“One more outburst from you, Mr. Ericson, and I will hold you in contempt of court.”
Judge Monica Alvarez’s face had turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the exit signs above the double doors. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh; her expression was almost comical, like a bulldog chewing on a wasp. “Mr. Harris,” she hissed, turning her ire toward my attorney, “I strongly advise you to control your client.”
I had been warned. Several times, in fact. But it is difficult to filter the word crap from your vocabulary when it constitutes a significant portion of your daily lexicon. A guy once told me he’d never met anyone who used the word as a noun, verb, and adjective in a single sentence more fluidly than I did. Maybe I do say it a lot, but it flows like water downhill—without thought, without resistance.
As I opened my mouth to offer a rebuttal, I saw the judge tense up, her gavel hovering like a guillotine blade. My attorney, Caleb Harris, shot me a look that screamed, Shut up unless you want a roommate named Bubba tonight. Even the court reporter stifled a giggle, her fingers hovering over the keys, likely bracing for a torrent of F-bombs to paint the official record.
To my left, the gallery of traitors looked like they were attending a funeral. Lauren, my soon-to-be ex-wife, looked shamed and downtrodden, her eyes fixed on her sensible shoes. Derek, my former best friend, sat with the defeat of a conquered general etched into his sagging features. And Melissa, his wife, just looked pissed off. She clearly didn’t appreciate her dirty laundry being aired in a municipal courtroom, especially when that laundry was stained with the sins of her husband.
By now, you might wonder how a guy like me—a 32-year-old city maintenance foreman—ended up being scolded by this simpleton in a black robe. It wasn’t just bad luck. It was a calculated demolition.
It all started on a Tuesday. Let’s call it Doomsday.
My name is Ryan Ericson. I run the city maintenance department for Stonebridge, Colorado. I started with the city two days after tossing my high school graduation cap. In the winter, I plow the major arteries of the city, battling blizzards to keep commerce flowing. In the summer, I’m the guy who fixes the potholes you curse at and clears the storm drains you ignore. I know the anatomy of this city better than I know my own blood vessels.
Lauren worked a few hours a week at the church, mostly to take a break from the housework she barely did. We lived in a nice four-bedroom, two-story home in an older, established neighborhood. We couldn’t afford the rich side of town, known as “The Hill,” but we didn’t live in the ganglands either. We existed in the comfortable middle, flanked by neighbors we thought were family.
Tom and Ben McAllister lived next door. Rick and Paula were directly behind us. And Derek Coleman—my childhood friend—lived behind the McAllisters with his wife, Melissa. Our four households got along so well that we had no fences separating our backyards. It was a communal green space, a symbol of trust.
Derek and I had been inseparable since middle school. I was the roughneck; he was the golden boy. His parents were devoutly religious, while my dad often told me, “Ryan, as long as you don’t knock a girl up or cost me money, I don’t give a damn what you do.” If Derek’s parents were going to nail him for a transgression, I’d take the blame. I knew they hated me, so their opinion was a currency with no value to me.
Derek grew up to be a preacher at a local church. I only darkened the door of a sanctuary on Easter and Christmas, mostly to appease Lauren, who attended religiously. While Derek was at Bible College, he met Melissa. She was a knockout—5’7″, blonde hair, blue eyes, with a figure that stopped traffic. Despite her Playboy looks, she was a prayer machine.
I thought Derek was the yin to my yang. I would have taken a bullet for him. I would have buried a body for him.
I was about to find out he was the one holding the shovel.
Monday evening brought a nasty June thunderstorm that battered Stonebridge with high winds and hail. My quadrant took the brunt of the abuse. I had six crews running dump trucks, picking up shattered tree limbs, while I drove around in my pickup checking storm drain complaints. By the time I cleared the debris and managed the street sweepers, I was running on fumes and caffeine.
When I finally got home Tuesday evening, I heated up leftover meatloaf. I didn’t mind the leftovers, but it stung that my wife hadn’t cooked a fresh weekday meal in months. I wanted to drink a twelve-pack and pass out, but the red mark on the calendar meant I was on emergency standby. One beer was my limit.
I ate alone while Lauren showered upstairs. It was 7:00 PM. She offered a half-hearted “How was your day?” before disappearing. This routine had been the soundtrack of our marriage for months. The intimacy was gone. Our love life, once vibrant, had reduced to twice in three months, and even those moments felt like she was performing a chore.
I watched the Rockies play the Padres on TV, wishing for a shot of Jägermeister to numb the silence of the house.
Around 10:00 PM, just as I was drifting off, my phone screamed. City Dispatch. A water main break near Birchwood Mall.
