"Crazed with lust, the wench instantly fits herself with a dildo; she frigs me; this, says she, will make me overlook the pain she's about to cause me and then she delivers the thunderous blow, then another, and 'tis this one does in my maidenhead. Words cannot describe what I suffered; but the lancing pains provoked by this terrible operation soon yielded to the sweetest pleasures."-The Marquis de Sade, Juliette, Part One

"When everybody trying to sleep, I'm somewhere making my midnight creep/Every morning the rooster crow, something tell me I got to go/I am a back door man."-Howlin' Wolf, Back Door Man


The pig's wife, could've been a Goth model at one time. Deviant Art. Model Mayhem. Suicide Girls. She could've been on any one of them. But now she wasn't on any of 'em. Now she looks fit for a BBW page, all burgeoning crow's feet and cankles and chins and razor burn, socks stretched out frilly at the ankle, elastic band rendered wiggly as an over-used rubber band. But her eyes are the same now as they were when we were grasshoppers-darkness, a void, that rabbit hole you want to tumble down and twist around in, forever, or for as long as she'll have you, for as long as you're daring or dumb enough to keep sticking your fingers back into the beehive to search for honey that was never there.

Tonight she's splayed out on the mattress with the stain in the corner from where her son upchucked from eating too many Tostitos and she's got that stupid look in those indigo eyes, those lazy eyelids brought on from the Klonopin-Zanax cocktail. Torn fishnets have been replaced by the paint-stained sweatpants and those come off to reveal cellulite and a C-section scar and the voil heater burn brought on by her bitching at the husband when he badgered her about why she had all those guys from high school on her social networking page.

The Klonopin's wearing off but the Zanax's got her randy, or maybe she's just looking to pass the time, until the next one gets off and motors over to get her off or give her the hook-up. Little orange pills small as her heart, tinier than her pupils. Pink pills in aluminum foil. Blue pills broken up like crumbs and seeds at the bottom of an Italian Bread wrapper. And the huffing and the puffing as she sweats Magnums to try and look remotely sexual in the act of carnality, trying to forget she's a mom, trying to forget the water weight from the anti-psychotic, pretending she's still in high school.

Her body is covered in tats that are faded to the point where I keep rubbing at my eyes, assuming my contact lenses must be dried out. But no, it's just the remnants of sticky living, the road map to the things she's too retarded to regret, or too stubborn, or too self-absorbed. Last week she got another one inked on her wrist by a hardcore oi-oi punk rock shit-weevil we both went to high school with, some overgrown brat with a hatred of niggers and homos and spics that makes almost as much sense as his body art designs-he gave her a raven, as in Edgar Allen Poe, but he fucked up the beak and everything and it ended up looking like some big smudged-out mistake on a term paper trying to be passed off as a fat midget in a plague doctor's mask.

But right now she's mine, or really hers, a woman-child unto herself, mangled on the ratty full size mattress with the drab comforter from Raymour & Flanigans, replete with dried semen stains from the honeymoon many moons ago which, of course, she fronts and insists are, simply, toothpaste droppings.

Too many chins to count as she leans over me, a weight on my chest like an anvil, hair kinky at the sides like getting straddled by Sideshow Bob, and fixes me with that lazy stare and a crooked smile weak as her foreplay skills, a dry amusement almost as cobwebbed as her box.

Somehow this all escapes me at the moment and I think this is hot, this is naughty, I'm gonna fuck the girl of my dreams, I'm gonna do this pig's wife like she's a swine on a spit, on my spit. But the spit ain't right and there's plenty of reasons why. Not least of which is...the fact that Daddy-O may come back any second.

When we first stumble into the bedroom I think it's on, but as she disrobes on the bed and starts clenching her thighs together I'm almost concerned this is a reenactment of The Crying Game. But no, she says, she just doesn't want me anywhere near her flower. Huh?

Yeah, this broad doesn't let anyone chow on her unbuffed muff; she thinks it unsanitary.

But this isn't bothering me, not yet. What I'm really taken aback by are the shelves of about one hundred well-kept Batman figurines, all nearly identical but for a detail here (the odd nipple rings from Batman Forever) and a detail there (a vibrant color to Bruce Wayne's undies that suggests rubber panties).

