February Sucks The Hail Mary

Dear Readers: This is yet another alternate ending to George Anderson's opus "February Sucks". I discovered the story later than most but was fascinated by all the different scenarios other writers proposed. This kind of story is a departure for me. All my stories thus far have been happy, sex-filled romps where everyone eventually gets what they want and happy endings abound. Will there be a happy ending for Jim and Linda? For Marc? I guess you'll have to read it to find out!

As always, I'm totally open to your comments -- good and bad. This is a diversion for me. I have a thick skin and criticism will be received and appreciated as much as any sunshine and positive feedback that may come my way.

My "treatment" of the story begins right after Dee pulls Jim over to the bar to explain where Linda is. For continuity's sake I have pasted the jumping off point from the original story immediately below in Italics. My writing begins following that.

"Jim, she's not in the restroom. She has left the club."

"Left? Without me? Why? What's the matter? Why didn't she tell me? Where did she go? Is she all right?" I still didn't get it.

"Let's go to the end of the bar where there's some privacy." I just went where Dee dragged me. It was quieter in the dark corner at the end of the bar. Dee looked me in the eye.

"Jim, Linda loves you. She loves you and the children more than anything else in the world, and she always will, and you know it. But she is spending tonight with Marc."

There are times in everyone's life when your brain just goes on autopilot. Where everything seems to slow down and you have several crystal-clear thoughts coming through your head all at once.

This was one of those times.

My first thought was that I had to stop Linda from making this huge, life-altering mistake. Without saying a word to Dee, I spun and all but ran to the back of the bar and burst through the back door just in time to see Linda and the Predator pull onto the road in his sleek black sports car.

Well, If I couldn't stop her from leaving with him, perhaps I could stop her from doing irreparable damage to our marriage. I hustled back into the bar and almost ran over Dee and a couple of my other soon-to-be-ex friends as I frantically pushed my way through the crowd to get to the bar.

I called the bartender over, slid a $100 bill to her and said, "Please, I'm begging you, what is LaValliere's address? I can tell I'm not his first victim and I have a feeling this is his preferred hunting ground."

The bartender looked at me with sad, knowing eyes, "I don't want any trouble."

"There will be no trouble from me -- he will never know how I got the address -- as long as you give it to me...NOW!"

She replied, "I don't know the exact number, but I know his place backs on McCullough Lake and it's on Nicholson Drive. I swear that's all I know."

That was all the info I needed.

As I turned to hustle out of the place back to my car, I again almost ran over Dee and Dave. Dee had recruited him to try to talk some sense into me.

"Jim, come on buddy, it's only one night -- Linda will be back with you....."

He wouldn't get another word out.

I grabbed his throat, his eyes bugged out in fear as I hissed at him, "Fuck off -- and get out of my way before I do something that both of us will regret."

I pushed him away and ran past the rest of the gobsmacked dolts sitting at our table, burst out the door and ran as fast as I could to the hotel across the road to retrieve my car.

After punching the street name into the car's GPS, I took my key and unlocked the glove box. There, to my relief was the Glock I bought about 6 months ago. Linda HATED that I got licensed, took the courses and got comfortable using the gun. But there had been a rash of violence, predominantly carjackings around town and my office wasn't in the best neighbourhood. Many in my company had done this and while I wasn't thrilled about it, I eventually gave in. The only caveat I ceded to Linda was that the glove box had to be locked at all times -- which it was.

I looked at the GPS -- ETA was 15 minutes to the fucking douchebag's place -- I made it in 10. To this day, I don't know if I ran red lights, I don't know if I ran yellow lights -- hell I don't even know if I ran anyone over. I used the entire drive to think about what I was going to say and what I was going to do. When I arrived at the street I slowed down until I spotted the sports car in the driveway of a typical nouveau-riche McMansion -- complete with the requisite constipated lion statues "guarding" the driveway. I thought, "why do rich people have such god-awful taste!"

As I pulled in behind the car that had driven my marriage to the edge of the cliff, I still wasn't sure exactly what I was going to do, but I'm in sales and thinking on my feet in difficult situations is part of the job. I shut off the car, made sure the safety of the gun was engaged, pulled out my phone, fired up the record feature and made a quick request on another app and then fairly leapt out of the car. I looked at the house and seeing many lights on on both floors, I hoped (prayed) that my wife and her paramour had not yet retired to the bedroom. I strode purposefully to the front door and rang it several times, along with pounding on the door.

