by Mark C. Wallfisch

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.”

“What’s that?”

“You always said, ‘If ya want somethin’ done right, ya gotta do it yourself.’”

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