Brad backed into the room, a large platter held before him. "Yo, there's the man! Hey, Brad, howja ever get the ball and chain to let you watch the Series in her fancy living room?" Frank belched and wiped his face and reached into the ice chest for another stout.
"Hey, yeah, Brad, Marci never lets us in here even when we aren't all tanked up for the game," Jerry nodded, his eyes following Brad's careful progress from the patio to the table. "Hey, is that what I think it is? That special Fourth of July treat you've been bullshitting us about all week?"
Brad glanced up from the platter, and smiled. "Come and get it guys, and I guarantee, you won't find any better meat. Fuck the hot dogs, taste my private stock of pig meat. Just leave a little for the carpenters. When I cancel out their contracts, I want to leave them with a little something sweet."