It didn't take too long for the sound of heavy footsteps to be heard approaching the door. I quickly pulled the Glock out of my pocket, double checked that the safety was on and stood holding it toward the door, thinking "what the fuck am I doing!"

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WAN...". Apparently looking down the barrel of a pistol renders many people -- NFL Superstars among them -- immediately mute.

"In the house now, Asshole!" I calmly said to this mountain of a man. He simply swallowed, eyes bugging out of his head, put his hands up and backed up. I amazed myself at how calm I sounded, because I sure as fuck wasn't anything close to that inside.

"I believe you have something of mine here Mr. LaValliere."

"I have no idea who the hell you are and I have no idea what you are talking about." Just then, what I

was

talking about became very evident.

"Marc, is anything wr.....Jim!! what are you doing here? Why do you have a gun?"

LaValliere found his voice, "Wait, this is your fucking husband?"

"Yeah asshole, I'm her husband."

"Jim," Linda shrieked, "what are you doing -- you shouldn't be here!"

"Funny my dear, I was thinking of saying the exact same thing to you. Now, let's go into that big living room I see over your shoulder and have a little chat. You have my word that this is going to be all over in just a few minutes."

"Jim, you are being ridicu..."

"Shut up Linda -- while I'm here, you will speak only when I ask you or my sunny demeanor here will change pretty fucking quickly!" She looked at me liked she didn't recognize me -- can't say that I blame her -- this was a complete departure for me.

I waved my gun, pointing for LaValliere to sit in a chair on one side of the room and pointed at the couch and indicated Linda plunk her sorry ass there. I chose a seat across the room far enough away from the hulking menace so that trying to rush me would be a stupid idea.

"So, before we do anything else, I want you to know Marc that I have no interest in hurting you or Linda. I also want you to both to know I won't be here for very long."

"So what do you want, asshole," he sneered at me.

"Just to talk, Marc, Just to talk."

Linda was near apoplectic, but a quick inspection of her showed that I had arrived before anything that she couldn't take back had occurred, and that was the whole reason I drove like a maniac to the house. I had to at least try to get her to come to her senses, but if I had arrived after he had fucked her, all of this would have been for naught.

"So, Marc, Linda, I'm sure, will confirm that we have a few "pearls of wisdom" in our house that we steadfastly believe in. The first one is the choice between "can" and "should."

When he looked at me like I had two heads, I said, "Allow me to explain. Right now, I "can" kill Linda with my gun for ruining our perfect marriage. But, "should" I? I think it would be a pretty stupid thing to do -- she's dead, I'm in jail for a long time and our kids end up as orphans. Not a great idea -- wouldn't you agree, my love?"

"Jim, I don't know what you are..."

"Linda, I asked a fucking easy to answer question -- yes...or no?"

Chastened, she bowed her head, "No"

"Thank you, Linda. Marc, right now I "can" kill you for taking my wife from me. But "should" I? "Probably not -- I go to jail, I never see my kids again and Linda gets off pretty much Scott-free. I "can" also shoot your knees out and blast a hole through your junk. Not too bad on an option. You'll never play football again, you won't be able to wreck any more marriages and if I plead extreme mental distress I might only spend a short time in jail. Something to consider."

"Jim...you are going to do no such thing!" my wife hissed at me, "Now put that damn gun down and get out of here."

With that, I released the safety and pointed it directly at the asshole's left knee."

"Jim!! NO!!! Don't do it!"

I looked at her and said, "SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP!" She immediately closed her mouth and sat back, chest heaving and eye's bulging out."

That gave the Predator an opportunity to speak, "I don't know who the fuck you think you are talking to asshole, but why don't you put that fucking gun down and let's see how much of a man you really are."

I looked back to LaValliere and grinned. "You'd like that, wouldn't you motherfucker? Yes, I'll admit, the gun gives me the upper hand and without it, I'm sure I'd be beaten to a pulp already. That's the only reason I have it. Now, back to our "can" and "should" discussion. Obviously you "can" take my wife from me and most married women for that matter, but "should" you? It's definitely worth a discussion. I have to say, you are a specimen. I mean look at you -- you are the fucking epitome of masculinity -- a full head of wavy black hair -- I bet you don't even get fucking bed head -- you just wake up looking perfect. That chiseled face and square jawline -- it's like fucking Michaelangelo himself made you. Now, look at me. I'm a decent looking guy. But, I've got my family's traditional widow's peak, a bit of a weak chin and I've always had these damn bags under my eyes. Having said that, up until an hour ago, they were all my wife needed."