"My man has a Batman fetish," she says.

"Oh..."

"Whatsa matter?" she crows. "Is that a problem?"

She honks and, at first, I think I like it, I take it in like it's some New Yawk accent, as if she grew up in Queens where I was born, but that ain't the sound. It's a raspy over-the-hump Lawng Eyeluhnd thang and I'm too gooey-eyed to see it, too deaf and dumb in love to hear it.

"Well?!" she repeats curtly. "Whatsa matter?"

"No..." I manage. "I'm just..." I shake it off, get into her mindset-pretend it ain't happening. I joke, effect my best Heath Ledger. "Why so serious?"

She brightens, as bright as a dim bulb can get, and I climb into bed on all fours, crawling across some other dude's sleep sack. We resume kissing and I start sucking on her breasts even though I'm really not that into it. Anything to try and get as aroused as I thought I'd be in this situation. She's licking my lobes, for cripessake, an average erogenous zone, and it's not cutting the mustard.

My mouth is around her right nipple, the one she had pierced in her freshman year of high school, the one I used to submit to rubbing anti-bacterial ointment on before she'd urge me to follow her to the Wellwood Docks so she could hit on her other guys and show them her new piercing. I feel a half a chub coming on good and firm when, suddenly, a head peaks up over the side of the bed, all jagged teeth, questioning eyes and impish blond spikes.

"Um..."

Seems Bruce Wayne's had a Batchild.

"Hey there...Joker."

"I'm not the Joker," the little fuck yowls. "I'm Superman! I'm Superman!"

The kid starts spinning around, playing make believe just like us-soaring around the room in fast circles as my head spins and my eyes dart around to follow him. Satan's spawn or, simply, Bedelia's best ever box trick, the only thing worth a damn that's ever drizzled out of her jizz locker.

And then she says it. "It's all good. Just cum real quick and he won't notice."

She wants me to dog her out with the kid watching, but she warns me that the sight of semen nauseates her, the same way she can't eat Mayo and cannot abide the scent, texture or visual of a pitcher of milk. So I can't cum in her or on her or near her and I'm not allowed to pleasure her with my mouth and, on top of all that, her body ain't rockin' like it was in grade school, so I'm left to wonder...am I less of a man for not keeping it up or is it less of a hard-on because she's more of a woman strictly in terms of proportions.

There's no easy answer, especially not with the buzzcut brat running around like a spazz and knocking over Adam West dolls.

She gets up on all fours, rolling her eyes like I'm a dweeb for not diddling her faster and harder and with more of a lightning rod, even though the kid's shouting lullabies around the perimeter and my penis is petrified of pre-cumming.

"I'm Superman! I'm Superman!"

"Come on, Daddy!" she screams as I try and enter her with what's left of my manhood, and I wilt that much more remembering what she said when I took off my pants by the open window where she was smoking a butt and letting a draft in so we'd both get sick and have to stay in bed all morning. It was only twenty seconds since I talked her into getting me going with some head, another of the items that wasn't typically on her menu, when she looked me square in my grill and spouted off with, "Ya ever heard that expression, 'Ya got a grower, not a shower?'"

Yeah. I just never heard it from a chick who expected me to be inside her in the next two minutes.

"I'm Superman!!!"

"Come on, Daddy! Get it!!!"

I'm shaking my head as I'm thrusting, almost tearing up with failure, either from my eyes or from my third eye, and she's building up a momentum in whatever way she can, taking my balls and smearing them across her sagacious slit lips, and she's grabbing a handful of medium thread count bedsheets from Bed Bath & Beyond with her free mitt, fat toes curling to reveal the flaked polish, making a writhing mess of that midget with the plague doctor's mask so that she looks epileptic, and all the while the half-pint hellion is staring at the bullets I'm sweating and souring on the action, determined to end our party early if it wasn't already over before it started.

"YAY!!!"

My eyes open as she dry-squirts like a cloud of baby powder internalized, falling from the within and the without, never touching my shriveled shit for a second-a feigned orgasm, a fucking waste of time spruced up and passed off as pleasure deluxe. But just for a sec and then it's reaching for the cigarette pack as...