I packed snacks, kissed my sleeping marriage goodbye, and headed into the night. The job was brutal—breaking pavement with a backhoe at 1:00 AM, hauling mud until dawn. By noon the next day, we were ready to repave. I returned the equipment to the yard, exhausted, grime under my fingernails, and pulled into my driveway at 1:45 PM.
I was off until Friday. I expected a quiet house.
I grabbed a beer and a sandwich. As I closed the fridge, the suction seal popping was the only sound in the kitchen. But then I heard it. A noise drifting down from the second floor. The unmistakable, rhythmic sound of a woman in the throes of passion.
“No wonder you don’t touch me anymore,” I muttered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.
I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I walked to the coat closet, reached to the top shelf, and grabbed my Kimber .45. I racked the slide.
I moved up the stairs, a ghost in my own home. The noise grew louder—a guttural, animalistic sound. I checked the master bedroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. The guest room. Empty.
That left the craft room.
I kicked the door open, weapon raised, adrenaline flooding my veins.
Empty.
The sound wasn’t coming from inside the room. It was coming from the open window overlooking the backyard.
I moved to the window and looked down. What I saw defied logic. Ben and Kayla McAllister, the McAllister children, were by their pool, engaged in an act that I can only describe as incestuous. I froze. I thought this only happened in bad jokes about the deep south. It was like watching a train wreck; I wanted to look away, but my brain couldn’t process the data fast enough.
“They’re watching us! Look at them!” Kayla cried out, looking up toward the houses.
“Oh hell, that’s so hot,” she moaned.
She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking to her left.
I followed her gaze.
In the window of the house next door—Derek’s house—I saw a bare back. A man was clearly driving into someone with a fervor he never showed in the pulpit. I watched, paralyzed, waiting for him to turn around, praying it was Melissa.
Then, he turned.
It was Derek. And beneath him, her face twisted in ecstasy, was Lauren.
“Holy crap!” I yelled, the sound tearing from my throat so loudly that the incestuous show below ground to a halt.
Across the yard, Derek froze. He looked up, locked eyes with me, and stopped.
I raised the Kimber. I had a clear shot. Center mass. But my peripheral vision caught Ben and Kayla scrambling, naked and terrified, toward their back door. The distraction broke my focus for a split second. By the time I looked back at Derek’s window, they were gone.
“Goddamn filthy woman!” I screamed, the rage finally detonating.
I ran downstairs, swapping the pistol for my Mossberg 12-gauge. I loaded it with buckshot, my hands shaking not from fear, but from the sheer desire to destroy. “Derek and the promiscuous are going to die,” I growled. “Melissa’s cat and the parakeet are fair game too.”
I stormed out the front door, the shotgun heavy and comforting in my hands. But halfway down the driveway, I stopped.
The cool air hit my face. I looked at the shotgun. I looked at the quiet street. If I pulled this trigger, I lost everything. I would trade my freedom for their lives, and they weren’t worth it.
I understood everything now. The dirty house. The lack of meals. The neglected child—wait, we didn’t have kids, thank God. But the neglect of us. She wasn’t tired. She was exhausted from servicing the neighborhood preacher.
I threw the shotgun into the truck, got in, and left black tire marks on the asphalt as I sped toward Lowe’s.
As I drove, my mind raced through the logistics of revenge. Violence was too easy. Too quick. I needed something that lasted. I bought three new locksets at the hardware store. When I returned, the driveway was empty of Derek, but blocked by the McAllister kids. They looked like they were marching to the gallows. But I didn’t care about their sins. I cared about the man sitting at my kitchen table when I walked inside.
Derek was there. In my house. Waiting for me.
“What are you doing in my house, you cursed sucker?” I demanded, dropping the bag of locks on the floor.
“I came to talk to you as a friend,” Derek replied, his voice trembling with a faux righteousness that made my stomach turn.
“Friend?” I laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. “With friends like you, who needs enemies? Do you think I’m just going to say, ‘Hey Derek, how was my wife this morning?’”
“Ryan, it doesn’t have to be this way,” he said, holding up his hands.
“You’re right,” I said. I slid a butcher knife across the table toward him. It spun and came to a rest pointing at his chest. “Pick it up.”
He stared at the knife, then at the Kimber I had tucked into my waistband. “Come on, Ryan. You can’t seriously expect—”
“Pick it up, asshole!” I roared. “You love Jesus so much? I want you to meet him. Now. Pick up the knife and let me put the ‘Make My Day’ law to use. You trespassing piece of pious crap.”
Derek jumped up, his face pale as milk, and bolted for the door. He stopped on the porch, safe behind the threshold, and turned back.
