Murder With a Bad Altitude
My wife walked four paces behind me, a pink Colt revolver in her hand.
I mocked her. “Shoot me with your pinkie, and I might need a couple stitches to close the flesh wound.”
“It’s a thirty-eight. One shot into your cerebellum, they won’t bother with stitches.” Suddenly she’s a neurologist.
I couldn’t point out my cerebellum, but I knew it was in my brain. Probably right in front of the barrel of her Colt. My path led me to a hot air balloon.
“Climb aboard,” she said.
I objected. “But I don’t know how to pilot one of – ” her smile, the one that used to melt me, froze me now – “oh, I see.”
She pulled the anchors, cut the mooring lines, and I was airborne. The wind swept me away so quickly, I missed her parting wave.
I don’t know if she cleverly planned the power line or if that was a stroke of luck to end things early, but that’s where the fire started. And where my life ended.
It’s tough to use a hot air balloon as a murder weapon, but give my wife an incentive and a pink revolver and suddenly strange things begin to happen. Excuse me while I check my life insurance policy and figure out what’s going to get me with the letter I:
- Ice cream
- Ice sculpture
- Iron cross
- Ivory soap
- Ivy, of the poison variety
- I don’t know yet
You’ll have to come on back tomorrow to find out. I’m still digging my way outta my grave from the hot air balloon “accident.”