"I'm through talking!" the kid shouts. "Get out of my cave!"

I'm creeped out, more by my member's paralysis than by the pre-pubescent cunt nipping at my ankles in his Dark Knight pajamas with booties. The succubitch sees this and presses her calloused palm to my cheek, forcing my face to meet hers.

"Ignore him," she says. "I do."

This ain't even harsh, not by her standards. Flashback to:

Fifteen years earlier, the pig's wife was a beautiful but damaged high school girl with bi-polar disorder and I was the pig. Only I wasn't an officer of the law, I was a physical blob, a junior high kid with man-mammaries who worshiped at the Goth girl's feet. She was clueless to my feelings, in more ways than one. She thought nothing of slow-dancing with me to The Fugees' rendition of "No Woman, No Cry," only to leave my side so many minutes later to suck face with college guys in the corner of the same shanty living room. Finally I couldn't take it any more and the blubbery bitch-boy with the baby blues turned his back on the bitch and told her to get fucked. She did. Repeatedly.

Flash forward to 2011 and the bitch-boy has grown into a boozy bruiser bordering on breakdown. I get a message from the pig's wife, desperate to catch up, and that's how I betrayed my best instincts and became a sober wreck ready to let it all ride on matters of that foulest and most fool-hardy human organ-the heart. Fucking heart!

Hello, my name is Bob and I'm an alcoholic and an addict.

My dick stopped working. That's why I decided to get sober. After seven years of daily and/or nightly drinking (or both), after the lost jobs, the lost friends, the lost weekends, after the bleeding gums, the migraine headaches, the demolished stomach lining and the hair-trigger gag reflex, even after almost falling into a canal in the dead of winter because of wobbly knees, even after passing out in the snow and nearly freezing to death, this is the thing that turned my ass around-my flaccid penis.

I would love to say that this turning point in my life was the result of divine intervention, that I was visited by God who came to me from on high and shook his omnipotent finger at me while I was coughing up crimson on a park bench or relieving myself on the side of a church. Hell, I'd even like to say I was smart enough to see the signs when I got so blotto that I was caught jerking off at my former-office job because I was too hungover to remember I was at work. There are any number of embarrassing drink-or-drug-fueled episodes in my history as a drunk that could (or should) have served as my final awakening. But The Program demands Honesty from its outcast members and, so, I must tell you the truth; It was my dong that made me do it.

Liver damage? Okay, fine. I had a fatty liver anyway. Lost brain cells? Shit, I lost most of them as a teenager, burning enough herb to asphyxiate Smokey The Bear. Cancer? Recent studies have linked excessive drinking to cancer, but me and the Big C'll be meeting one way or the other what with all the chain-smoking. And diabetes? I say whatev because that shit runs in my family and I've never had the sweet tooth everyone else seems to have, so the beer more than makes up for it. How about the preponderance of carbs in each can of my prized Coors Light? Well, I'm not eating much these days, so it all balances out. Intervention? I need to be better to my family? ...Are we talking about the same dysfunctional family that pop Percocets like Pop Rocks and bicker to the point of speaking in tongues? You can have 'em. It can wait. What else ya got?

None of it mattered to me. I was going to die anyway, I reckoned. So I might as well do it in style. And by style, of course, I meant ripped jeans, puke-stained T-shirts and skin so oily it could offend a Sheik. There was no reasoning with me, I had my drank and that's all I cared about.

Seven years of steady slurping cost me lots (friends, employment, hands that didn't shake like Michael J. Fox playing a game of Jenga). But in the end it was the use of my manhood that turned me around on my self-destruction. After all, if it's small it better work at least as well as a bulkier model, if not way better. This was just unacceptable!

The first rule of AA is, Admit that you are powerless over your addiction and that your life has become unmanageable. I had known, for quite some time, that my life was unmanageable, but I had done a pretty good job of convincing myself that I could maintain power over my poison. Skip a party here, wait till Midnight to start guzzling there, drink mouth wash before work instead of the customary tall boy. And it worked (in a half-assed sorta way) for some time. But when your tweeter stops tweeting that's no good and it's probably time to take stock of what your best friend's got brewing inside your body.

