John Malloy (12/

             *John Malloy* (12).   
       The Blackmailed Beauty
                 (Bill and Clara,)

      Detective Bill Withers opens the front door of his home and sees Clara from behind, bending over from the waist to pick up a pack of Lucky Strikes from the dingy tan carpeting.

    He shows disgust on his puffy face as he notices the cellulite exposed on her fleshy thighs because of the hiked yellow flower-print dress.

    "Ain't you a sorryful  sight to behold?" he snorts. "Been drinkin' your way through another long lunch, I see!"

     He removes his batterd gray fedora and sails it across the room onto the frayed couch, which is littered with various pieces of clothing and an empty Smirnoff bottle.

     Clara Withers bolts up and spins around with what Bill finds to be surprising speed. Her jowed face is still flushed from the effort of bending over and an afternoon of depleting a previosly-full bottle of vodka.  A look of pure rage causes the redness to deepen even further.

    "Look at who's spoutin' off!" she shouts."Ya got off work two hours ago, fart-face!
How many brewskies have ya ponded back at that sesspool of a waterin' hole of yers before ya drove yer  dunken ass home?"

    "F*ck you, BITCH!' Bill responds as he starts loosening his tie. "I don't know why I bother comin' home to this smelly hellhole at all!... You been cookin' rotten cabbage,  or that your new perfume?"

     Clara glares back at her husband for a long moment before offering him her middle finger. "Up yers, ASSHOLE! she screams. "Make yer own fuckin' DINNER!"

    She spins and stomps off to the kitchen.

     Two hours later,  both Bill and Clara are sitting at a relatively safe distance from each other on the lumpy davenport. Bill is leaning back, wearing a now-graying, formerlly-white T-shirt. He's just finishing a cold plate of yesterday's spaghetti.

     The veterans of twenty years of combative marital bliss are taking a brief time off for mutual rearmament before continuing the open hostilities.

     A pair of plaid socks adorn Bill's aching feet, which are propped cross-legged on his four-foot-long rectangular mahogany coffee table.

     A newly opened can of Hamms beer is clutched protectively in his right hand.
 He, along with constantly nodding-off wife are listening to the Jack Benny program on their  tall General Electric console radio.

    The large round dial is sending a dull orange light across the darkened living room.

    "Now CUT that out, Rochester!" Benny announces.

    "Alright, Mister Benny," comes the familiar gravely voice. "But you ain't gonna like what happens next!"

    The weekly program continues to fill an otherwise quiet room.

      Clara has her pink, fluffy size-nine slippers are propped spread-eagled on the battered  glass topped table.  A half-burned Lucky Strike is dangling from her puffy lips, threatening to drop to her dress at any moment. Her eyes are closed and she occasionally emits short bursts of snoring sounds.  

    "Hey woman!" Bill shouts. "Wake up!....You're gonna burn the damn HOUSE down!"

     Clara snorts; opens her eyes  and looked over to Bill. "What's yer problem, shithead?" she groused. "I was just restin'my eyes!"

     "Sure you were," Bill shoots back. "Tell me more about that 'handsome stranger' you're creamin' your filthy bloomers over. I don't have any old pals from high school.
I couldn't even get a date for the prom! I went with my ugly cousin, Ester!"
 
    "Big fuckin' surprise there dick-wad!...He wuz a real gentleman, he wuz; not that ya would  know one if 'n ya tripped over one!"

     Bill looks suspiciously at Clara. "What did you tell this 'real gentleman' about me?"
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     "I tole' him how we met an' some of the stuff ya like, is all. He got a real kick outta how ya like ta be whipped an' pissed on, he did!" She giggles and gives him a smug, satisfied grin.

     Bill jumps to his feet and looms over his wife with his fists tightly clenched in anger.

    "You ignorant COW!" he screams. "How can one cunt contain that much fuckin' STUPIDITY?"

      Clara smiles up at him. "What's the matter deary?... Are we feelin' a little insecure t'day?"

     Detective Withers stomps to the closet and retrieves his service  revolver. He straps on his leather holster and rams the gun into it is

      I've gotta find this snoop and plant him six feet under before he can  f*ck-up my WHOLE financial enchelada!" Bill rages.

   "Have a swell day!" Clara waves as he bolts through the door.