“Ryan, we’ve been friends forever. Are you willing to throw that away?”
“I lost two people today, Derek. But I think when I get past the smell, I’ll realize it’s no real loss. Where is she?”
“She’s at my house. She’s afraid to come over,” he admitted.
“Tell her she has five minutes to get over here if she wants any chance of staying married to me. Now get off my property before I risk prison just to feel better.”
Derek scurried off like a cockroach exposed to light.
Four minutes later, I heard the sniveling.
Four minutes later, I heard the sniveling. Lauren walked up the sidewalk, tears streaming down her face, playing the victim perfectly for any neighbors watching. She reached to hug me.
I stepped back. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself.”
“But I love you, baby! I only want to be with you!” she pleaded.
“Let’s go inside,” I said, my voice cold. “The neighbors don’t need tickets to this circus.”
We sat in the living room. She tried to sit next to me on the loveseat.
“Hell no,” I said. “Sit over there.”
“How long?” I asked.
“He loves you like a brother, Ryan. He’s your best friend.”
“Ryan was my friend. Friends don’t screw their friends’ wives. How long?”
“It’s just lovemaking, Ryan. I still love you.”
“What a load of crap. ‘It’s just lovemaking.’ Whoever thought of that excuse deserves a cinder block to the head.”
“You still have me,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are. You’re choosing Derek over me. You can’t give me five minutes, but you can bend over for him anytime? How wonderful.”
“We can stay married,” she said, her eyes widening with a delusional hope. “I’ll just have sex with Derek. I don’t love him. Just as meat. He says I can take care of your needs once or twice a week.”
I stared at her. The sheer audacity was breathtaking. “How kind of him. I think I’ll find someone else to take care of my needs.”
“No! You’re my husband! No one else should have sex with you! We are still man and wife!”
“Not for much longer. Ex-wife is more fitting. You want to have your cake and eat it too.”
“I… I think Derek wants me back in three minutes,” she stammered, checking the clock.
“That’s it,” I snapped. “Go. Go get the meat you crave. Get out.”
“I don’t see why we can’t keep things as they are,” she whined at the door. “You’re not home all the time. I can be his while you’re at work.”
I slammed the door so hard I felt the frame shudder. “Screw you! Go eat your cake!”
I locked the deadbolt. Then I spent the next hour changing every lock in the house. I sat down, opened a beer, and turned on the TV. Jerry Springer was on. How fitting.
I fell asleep, exhausted.
I woke up at 9:00 PM to pounding on the door. It was Derek again.
“What do you want?” I growled.
“I need a favor,” Derek said. “Lauren is crying her eyes out. Can’t you call her and tell her you’re not angry and everything will be okay?”
“Tell her everything will be okay? I’m done with both of you. What’s Melissa going to say when she finds out?”
“She knows,” Derek said, dropping the bomb. “She’s happy the sneaking around can stop. She wants the three of us to work it out.”
I stared at him. It wasn’t just an affair. It was a cult.
“Get off my porch,” I said. “Tell the promiscuous woman her stuff will be out here in the morning.”
I went upstairs to the craft room—the sniper’s nest. I grabbed my camcorder. I needed evidence. Looking through the lens with night vision, I saw them. Lauren and Melissa on the porch swing, talking quietly. Then Derek. Then, shockingly, Thomas McAllister—my other neighbor—walked into Derek’s backyard, stripped naked, and jumped in the pool.
Derek joined him. They embraced.
I lowered the camera. What did I do to deserve this? It wasn’t just my wife and best friend. It was the whole damn block. I was living in the middle of a suburban Gomorrah.
I turned on the radio to drown out the noise in my head. The college station was playing heavy metal. Cannibal Corpse. The lyrics screamed: Make them suffer. Make them suffer.
A grin slowly spread across my face.
“I will,” I whispered to the empty room. “I will make them suffer.”
The next morning, Melissa Coleman came knocking. She didn’t want Lauren’s clothes. She wanted me to let Lauren move back in because “We have an image to protect at the church.” She actually suggested I house and feed Lauren while she slept with Derek, all to save their reputation. I slammed the door in her face and called a lawyer. But legal papers were just the beginning. I knew city ordinances better than Derek knew the Bible. And I was about to rain a plague of bureaucratic hellfire down on his sanctuary.
I called a coworker who had navigated a messy divorce and got the name of a law firm: Crosby, Stills, and Nash. I hoped for David Crosby, known for destroying opponents, but I got Michael Brooks. Scruffy, but sharp.
“Mr. Ericson,” Michael said, reviewing my files. “I think we can get you everything you want and take the preacher down a notch.”