Many authority figures, medical institutions, men's health magazines and mothers will warn you about wrecking your liver. Doctors have always admonished heavy drinkers of the perils of Delerium Tremens (the Teen Wolf tremors that seize your hands and cause spasms worse than a roomful of epileptics doing The Shuffle). But nowhere had I, for one, ever read anything about the manifestation of man-tits or the hibernation of the meat rocket. You would think that such a phenomenon would be disseminated far and wide by the mainstream media so as to keep Frat Boys focused on their studies. Surely a college quarterback wouldn't be doing keg stands if he knew the true nature of his post-game post-coital Walk of Shame.

Here's what's really up: Long-term alcohol abuse dramatically depletes a man's testosterone levels and causes a preternatural hormonal imbalance (see: bitch tits or man mammaries, if you wanna be politically correct). Simultaneously booze dilates blood vessels in the beef thermometer as soon as it enters your system. Once those blood vessels are open the booze keeps them open, making it possible for the blood to drain out in record time (see: "booze droop" or "whiskey dick"). Binge drinking on a regular basis can, over time (say, seven years, for example), lead to vascular damage of the dong, and deterioration of the pituitary gland.

This means that the big head stops communicating with the little head, so even if you're hornier than a ten-legged hounddog with a head full of porcupine quills and a loin lathered in hell broth, your brain will still stand in the way of the two-backed beastie coming to fruition.

For a long time none of this would have mattered to me. After starting my tenure as an alcoholic with a blackout drunk whose idea of a romantic evening consisted of drinking off as many twelve packs as it took for her to conk out and leave me rubbing my half-cocked cock on her cankles, the last thing on my mind was using my equipment for anything other than peeing...frequently, a minimum of two times per tall boy. Aside from emptying my sauce-saturated bladder, the only thing my thing was ever doing was going off in my sleep (which sucks because the last thing a drunk wants to do when he's in desperate need of the hair of the dog is clean up the spunk of the drunk).

But then the succubitch came back, the pig's wife, and the simple concept of being with her put drinking on the backburner. It was enough of a high just to share a bed with the one I had yearned for all those years and even more of a high to know I was railing out some churlish cop's chick.

The text messages reflected a mutual appreciation of this fact for awhile. The pig's wife wrote, "miss u today," followed by a smiley face emoticon. She wrote, "Good morning xoxo," she wrote, "can't wait to see you," then "miss you" again, all in the same day.

Social networking sites have revolutionized 21st Century life. They've helped pederasts find pubeless pals, helped stalkers to stay informed about their obsessions' whereabouts, aided narcissists in their quest to become self-promoters and even made it possible for people to break up without ever having to deal with the icky emotional ramifications of seeing their significant other's face (see: Defriending).

It was through one such forum for indirect interfacing that I was approached by the pig's wife. I should've fucking known better. When we first met up in person it was 5 o'clock in the morning and I had just cashed my last can. At the time I was proud of myself because I had "cut back," from five 24-oz cans to three. Nevertheless driving drunk with failing night vision to meet the desire of my long-lost love's text messages was less than responsible. Driving on a curb for two blocks was even more questionable. But when I got to her, when I saw her again, it was as if beer was just some bitch I had hooked up with in a "rare" moment of poor judgment, and the only thing on my mind was how amazing it was to be lying in bed with the great unrequited love of my life, someone who I once couldn't touch but who now wanted to touch me...And then...It happened.

Nothing. Nothing happened. At first I deliberately tucked it back ala Buffalo Bill, out of concern for the welfare of this person's living situation (how she filed taxes). Then, on the subsequent evening, after discarding most of my cerveza stash and opting to see her more clearly...Nada again. Only this time I was in it to win it. But the connection between the big head and the little head went spottier than a Dalmation with track marks and I had to bear the humiliation of letting this "wonderful" person down after a decade of amorous anticipation.