"Yeah, and then she saw what a real man could offer her and I plucked her away from you like taking candy from a baby, you fucking loser."

"Yes, Marc, you did. But again, look at you. Like, I mean, my god look at your body. Tell you what, take off your shirt for me."

"Fuck you! I'm not taking orders from you!"

I sighed, and then levelled my pistol at him once again."

"Marc, please, do as he asks! I don't know what the hell is wrong with him, but I don't want to see you hurt!"

I smiled at my wife and said, "That's my Linda -- making sure everyone is ok and safe."

LaValliere, grudgingly undid the buttons on his shirt, pulled the tails out of his pants and slipped his shirt off. I had to admit it; his body was pretty much perfect and I said so. "Holy shit Marc, look at you. That's what, a 50" chest? 17" biceps I'd guess and maybe a 34" waist." Can't lie, you're like a fucking god."

And with that, I did the same.

Now, I'm not gross -- I work out regularly, watch what I eat and try to stay healthy, but the comparison was laughable and I did just that. "Jesus Christ, no wonder Linda and every woman is mesmerized by you -- hell, if I spent enough time with you, you might just turn me!"

"Fuck you asshole, I'm no faggot!"

"Hehe, I didn't suspect you were, although you macho fucks in the NFL would never accept a gay man so we don't really know, do we?" I looked over at my wife who looked like she was just about to lose her lunch. "Linda? I get it now why you would be so enamored by this guy -- he's got to be every woman's ideal man."

"Marc, let's complete the comparison, shall we? Drop trou for me and let's see what I'm sure is a fucking hog between your legs."

"Are you fucking serious? I'm not doing that in front of you!"

Another wave of the gun and another plea from Linda finally got him pulling off his shoes, socks and pants. The boxer briefs that were underneath showed a very impressive bulge and with a death stare at me, he pulled them down, leaving them in a puddle at his feet, which he stepped out of, looking at me with a imperious sneer and sat down. Linda gasped, I couldn't help it, my eyes bugged out.

"Can you beat that cucky boy?"

I seriously doubted anyone could. I mean, I was more than adequately equipped, but this, by any standards -- photoshop, porn, urban legend -- was a cock of epic proportions. However, while he thought he had the upper hand, I was hoping, at least, I was setting him up for a pretty hard fall -- the bigger they are, right?

"No Marc, I can't beat that", as I started to peel my dress pants down and take my underwear off. Had we been standing side by side, the comparison would have been comical. On one side, six foot six, body of Adonis, less than 5% body fat, handsome, with a massive cock and huge nuts -- all the hallmarks of virility. On the other side, six foot one, body of, well a dad, way more than 5% body fat, decent looking with an all around average cock and ballsack. If the choice were purely physical I would lose -- every.single.time.

But, I was hoping that the choice was more than physical. It was time I started to tip the scales back to my side. I felt like the guy whose hand is a half-inch from the table in an arm-wrestling match.

I looked at Marc. Oh how I wished I had the ability to go over and beat the smug smirk off the arrogant fucker's face. But, I knew a battle based on physicality alone was a sure loser. I was fighting for my marriage and I needed to come at him with everything I had. My last stand would begin -- now.

"You know Marc, I feel sorry for you."

"Why the fuck would you feel sorry for me? You said yourself, I'm the envy of every man around. I have a great career, a huge house, more money than I'll spend in 10 lifetimes and if you hadn't have shown up, I'd be ruining your wife for you for the rest of your life. All you've done is delay the inevitable little man. Look at you, fucking pathetic. Pudgy, little dick and only alive right now because you have a fucking gun."

"Right on all accounts. But you have no idea who you are. I've been around fucks like you in one form or another all my life. From the time they identified your god-given gifts you've been groomed. Personal trainers, physiotherapists, agents, dieticians, coaches -- everyone around you has made you what you are. Sure, you've worked damn hard. And I admire you for that -- "singlemindedness of purpose" is the phrase I seem to remember from the article on you I read in SI. But what are you? A football player? So the fuck what. You think that makes you some sort of rich hero? You might think you have a lot of money -- and by most standards you do. When you look at your paycheck you think, "fuck, I'm rich." That's nothing -- the guy that strokes your cheque every two weeks -- now HE's the rich one. You might think yourself an Andonis -- a god among us mere mortals. But think about it. Your every minute of every day is planned. Supplements, workouts, massage, physio, ice baths -- without all that you'd just be a big tub of shit like the majority of ex-NFL players become once they don't have someone telling them what to do. What YOU will look like once your playing days are over I have no doubt."

