Blame the Babbling B...eautiful Wife that you Love Dearly

Til' Death Do Us A Favour

You enter the quaint, little coffee shop off the high-street, in hopes of escaping the cluster of people rushing to complete their last-minute Christmas shopping. The lone barista barely looks at you as you order, and says nothing as you scurry away into the next room. It's a crampt graveyard of furniture, par a couple in the corner. Both are fidgeting and exchanging small smiles every odd second. Bless, must be an awkward date.

Quietly, you sit in the opposite corner, trying your best to blend into the walls. Someone left a book on the table, "The Art of Disappearing". You don't care what it's about, you just hide behind it, hoping that freak who had been following you for the past seven hours doesn't notice or recognize you.

The door in the foyer twinkles. A familiar, deep voice drifts through the shop.

Crap.

There's an exchange of words. Footsteps. The book doesn't feel so protective anymore. You scan the room for options: escape through the window? Hide in the toilets? Where are the toilets? Why are there no toilets? What kind of cafe doesn't have-

The couple giggle as the man in his stupid denim jacket enters the room. Terror rises in your gut - so without a second thought, you fly from your seat, fall to one knee with your back to the man, take the hand of the girl and spurt out:

"Will you marry me.... Meg?"

You're even more terrified when the girl says yes.

At least the man has disappeared. Alright, one problem evaded. Now here's a problem you didn't see coming. Is she playing along... or is she legitimately insane?

You look her over and try to appear confused as if you'd only just noticed something. "Oh wait, damn, you're a chick? Ah... I don't dig chicks, sozzles!"

As you flee from the coffee shop, you here the girl cry out, "Wait, I can change!"

Crazy. Definitely crazy.

Out in the street, you start planning: You need to get out of the country. They aren't going to leave you alone while you're still here, still within their watch.

***

As soon as you reach your apartment, you're packing. Clothes are ripped from hangers, books are soaring through the air, guns are loaded and lobbed - all falling not-so-gracefully into a tattered suitcase on your bed.

Passport.

You need your passport.

Where's your fucking passport?

Before you can even start to ransack the apartment, the phone rings.

"What?" You hiss in agitation. There is a brief pause, in which a question seeps into your brain and scolds it like fresh coffee - no one knows my number... so who's calling?

"Hey Hubby, I thought we were going on a honeymoon?" An overly sweet female voice chimes through the phone.

"Fuck off, Brenda. How'd you get my number?" You reply curtly.

With a humorless laugh, the sweet tone is dropped like a rock. "I have my methods. I take it you've met Sebastian."

"Blonde douche in the stupid denim jacket? Yeah, we had a passing encounter." While talking, you continue to cast an eye over your apartment, scanning for any signs of where your passport might be.

"Passing? I've never heard of a passing encounter where three men end up dead in a very... compromising position."

"Look, if they're going to make gay jokes, they have to be prepared for repercussions."

You need to find your passport; she's found your number, she'll know where you are. It's only a matter of time.

Thank God this bitch can babble, "I hope you're not planning on leaving me. We have a honeymoon to plan, Sweetie!"

"Me? No! I wouldn't dream of it, Honeybunch!"

"Good. You know it's very illegal to do so without this very nice passport you have. Amazing picture by the way."

Son of a b-

A sharp knocking echoes through the apartment, from the front door.

Brenda keeps talking as you set the phone down, careful not to hang up.

When you open the door, the girl from the cafe is there. Of course she is. Plastered on her face is an innocent grin. In her hand, she presents an open passport that belongs to a person that looks a lot like you.

"At least you're not Brenda," you say with a small sigh of relief.

"No, and I'm not "Meg" either. But I do happen to be her second in command. The name's Julie." She holds her empty hand out for you to shake. You take the passport instead and return to your packing.

"That's not a nice way to treat your new wife," she calls playfully from the doorway.

You throw the passport into the suitcase, lock it up and make your way to the door. Julie is still there; still grinning.

"Thanks but no thanks, Julie. Unfortunately, I already have a wife, who I can only assume has hired you to follow my arse around wherever it goes, like a lost lamb."

"If it helps, I don't want to kill you," she offers.

"How does that make any sense in this situation? Something's telling me 'want' isn't going to stop you. And I hope: you, your little minions, fucking Brenda, and the rest know that ''til death do us part' doesn't have to be so god damn literal! Divorce is a valid option these days, you know?!"

"Divorce doesn't get her that shiny new bounty hanging over your head."

"Woah... What? What bounty? There's a bounty for me? - I want some damn answers. Why are you here? Why do you have this fake-ass passport? Yes, I can tell! What do you want from me? Let me through my own god damned door!"

As your temper rises, Julie stands calm and watches in mild amusement.

"Your questions are so dull and predictable. Have you honestly forgotten that you're a wanted man? Half the world wants your head on a silver platter."

"Why? I haven't done anything recently. What did I do?"

Julie only laughs in response as if the answers to your questions are so blatantly obvious, a five-year-old could have figured it out.

"Despite how much Brenda wants to see you've had a horrific death after hours of torture in the news reports," the thought sends a shiver down your spine, " she wants to be the one responsible. I'm here to make sure that happens. Now, you can either come with me, or not."

"I'm going to go with not."

"Alright. Then you're going to stay here and wait for someone else to end you."

"Or... you know... I could leave before that happens."

"Oh no, Babe, I'm not letting you leave unless it's with me. So, I'll rephrase: you can either come with me and live for at least another two weeks, or stay here and let the assassination squad in the building opposite do their job. Entirely your choice - no pressure."

The grin never even wavers. Besides, two weeks gives you plenty of time to escape and disappear.

"Fine, but only because you're hotter than a gang of prison convicts," you reply bitterly.

Julie's grin becomes even broader... somehow. She then shoves you, hard, as you hit the floor. You hear glass shattering. The remnants of a window sprinkle over you like transparent snow. The wall in front of you is marked with three distinct bullet-holes. That could've been your head.

"Right," Julie stands, brushing herself off lazily, as you lie, paralyzed, on the ground, "let's go then!"