That clenched it. If it wasn't the limp lightning rod that made my mind up for me then it was the abrupt epiphany that, in spite of my total disconnect from humanity and reality, I was still capable of being in love and giving love to another human being. What's more, I might actually be able to start giving a shit about myself again. The following night was day one of an intolerable detox (six weeks of in-head hallucinations, dry-heaving and headaches) that was made tolerable only by virtue of the patience and pursuit of that person.

In AA they stress that newcomers are not to enter a relationship for a minimum of one year and they profess an almost homoerotic desire to keep the men with the men and the women with the women. I've broken a lot of the 12 Steps and "promises" of their little program, but none was as easily breakable as the above. It's hard to throw a lover by the wayside when that lover is the reason you ended up sober in the first place. Whether I'm talking about a person or my penis really doesn't matter because, courtesy of the clarity of sobriety, I was balls deep into a love affair with both. They say the healing starts when you learn how to love yourself. I assume that includes my five-and-three-quarter-inch erection (I love you, Junior. Feel free to throw up any time you want. You know I'll clean it up).

That clarity wanes after tonight. "Ignore him. I do."

I heed her instructions and burrow in with everything I've got. Which isn't much, despite my excitation, and I don't know if it's fear of a Beretta being drawn down on the back of my brain stem or the upheaval of an uncontrollable brat braying at our feet or, simply, the abovementioned side effects of far too many years of swigging for supper. Or, maybe, on a subconscious level, I'm grappling with the triple threat that is the pig's wife's aversion to bodily fluids and blowjobs, the deterioration of her body from paragon-like object of infatuation into rubbery, rash-prone cottage cheesiness, and the likelihood that this is all a fat mistake, one that I'm bound to regret even more than the time my boss found me beating off at my work computer after coming in a half-hour late to the office with a wicked hangover and a longing left untended on account of my sleeping with a blackout drunk (the bitch before the pig's bitch).

I bring my face to her butterface and little shaver yanks at the bed sheets. "Get outta my cave," he shouts. "You hear me, fuck-ass?!"

"Huh?!"

He brings up a big green hunk of toy Kryptonite and chucks it at my spine. It connects as I curl over his mother's mammoth crack. "Ah! What the fuck?!"

"I said, 'Get outta my cave,' shit-heel!"

"That's not Superman!" I'm arguing with a five-year old now. "That's the Dark Knight, ankle-biter." You'd think with all the movie memorabilia JR would have his super-heroes straight by this point.

The sawed-off shitter growls and takes up my jeans, belt and shoes. He opens the bedside window and tosses it all out. "Holy shit-knuckles!"

"Hey!" the pig's wife says. "Don't fucking cuss in front of my fucking idiot son. Are you a scumbag or something?"

"What?!"

"Come on," she says. "Hurry up and blow me already! I fucking deserve it!"

"Hey Catwoman, Bruce is home, baby!" Boots beat the overburdened stairs and I fart in frozen shock.

"Oh fudge..."

"Hurry up," she says. "Make me cum."

"What? I can't!" I really can't.

"C'mon, Big Daddy," she demands. "You got twenty-three seconds before he can get his lard ass up those stairs, another five while he's catching his breath. Make me cum. Go!"

It's not happening, so I give her a few numb thrusts, watch her eyes roll around-not in ecstasy but in agitation-and then I sprint over to the window, drawing the comforter up around my body like a toga and shooting the little shit a hateful glare.

"Get outta my cave! Who are you?! Who do you think you are?!"

"What was that, babe?"

"Nothing," she says to the corpulent cop coming up the stairs. "Nothing at all." Which is true, but still stings. She looks to me, to the comforter with the high thread count. "That's Nortwegian polyester."

The kid is tugging on my toga as I open the window and prepare for my descent. Will I make it without breaking anything that isn't already broken or lame? I rip the pane all the way open and and lean down with my cape billowing in the brat's face. I leer at him, then I lean down and answer his stupid fucking question in a gravely whisper befitting Christian Bale. "I'm Bat Man."

A quick pirouette to whip the whipper-snapper in the lips with the makeshift cape and I'm out in the brick night air, making the sign of an intricate cross that hasn't even been constructed or blessed yet and taking a flying leap in lieu of a flying fuck.

