Taking the elevator up to the 6^th floor, the bell-boy breaks off from whistling some Johnny Cash to ask, “Ex-wife?” 

I nod. 

“Bitches,” he sighs. “Can always tell.” 

Room 66 is small but clean, with a view of the factory below, its furnace spewing black choking ash up into the atmosphere. There’s a complimentary bottle of scotch beside the bed, which I dispatch immediately. For a moment, doubt kicks in and I search the bedside drawer for a bible but, unsurprisingly, there isn’t one. 

I take a deep breath, loosen my tie and open the window. Standing on the narrow ledge, black ash beckoning around me, the doubt surfaces again.  

The bell boy appears beside me. “Do you need a hand checking out, sir?” 

Next thing is I’m falling, headed directly for the furnace below.

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Inspired by word-of-the-day Perdition

So the girl I met that night in the club was always on to a loser from the outset.  She should have guessed by the way I sneered at her make-up.  She could have walked away when I said the clothes she wore made her look like a tart.  But she was drunk, so I smiled through gritted teeth and bought her another.  They always say the fat ones try harder. I just find with the drunk fat ones I don’t have to try at all.

So we’re back at mine, and I’m pulling out of her; my relief giving way to disgust. But she doesn’t notice; she’s not exactly conscious.

I take a steak knife and carve WHORE deep into her forehead.

Yes, my criticism has always been incisive.

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inspired by word of the day “Animadvert“