Many Happy Returns
an excerpt

Dan Roberge stood in the middle of Anton Court and looked at the house in which his wife was fucking some shit heel. The sun was a few hours past its meridian in Sacramento, and the temperature on this Friday in early August was over 100 degrees.

In front of the house sat two cars, one of which was the powder blue Ford Fusion he had bought for Faith two years ago on their tenth anniversary. Fusion, he thought. The act of combining. Coupling.

A car entered the court a hundred yards away. Dan's hand went almost unconsciously to his pocket; he caught himself and disguised the gesture by rubbing his palms on his slacks as if to wipe off perspiration. He realized that he looked conspicuous standing in the middle of the street, and began to walk toward the shit heel's house.

The car turned into the first driveway at the end of the court.

As Dan reached the sidewalk he heard the car door open. He turned to see an old lady creaking out of her car. She saw him and straightened up. He waved. She cocked her head without waving. Dan thought he saw her squint, but she was too far away for him to be sure.

Let's hope she's as blind as she looks, Dan thought. Eye witness testimony means nothing if the eyes are bleary.

Dan walked slowly toward the house. He looked over his shoulder toward the old woman, who seemed to be intent on navigating the stone walkway to her own house.

He reached the door, and turned again. If he had to force the door he didn't want a witness. He saw the woman slip into her house and close the door. He was sure that if he watched he would see the blinds part slightly on her picture window. And who knew how many other people were home at this hour, peering out at a man who didn't belong here, acting oddly.

Dan reached for the door knob and turned. It turned easily. He rested his other hand on the door and pushed gently. The door slid quietly open, and a rush of cold air chilled him from the air conditioning inside.

Who the fuck leaves their door unlocked in the middle of the day?

The answer came immediately: People in a hurry to get their pants off.

Dan stepped in, turned, and closed the door as softly as he could. He slowly let the door knob twist itself back into place.

He looked around. The living room smelled of a mixture of old cigarette smoke and old sweat. The furniture fit the smell. It reminded him of hotel furniture, sturdy, plain, and fouled by the bodily fluids of a hundred anonymous occupants.

A stairway led up. The stairs were carpeted. Good.

Let's see what kinds of bodily fluids they're depositing up there.

He rested his foot lightly on the first step and gradually increased the pressure until it bore his whole weight. No creaking. Good. He continued up the stairs, holding the rail to balance his weight.

As he reached the seventh stair he heard Faith's voice. "No," she was saying. No, that wasn't it. "Slow," or something like that. But that wasn't it either. He reached the top stair, and now he could hear her more clearly. She was saying, "Oh, Zoe, oh, Zoe."

What kind of name was Zoe? It sounded like a woman's name. Was Faith with a woman? Wouldn't that be just fucking peachy.

Dan moved quietly onto the landing, offering thanks to a God he didn't believe in for his silent passage so far.

He could see through the open bedroom door. The shit heel was on top of her on the bed. Definitely a man. Dark curly hair. Dark tan. Muscular back that were being caressed by Faith's small, pale hands.

Dan reached down and slowly drew the gun from his right front pocket. Again he thanked the non-existent God, this time for giving him the grace not to blow off the front of his leg or, worse, his right nut.

The adulterers fused on the bed, oozing bodily fluids onto the sturdy, serviceable bed.

Again, Faith moaned, "Oh, Zoe."

Dan said, "What the fuck kind of name is Zoe?"

Faith jerked. Her forehead smashed Zoe in the nose, and he yelped. He rolled off her, away from Dan, and sat upright on the bed, his legs crossing over hers.

Dan pointed the gun at Zoe. "Stand up," he said.

"Dan, what are you doing here?" Faith said, predictably.

Dan knew his line. "No, sweetie, what are you doing here?"

Zoe was still sitting.

Dan said, "I told you to stand up."

Zoe looked at Faith and slowly stood on the bed. His penis was stiff, glistening with Faith's wetness.

Dan said, "The next guests won't want to know what you've been dripping on that bed."

Faith blinked and pulled the sheet up over her breasts. A wisp of her long red hair slid off her shoulder.

"I asked you a question," Dan said, looking at Zoe. "What did she call you? Zoe? What kind of name is Zoe for a handsome young man like you?"

Zoe said, "It's Spanish." Then he said something that sounded to Dan like zombie goat.

"Zombie goat? What the fuck is that? I don't speak much Spanish." Dan waved the gun again. "You shouldn't either while I'm pointing a gun at your... pene."

Faith said, "It's his name. Zorem. Zorem Bigote."

"Bigote? Doesn't that mean mustache in Spanish?"

"Yes," Bigote said. "Mustache." He wagged his finger in front of his upper lip.

Dan laughed. "I like Zombie Goat better. Do you mind if I call you Zombie Goat, you horny old billy?"

Bigote's dropped to Dan's gun. "Please put that down, okay?"

Dan reached out and slid the safety off. His hands shook.

Faith screamed.

Bigote crouched suddenly and held out a hand like a traffic cop.

Dan aimed for Bigote's genitals and pulled the trigger.

The explosion from the small gun was louder than Dan had expected, and the kick was milder.

"No more mustache rides," he said.

Bigote fell behind the bed out of Dan's sight.

"Stand up," Dan said, then realized how foolish that sounded. His mind flashed on a scene from a hundred movies and TV shows, where some guy (it was always a guy) shouts after a car thief, "Come back here with my car!" He laughed out loud.

Faith's screams began to sound like words. "Dan, stop! My God, Dan, what are you doing!"

Dan moved around the end of the bed. Bigote was curled up on the floor, his head under the bed. His arms scrambled as if he were trying to get under the bed, but his curled up legs wouldn't fit.

Dan grabbed Bigote's ankle and yanked.

Bigote kicked at Dan but missed. Dan could see that his aim had been high. He had hit Bigote in the belly, and blood was running from a quarter-sized wound.

Faith rolled off the other side of the bed.

Dan aimed again at Bigote's genitals and fired. This time his aim was true, and splayed the goat's penis.

Bigote howled and curled tighter, his head emerging from under the bed.

Dan shot him in the top of the head.

Bigote straightened and began to spasm.

Dan turned toward Faith. She scrambled across the floor toward the open door.

Dan fired, hitting her in the base of her spine. Her arms and legs slackened and she thudded onto her belly.

"No more mustache rides for you and the Zombie Goat."

"Dan, stop," Faith said in a strange low voice. "Hurts."

"Fusion," Dan said, and shot again, hitting Faith in the back of the head. "Together forever."

For a moment he looked at his wife, at the bodily fluids seeping out of her. Then he backed up a few steps and sat down on the bed.

He felt it in his belly first, a chaos of bodily sensations that spread upward to the skin of his chest and arms, and downward to his scrotum. For the last week he had felt nothing but a vague, thick numbness. Now the numbness tore open and released what felt like a hive of bees under his skin.

The gun slipped from Dan's hand and thumped onto the carpeted floor. He closed his eyes and focused on the chaos in his body. He nearly screamed, but a dead part of him cut it off. He didn't want to attract the neighbors.

Christ, he thought, as if the gunshots wouldn't attract the neighbors. Time to get it together, Dan.

The dead part enveloped him, squeezing the bees down to a single point in his gut.

He picked up the gun, stood, and walked out of the bedroom.