by Golden Rodent
The man sauntered slowly down the path to where his wife was sitting on a lifeless piece of wood which he had carved out like a chair. He made it for their 40th wedding anniversary. She hated it, but he refused to buy lawn chairs, so it was the only thing to sit on. He sat down next to her, and spat in her ear. She smiled. He had always been a romantic fellow. She leaned over to him, bit off his nose and started to play with it in her hands. He bled. They were happy. Somehow he had to find a way to kill his wife. He was happy, but nothing was the same since...well, y'know. How can a man kill his beloved wife, who cares, he wasn't worried about that, he needed only deduce how not to get caught. Guns were too messy he thought. Poison would surely point to him. But an axe, yes that would be too obscure for anyone to expect.
That night they sat up watching public television to ensure she'd fall asleep. He then poked her with a shish-ka-bob skewer. She woke up abruptly grabbing her bleeding arm.
"What the HELL are you doing!?" she screamed.
He ran like a pinched abdomen nerve into the basement where he had been keeping the sharp axe in a leather holder. He lifted it gently from the rawhide skin only to realize it weighed a little more than he had expected. It fell sharply on his left leg, slicing it off completely. "SHIT!" he yelped.
"Honey!! Are you okay?" came the inquisitive bitch's voice from atop the cellar staircase.
"OH! Uh...geez...YES...ouch..DEAR....god damn...BE UP....christ...IN A FEW MINUTES....fucking axe." he whined in response.
"Alright, be careful down there, I broke the spare windshield when I was washing the rhubarb pots." she warned. The door slammed shut and he was left in darkness. He collected his leg and started towards the light switch. The light from the upstairs hall had been ample until the scagly old wench had shut the fucking door! (Sorry, I'm starting to take sides. It's important for an author to try to distance himself from his characters, because then there is more truth in the story you see. But this woman was really a cunt.) He reached for the light switch and his good foot crashed down on 3 inch thick chunks of glass. The bits of sharp windshield protruded through his foot and he winced in agony. Undaunted by his few bad experiences in the basement, he started to hobble up the stairs to seek his revenge on the nagging old whore. He found her in the kitchen sharpening knives. She was startled and dropped a ginzu straight into her leg.
"I wasn't up here sharpening knives so I could kill you!"
He was so confused by the outrageously ironic turn of events that he quickly tired of holding the axe over his head and it descended swiftly into his chest and midsection.
"Oh don't try to scare me! I can play at that game too y'know!" And with that she picked up a cleaver from the mahogany knife rack and hacked off her left hand. This was going better than he planned, she was doing the work. "Is that the best you can do Henry!?"
"Don't threaten me witch!" he stammered. He ran at the plate glass window they had installed last Christmas and thrust himself through it, landing on a bank of ice covered snow. She looked out the window, then giggled mockingly.
"Really Henry, how cliche'." She plugged in a model 34 Braun Moulinex hand blender and ground it into her face. They died.
Their dinner guests arrived at 9:45 and immediately called the police. When the authorities arrived the guests were questioned as to the evenings happenings.
"What exactly did you see when you first arrived, Mrs. Chutney?" inquired
the burly Toronto cop.