While he still defiantly gazed at me, willing me to die with his eyes, I could already tell that I'd planted that seed of doubt in his mind. I had to keep pushing. At the end of the day I didn't give a fiddler's fuck about him -- I had to pull back the curtain and expose Marc in front of Linda if I was to have any chance at all of rescuing her -- and my marriage.

I pressed on.

"You might think you are a hero. You can run perfect routes. You've got the hands of a surgeon. You can catch any poorly thrown ball that that pantload of a quarterback gets anywhere near your vicinity. You can destroy a linebacker or a safety with a block that will leave them seeing stars. You do all this and have seventy thousand people adoring you in the stands and millions more on TV doing the same. Does that make you a Hero? Not fucking likely!"

He looked at me and sneered, "Oh, so now I suppose you're going to tell me that YOU'RE the hero, are you?"

I smiled -- I knew I had him now. "As a matter of fact Marc, yes, I am. You know what makes me a hero? Calling my wife on my way home from work EVERY day to ask if there's anything I need to pick up to make her burden lighter. Getting up in the middle of the night to shine a flashlight under my daughter's bed to make sure that the monsters under there are gone. Holding my breath and dry heaving with my fucking eyes watering while changing another rancid diaper while my wife struggles with post-partum depression. Going to work EVERY FUCKING DAY to earn a living so I can provide for my family. Buying a pizza for the new neighbours when they move in next door because they forgot all about eating and are at the end of their rope. Going to the gym 3 times a week, not because I have any allusions that I'm ever going to look like you, but wanting to look good for my wife and because I want to live to see my grandkids and if I'm really lucky, my great-grandkids. Holding doors, treating those who have less power than I do with respect and getting up and doing all the same shit tomorrow and the next day and the next day. THAT makes me a hero. You? You're just a trained monkey for my entertainment. They train you and feed you and cage you in this house and then, seventeen times a year they let you out to perform for us all. If you went away tomorrow, they would replace you in a day. If I went away tomorrow, my wife and kids and family will grieve me for years. You're no fucking hero, you're a fucking circus sideshow."

I looked at the two of them. When I first walked in the door twenty minutes ago, I was sure my marriage was over. She was there to be taken by a God. To be used as a plaything by a superior being. Fully confident that I would accept it and we would move on. Now? I still wasn't sure. I could tell she was still furious with me for interrupting her evening, but I did see a glimpse of that softness I fell in love with. I looked over at LaValliere and my words had definitely landed a body blow. While the cockiness and arrogance were still there, the bravado was weakening. Time to throw a Hail Mary, empty the clip, do the final push -- whatever you want to call it.

"You think you have the perfect life and can offer a woman her dreams, don't you?" I said.

He summoned up what was left of his arrogance and laughed at me, "Look at me cucky! Huge house, great career, do whatever I want. I have the power to give a woman whatever she wants and I'll have her coming back for me. If you'll just get the fuck out of here, I can finish what I started and bring your wife back to you whenever I'm done with her -- tomorrow or Sunday -- not entirely sure. By the way she sucked my cock in the car on the way over here, I'm pretty sure she'll want to stay until Sunday." He chuckled, thinking he had me.

"You know, you call me cucky, but even if Linda stays, and that will be her decision, I won't consider myself a cuckold. It's not a fair fight. You can offer her things I simply can't. If one of my asshole ex-friends we were with at the club tonight seduced her into his bed, then I would be a cuckold. There was no-one we were with tonight that could offer her more than I could, so her humiliating me with an "equal" would be humiliating. But not you. But Marc, you're not free and you don't have a perfect life. You might think you do. You can pick up married women, use them, ruin their marriage and discard them like yesterday's trash, but that's just it -you discard them and then come back to this fucking mausoleum -- alone. Then you have to out the next night and find another woman to do the same thing and then take her home and come back here -- alone. And alone and alone and alone. You can't approach single women because you can't be sure that they would want you for just you. You're afraid that they only want you for the fame and prestige and the status that being Marc LaValliere's wife brings with it. And deep down you're afraid that you have nothing else to offer. You're afraid that once a woman strips back that perfect veneer that the public sees, she won't like what she sees underneath and once your career is over, she'll be the one discarding you like yesterday's trash. So, you take out that insecurity on men like me. When you targeted Linda tonight you didn't really care what she looked like. Oh sure, you wanted a good looking woman to fuck senseless, but deep down, you're just an insecure little man that knows he can't compete with a man like me when it really counts."