Dear Steve, We Need to Talk- Alternate ending
This is an alternate ending to Buster2u's story. I like almost everything the brother writes. But this was just wrong. It was all about the money. To the main character's credit, he didn't kill anyone. (Too bad.) But we'll fix that. I hope you like this. If not, don't blame Buster2U. The guilt is all mine. Thanks for reading.
His story was "Dear Steve, We Need to Talk". Read it for context. But I warn you-it's not pretty. I have his permission and blessing to write this. I am grateful for his permission. Hopefully, he won't be upset with the result.
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For some background- my wife of twelve years, Wendy, had just informed me that she had been fucking around on me for the past four years ever since she got the promotion to P/A at the law firm she works at. Both her bosses, two black lawyers were sampling her favors. And she was getting paid for it. She was also going away for a weekend of debauchery and breeding. She had gone off her birth control and would be trying to conceive a black child, for which she would be handsomely paid. AND she was bragging about it. 'Nough said.
The door closed on what I had thought was a great marriage. Sure, her parents didn't think much of me. What in-laws do? Hence the iron clad prenup that her dad had insisted I sign. I managed to get it changed slightly to reflect equal punishment on either side for adultery or such. Other than that, his 'princess' would be protected.
Yeah, that's gonna bite him.
The first thing I did was put my fist through the wall. Then, taking a deep breath, I picked up my Johnny Walker Black Label bottle, raised it to my lips, and took one long belt. Then, I cursed and threw the bottle into the fireplace.
Then I sat down and cried for an hour.
I rose an hour later and said to myself, 'Enough of this shit!'
I straightened myself, went to my home office, and fired up my computer. I got online to the courthouse and, filed electronically, articles of divorce and a restraining order, fearing for my and my children's safety, citing her pending arrest.
Oh, yeah, she's gonna be arrested.
I pushed submit and then accessed our office. I drew up all the applicable forms for divorce and generated the file. Then I went online and got the best 'family law' attorney on our staff. She was quite possibly the best in California. Symone Filister was not a shark- she was a megalodon. If the two shit-heads thought they were lawyers, 'They ain't seen nothin' yet'.
She was a very pretty African-American lady; Married, had three kids and with no love for cheaters, regardless of sex. I accessed her e-mail account and asked her to take me on as a client. I hit send and then called my in-laws.
I asked if the children were there. They said that they were but they were supposed to be there for the weekend. I told them that would be fine, as Wendy and I were 'busy'. But I would come get them on Saturday evening if that was alright.
They hemmed and hawed a bit, and I told them that we had decided on a 'family event' and the children would love it. I promised we would swing by on Monday evening and share with them the day's activities. They said they guessed that would be alright. I thanked them, choking on my words as I did, and hung up.
Then I called Wendy's cell. Thankfully she had taken it with her, but it went straight to voice mail. Probably too busy fucking and sucking. Didn't matter. I left a message. Short and sweet.
"Wendy- it's me, your husband. You do remember me, don't you? No matter. We're done. Period. Goodbye." Click.
Then I called the real estate firm that managed the house. See, we didn't own or rent the house. It was one of several properties that my law firm owned to put up clients or witnesses if needed. As a senior partner, and one of the more profitable revenue generators in the firm, it was one of the perks I had. So I had them come to change the locks and reset the garage openers. Her car was parked out in the drive, but I was quite sure that would be academic. She would almost definitely not be needing it, in the future.
While I had them on the line, I asked if they had a two-bedroom apartment available for short-term occupancy. They said that they did, and I asked them to reserve it in my name, on a personal note. I would pay for it myself. I made arrangements, saying that this had nothing to do with the firm, and I would only need it for about two weeks or so. And oh, yes, there was a slight matter of a small hole in the wall of my living room. I would appreciate it if they could repair for me.
"No problem, Mr. Carson. Consider it done. We should have everything taken care of by tomorrow evening." I thanked them and hung up. Then I speed-dialed my brother and brought him up to speed with what was happening, Silence on the other end of the phone.
"Wow, Steve talk about a blind side." Then he hesitated.
"Uhh, are you sure the kids are yours?? Biologically speaking, I mean. It may not be so far-fetched, but it wouldn't be out of character for the ditzy broad to have stepped out on you before."
He had a point. She did say she loved sex, several times, in trying to get me to agree to this shit.
"Good point, Mike. I'll check on that."
I promised to keep him in the loop. I went online and did everything I could that you read about. Then I canceled her cell phone, and set up a separate account for her, so she would still have service. She's probably gonna need it. I used her one personal credit card and retained her phone number. Then I blocked her number on my phone. I went to bed, shattered and heartbroken, but determined that I would survive. Not necessarily the other three, though. It's clobbering time.
I woke up, had a quick breakfast, and went out to run some errands. I picked up a cheap burner phone, loaded about 200 minutes, paid cash, then went to the Bank, and finished the financials. I cleaned out our joint account(well, almost. I left about $25 in it to keep it open.) Everything else I had done on line-investments, life insurance, medical insurance, retirement, etc.
We were almost done. I drove to my parent's house and broke the news. They were shocked, then appalled, then pissed.
My dad muttered a lot.
Mom was steaming, referring to Wendy as that slut, that whore, that bitch, that self-centered slattern (Slattern??)
O.K., Mom, I got the picture. I asked if they could watch the kids for a few days till everything sorted out. Of course, they could. You know, Me-maw and pop-pop. Then I hightailed it to Texas Road House. I got a table and called a friend. A good friend.
Sergeant Jimmy Chou with LAPD Metro Vice, covered both drugs and prostitution. I caught him at home, relaxing.
"This had better be good, Steve."
"Drag your ass to Texas Road House for about two hours, and I guarantee your next promotion."
Silence-then, "On my way".
About 30 minutes later, Jimmy slid into my table. We shook hands and talked a little bit, catching up on 'guy' things. Then, down to business.
"What do you know about the Andrew's brothers and their law firm?"
Jimmy sipped a little sweet tea and smiled.
"What do you want to know? We have been after them for several years, but can never get the goods on them. We believe they are involved in drugs and human trafficking. I would sure like to nail them. So would the State guys, and the Feds, for that matter." He stared at me.
"Why the interest?"