"Where's my dinner?" I hear as I smack, chin first, into the rock hard piss-yellow lawn. "Why's the kid all riled up?"

"I met Batman, Daddy."

Later he'd meet the Teletubbie with the triangle on his forehead once the pig's wife convinced me that our indiscretions would be more discreet and less obvious if I pretended to be her gay best friend from high school. Next thing I know I'm posting pictures of Jeffree Star's number one back-up dancer/boyfriend on Facebook as my default picture and leaving purple handkerchiefs lying around the pig's living room to deliberately give him the wrong (or right?) idea.

Next thing I know I'm in a tattoo parlor, spending the excess scrilla usually reserved for rum, and some scary Croatian behemoth is bending my neck like a pretzel and inking the words "para mi cancion di amor" over my carotid artery, all in the name of a love that doesn't make sense, then or now.

The tat is a reference to that love song called, appropriately enough, "Lovesong," by The Cure, a tune the pig's wife turned me on to when we were kids, a joint that made my jive ass melt when she gave it to me. And the tat has the right effect, at first-it makes her melt in kind...but the feeling fades faster than her make-up, and soon the text messages take on another shape. "Good morning xoxo" becomes, "Got it, I can't talk." "Can't wait to see u," is replaced by, "Come on already, I said I was sorry."

I'm oblivious to it at first, busy as I am with vomiting from withdrawal when I'm not shoveling supplements into my face. Resistance is a powerful thing. Especially if you accept astrology as a legitimate signpost to your soul and you happen to be a Taurus of the most stubborn sort.

Resistance is especially powerful when you're told, after years of indulging in drunken hubris, that you are powerless and you're told this by a roomful of sniffling men who can't hold their liquor any better than you can. I couldn't resist seeing her and I couldn't resist seeing her for what I wanted her to be, what I had built her up to be in my imagination for fifteen fucking years of frantic yearning and addle-brained substitution (there's a reason all my exes were brunettes).

I resisted going to AA for more than ten years, mostly because I was too busy getting shit-faced to be bothered with fitting them into my schedule but, also, because I was "too smart for their program." As a cerebral cat with a knack for researching, it didn't take me long to poke holes in what I read about their Twelve Steps and what I learned about their leader. Bill W.? The man goes to his grave a sex addict and takes a dirt nap resulting from chain-smoking-induced emphysema, and this cat is qualified to tell me how I should conduct my shit? ...Shiiiit!

But as they say in the action movies, resistance is futile. As previously stated, love is in the air, but my little big man is not. Bob Junior is working about as well as Stephen J. Hawking's legs. Sobriety is my only option to avoid further damage to a diminutive dong.

Alas, detox tends to put the body through the wringer and your system, a system used to being fed its regular ration of poison, rebels like a cranky kid denied his dose of sugar. This after three weeks of puking, punching and shitting my way to a not-so-speedy recovery, my skin flute continued to sag during sex or refuse to rise to the occasion at all.

It's hard enough to keep a brand new relationship on track when you announce, at the gate, that you are a substance abuser who is just getting on a rickety wagon that will take you on a six-week sojourn into sleeplessness and possible seizure.

To add embarrassment and disappointment to the proceedings by showing up with an empty holster to this kind of gun fight is unreasonable and unfair. I can't expect my salacious savior to bear that kind of conjugal cross with me, certainly not for what will be an indeterminate amount of time. So I do what any sharp drunk should-I find myself a grease monkey from the ghetto with access to heavy-duty pharmaceuticals and a history with The Program.

Abdul [Last Name Withheld] becomes my sponsor. He also becomes my dealer. For just forty bucks in crumpled cash money, the Muslim mechanic with twenty years in The Program will give me eight to ten tablets of Vigara, the German's answer to Viagra-cherry red, big as horse pills and twice as strong as that shit your gramps takes.

If there is one thing that can redeem the Germans for giving the world Methadone and the Human Oven it would be their innovations in boner medicine.

