Harold's Coming Home

Desperation and rage go together like crowbar and skull. Invite jealousy in for the night and you’ve got yourself a regular ménage à trois of…of what?

Of justice.

Harold’s gone and you don’t even want to know. One thing is for certain: he’s not with her. Because she’s on her way over to his chintzy loft apartment for a nice romantic dinner with you. And she doesn’t even know what’s on the menu.

“Who are you?” she asks when you open the door. Little black dress and too much mascara.

“You must be Lucinda,” you purr. “I’m sorry, Harold couldn’t make it tonight.”


“I see he’s told you about me. Excellent. You must have been dying to meet me.”

“How did you get in here?”

“You’d be surprised, doll, you really would,” you mutter. She’s pretty, too pretty. Blonde. “Hell hath no fury, they say.”

“What are you doing?!”


The computer room would be a fantastic place to end the evening, with Harold’s harlot in the rafters, hanging, broken, scarlet dripping on the keys one by one.


View this story's 4 comments.