Gone in Minutes

GONE IN A MATTER OF MINUTES 1: I SAW RED

Written by

Vandemonium1

Edited by CreativityTakesCourage

This is the first in a series of very short stories where all the action takes place in timeframes of seconds to mere minutes. Consequently, there is bugger all character development and no long, in-depth ending, so if they are your thing it's probably best if you give the stories in this series a miss.

If anyone wants to flesh them out with consequences, you have my happy permission. I've deliberately been vague with some details to give you more scope. If you're a new writer I will help as much as I have time for.

It has been independently rated at 2.5/5 pickaxe handles on the rating system CreativityTakesCourage and I came up with -- visit the SemperAmare Bio to learn more.

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In retrospect, I shouldn't have come to my wife's work Christmas party. For the last three days I've been on the bad end of a gastro bug. I'm only just beginning to get over it. Because of the bug I've missed work for two days and I can't remember the last time that happened. I'm a contract shearer, if you're interested.

Jeanie has worked at her current company for three years but this will be the first Christmas party I've attended as I've been away shearing for the last two. I presumed, based on her disappointment for the previous two years, that she'd really want me there to meet her colleagues, although now, thinking about it, she hasn't pushed too hard for me to attend this year, but, considerate husband that I am, I decided I will clench my buttocks together, don a monkey suit, and walk her in the door to the swanky hotel the do is being held at.

She only managed to introduce me to a couple of people before the all too familiar pressing urge rumbling in my bowels hit me. Damn. Finding the shitter and a vacant cubicle went from good reconnaissance to urgent in a moment. In record time my strides are at my ankles and I sigh with relief as gravity and pressure do their work. I'm in the middle of wiping when two guys enter. I can tell they're using the urinal. They were talking as they came in. Taking a leak doesn't slow them down at all, but what I overhear sure as hell slows me down. In fact, it makes me abandon my clean-up operation entirely. More, my blood is ice in my veins.

"Fuck, man, she looks hot in that red dress."

"Yeah. You can see why Clive is banging her."

"Oh, come on, that's only office gossip."

"Bullshit, heard it from Sue, his secretary. She saw them going into that hotel around the corner from work a couple of weeks ago. According to her, he takes a couple of hours for lunch about twice a week and whenever he does Sue checks and the slut isn't at her desk for a couple of hours too."

"Fuck, he's a quick worker, he's only been here, what? A month?"

"Yeah, well, he's a smooth-talking fucker and quite a bit younger than her."

"Yeah, and she's married. I tell you what, though, they don't want to let old man Higgins catch them. He's tough as nails on that kind of shit. Remember last year when he caught those two kissing under the mistletoe? Almost tore them a new arsehole there and then."

The sound of hands being washed accompanies the last exchange. Whatever else they're saying is impossible to decipher as their voices fade as they move toward the exit. Or, maybe, it's just the roaring in my ears that drowns them out. The door opens and closes. Silence echoes. All I can hear is my own heartbeat. And it's fast. Too fast.

What is worrying about their exchange? Jeanie, my wife of eight years looks absolutely stunning in the new red dress she bought for tonight's party and, thinking back on it, she's been acting a little quieter than normal for the last month or so. Gripped by a sudden sense of urgency, I finish cleaning myself in a hurry. I have to get back out to the ballroom to see how many other women are wearing red dresses. There has to be at least one other. It can't be my Jeanie they were talking about.

Wash up complete, I enter the ballroom again, heart somewhere south of my errant bowel, and glance around. For a brief flash, relief. Red it seems, is very popular this year, there have to be at least six to eight red party dresses floating around the room.

But then I do a second, slower scan of the party goers. Only a couple of the ladies can be described as 'hot.'

And only Jeanie is standing next to our allocated table with a younger guy.

He's wearing a similar dinner suit to the one I am. There, the similarity ends, though. Whereas I look like a gorilla that has been buttoned into the suit and strategically shaved, the guy looks like he's been born in it.