So I pop two caplets of the Eva Braun Tickler and drop homegirl a text, asking her what time I should head over to give the ole hump another go, but she doesn't answer for several hours and, when she does, she tells me she's at some low-rent watering hole in Punktown, making eyes with a scrawny cunt with a fauxhawk and a profound interest in "her as a person."

The pig's wife is a cheater, only her husband ain't the only one she's cheating on and while I'm off hunting down jumbo bottles of Tongkat Ali she's getting courted by Fauxhawk and the bigoted bitch with the thing for inking amateur tattoos. Para mi cancion di amor should've read, "Joder la mujerzuela."

Coño!

After a while I'm hip to this fact, but like so many hopeless romantics I refuse to accept it, writing off reality in favor of excuse-making. I write her long messages, the likes of, "I've been there for you, probably with more consistency than your husband. In the future, I hope you'll conjure up some hazy recollection of the great moments or even good moments we shared and, maybe, they'll be worth something more than a cup of coffee and conversation interrupted by cackling shitheads." And, "

If this is going to work, I need a partner who will do their part and not leave everything up to someone who is dealing with a change in their biological functioning, someone who is gonna build me up, not tear me down. And I want that to be you, but it's not gonna happen if you're out with a different guy every other night and relying on me to whisper all the sweet-nothings while you remain silent." I'm sure Bill W would say we've reached that stage of addiction called "Denial." Fuck him!

After a while I don't have to write messages any more. Two days before Christmas I catch her in a lie-her telling me she's home sick with a husband who's head is in the bowl when, in point of fact, her Facebook profile tells me she's at a hardcore club on the North Shore-and she responds by telling me I'm impossible and tells me not to bother texting her again. I respond by telling her she's poison and that's a rap...for awhile.

Smash cut to several weeks later and I find out she's been telling the pig that she's out with Bobby The Fag as a cover story so she can cavort around with other dudes. So here I am, newly sober and with some time to kill. It's incredibly simple to fake a Facebook profile and, in no time at all, the pig's wife is adding a new friend who's into all the same passing New Age hipster pseudo-Buddhist betterment fads she claims to dig.

A date is made to meet at Meson Ole, a Mexican restaurant off Montauk Highway and one that is, conveniently, located right beside Copiague's South Bay Motel. South Bay is quiet and discreet, a place where any pervert or predator can hang their hat or hang a new friend, for the right price.

The pig's wife gets out of her car, ass first, and crouches over to look for Klonopin crumbs in her console. I move fast, as fast as you can say statutory rape. I've got the bag over her head and she's flailing her way straight into the trunk.

In Suite 102 now it's just as quiet and discreet as I'd hoped and I can tell the swinish spouse can hear the forced sobs over the sound of snow on the wall-mounted TV because she flinches behind her gag. I let her feel cold steel on her nape and tell her what she already suspects. "That's the gun that'll end my life and it's all your fault, cunt."

She mumbles something unintelligible, but I interject. "It's a love-gun, princess. Believe it or not, it only takes one bullet to end two lives. That is, when the one still breathing has her fingerprints all over the trigger."

I take the bare part of the shower curtain rod and shove it between her thumb and pointer finger as she attempts to recoil. The restraints prove her efforts futile and I sock her one in the mouth, a mouth that felt like it was in a state of rigor mortis the last time I kissed it.

"Good luck with the husband. I'm sure he can use his leverage as an officer of the law to get you off...but, then, he never really was very good at that either, huh?"

She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to. She understands, even if the pills have rotted out whatever wasn't already useless in her skull.

"Good night, babe. See ya next Tuesday."

The Internet is good for more than social networking. It's also a dream when it comes to downloading free sound bytes of any manner of audio effects. Like a whistling fart or a Wilheim Scream...or the blast of a Derringer pistol.

BOOM! And then the recoil. And then the thump of a body slumping down and smacking the stained carpet. That's the beauty part about modern motels-the electronic key cards make it easy as pie to slip out without waking the cunt who lies next to you.

When she shrugs off the blindfold she sees no trace of the body she thought she'd have to answer for. But the Swiss Army knife on the pillow beside her gives her a fairly good indication of how much I loved her...and the sound effects that reverberate in her head tell her what she already knows-there's one less guy on her friends list.