Gerald made a fortune in hydraulic fracturing, which was rough on the Earth. At home, he was rough on his wife Cynthia.
One day after a brutal night with Gerald, Cynthia took off her large sunglasses at lunch with her cousin, who gasped, “Did Gerald hit you again? Don’t answer; I can tell. Look, Cynthia, you gotta get rid of that bastard. I heard about a guy. They call him a hitman. I got his number. Here. Call him.”
Cynthia knew her cousin was right; her anger began to brew. She called the guy. They met.
She told the guy, “I don’t give a rat’s ass how ya do it, and I don’t wanna know. I just want him gone.” They agreed on a price and the terms of payment.
Fortunately for Gerald, Cynthia and her cousin hadn’t vetted the guy, who, it turned out, was only a former hitman. He had become a more-or-less upstanding citizen, and also a police informant.
After her arrest and prosecution, Cynthia had plenty of time in prison to analyze what had gone wrong. Her fellow inmates were generous with their advice. They woulda-shoulda-coulda’d her for months.
After several of those months, Gerald came to the visitors’ center at the prison. He brought his children to see their mother. But he couldn’t resist taking a peek at Cynthia for himself.
Gerald sat down at the glass across from her and stared into the eyes of his one-time love and would-be assassin. “How ya gettin’ along, Cynthia?”
“Gerald, every day I think about somethin’ ya said was the reason for your success.”
“You always said, ‘If ya want somethin’ done right, ya gotta do it yourself.’”