I walk toward them, noticing they're standing very close together. There are some other people nearby but none close enough to be engaged in conversation with them. My spidey senses go from unease to screaming awareness in the blink of an eye.

When she becomes aware of my approach, Jeanie takes a little step backward and her eyes flicker away from mine after the briefest of contact. Seeing her reaction, her conversation partner looks my way for the four long strides that separate us.

Jeanie does the honours. "Dave, this is my new boss that I may have told you about, Clive."

I don't really need to hear the name. I've already guessed who the fucker is just from the smile that suffuses his face. It's a smug smile, a bragging smile, a not so subtle 'I've fucked your wife smile.'

Rage, the likes of which I've never experienced before, wells up within me. I dearly want to drive my fist into his gloating fucking face but retain just enough control not to.

He extends his hand just as I think he recognises the mistake he's making by gloating. True to his nature, his hand comes out high and flat, palm facing the floor in the dominant position of men with big egos but small cocks. I debate not doing anything with the weak, well-manicured offering, but I do. No sooner have I taken it in mine when I feel him try to pull away. I don't let him. I turn our palms to the traditional vertical posture and squeeze.

And squeeze.

His hands are used to pushing pens, tapping away on delicate keypads, and caressing other men's wives. Mine are calloused and strong, used to gripping shears and wrangling recalcitrant sheep.

It's no contest at all.

I squeeze some more.

The last thing I see before my gaze transfers to my wife is the blood draining from the pissant fucker's face. I feel the bones in his hand grate together. Jeanie hears the moan that escapes his lips. A look of confusion mars her face. She looks down at our joined hands, glances up at my face and knows. Knows her secret is out. Knows there will be no forgiveness from me. Knows that we won't be having the children we've been talking about recently. Knows we're finished. Her hand goes to her mouth. I just stare at her.

I lay the pressure on the effeminate hand in mine. His left hand comes to the rescue of his right wrist, grabbing, trying vainly to separate us. It only takes him a few seconds to realise it's useless. He sinks slowly to his knees, his moans getting louder.

Still, I keep the pressure mounting. I sense a growing enclave of silence radiating out from our little tableau. I don't even do the guy the courtesy of looking at him. I keep my stare on Jeanie. She's obviously fighting the urge to run. I think my gaze is what's keeping her rooted to the spot.

The kneeling man lets out a shrill little scream, more a squeal like that of a little girl, as I feel something snap in his paw. I ratchet up the pressure a little more. By now tears are streaming down his face. Jeanie's too. He's whimpering like a bitch. So is she. His facial expression about as far from the gloating smile he greeted me with as it's humanly possible to get. The room is now pretty much silent apart from our little circle of whimpers and squeals.

Jeanie breaks eye contact, her gaze flickers toward the person who has just entered my peripheral vision. With her, "Mr. Higgins," I know who the newcomer is. The guy who has built the company my wife works for up from scratch and whom she speaks of in awe.

As I'm still glaring at Jeanie, I sense more than see the visitor glance down at the near tearful, squealing man, his sales manager, then at my wife. Jeanie on the other hand is looking anywhere but at me and the company owner.

I feel a hand gently grasp my arm. The voice that accompanies it sounds sympathetic.

"All right, son, let him go. I'll take it from here."

With one final squeeze that elicits a loud scream, I comply. My eyes take in the scene of everyone in the room looking on silently, knowing mainly from Jeanie's expression of guilt exactly why the humiliated man has literally suffered at my hand. Focusing on Mr. Higgins, I nod at the older man and with a final glance at my soon to be ex-wife, turn and walk away, hearing as I do so.

"Nigel, call an ambulance for my ex-sales manager, please. Mrs. Brown, come with me, I think we need to discuss your resignation."

The End

Now lighten the fuck up!

The Grim Reaper came for me last night, and I beat him off with a vacuum cleaner. Jesus, talk about Dyson with death.