I packed Lauren’s life into garbage bags and left them on the porch. I canceled the credit cards. I emptied the joint accounts.
Then, I went to work on Derek.
First, I called the City Accounting Department. I had allowed my crews to haul several loads of gravel to Derek’s church for free—a favor for a friend. I kept the tare slips.
“Janice,” I said to the clerk, “Make sure that bill for the church gravel is entered as unpaid. And add the transportation fees.”
Derek now owed the city $7,500.
Next, I called the water department supervisor. “Hey, you know that church on Vinewood? Pretty sure their water meter isn’t up to code.”
That was another $11,200 for a replacement.
I called a buddy in the Fire Department. “Tony, I think the Vinewood Presbyterian Church might be a little lax on their occupancy codes. Might want to pay them a visit.”
By noon, Derek was calling me.
“What are you trying to pull, Ryan?” he screamed. “The inspectors are telling me I have to redo the whole parking lot! You said everything would be fine!”
“Seems I forgot to turn in some paperwork,” I said, my voice dripping with false sympathy. “Don’t worry, I’m sure God will provide.”
My supervisor walked in, heard the conversation, and smirked. “Remind me to put a scathing Post-it note in your file, Ryan.”
“I’ll need a Post-it to remind me to remind you,” I joked.
Derek was getting hit from every angle. The Fire Marshal shut down the sanctuary for code violations. The County Assessor found an “error” in his property tax. The Police Department started patrolling the area around the church a little more vigorously.
Make them suffer.
But I needed the knockout blow.
On Saturday morning, I was working in the garage when Kayla McAllister appeared. She held a USB stick in her hand, her face flushed.
“Hi, Mr. Ericson,” she said shyly. “I have a video you might find useful. Taken a week ago.”
I took the stick. “What is it?”
“Just watch it,” she said. “It… it explains a lot.”
That night, I plugged the USB into my laptop. The file opened. It was footage shot through a basement window of the abandoned King James Hotel downtown. The city owned the building; it was supposed to be boarded up.
But inside, there were lights. And people.
I saw Derek. I saw Melissa. I saw Lauren. And I saw others. It was a full-blown orgy. But then, the camera panned to a man sitting in a velvet chair, watching the proceedings with a glass of wine.
My jaw dropped.
It was Judge Rebecca Collins’ husband.
And next to him, adjusting her glasses, was Dr. Allison Reed—the court-appointed marriage counselor everyone in the county was forced to see.
I sat back, the glow of the screen illuminating my smile. I didn’t just have evidence for a divorce. I had the keys to the kingdom.
I formulated a plan. I needed to serve the papers, and I needed to do it in a way that would shatter their “image” forever.
Sunday morning.
I walked into Vinewood Presbyterian Church wearing jeans, boots, and a calm I hadn’t felt in months. The building smelled like lemon cleaner and hypocrisy. The congregation was thinner than usual, but the choir was in full voice—Melissa, Lauren, and a few others singing about forgiveness with professional enthusiasm.
I sat in the back pew.
From the pulpit, Derek smiled his practiced smile, hands raised, voice rich with false humility. “Good morning, brothers and sisters. Today, we speak about honesty, repentance, and the dangers of temptation.”
I almost laughed.
I caught the eye of Robert Donovan, the A/V guy. He owed me favors for fixing his driveway after a sewer collapse last winter. I lifted my coffee cup slightly and nodded once.
He nodded back.
The offering plates began to pass. When one reached me, I didn’t drop in cash. I placed the USB stick gently inside, like an offering to a very different god.
Derek continued preaching. “We must live in the light, not the shadows—”
That’s when the double doors at the back opened.
Three people stood up at once.
“I’m here to see Melissa Harris,” said a young woman in a blazer.
“I’m here for Lauren Ericson,” announced a nervous-looking guy holding an envelope.
“And I’m here to serve Derek Harris,” said the third, voice steady.
They walked down the aisle.
“You have been served.”
The words echoed like gunshots.
The choir stopped singing.
Derek’s face went purple. “This is a house of God!” he shouted into the mic. “You are defiling my sanctuary!”
That was Robert’s cue.
The cross on the massive projection screen behind the pulpit flickered.
Then vanished.
In its place appeared high-definition footage of the King James Hotel basement.
Gasps ripped through the church.
There was Derek, naked and unmistakable.
There was Melissa.
There was Lauren.
There were others.
Someone screamed.
An elderly woman dropped her purse.
Another woman clutched her chest.
One man stood up and yelled, “My God!”
An old lady with a cane marched straight down the aisle and swung it with all the righteous fury of eighty years.
THWACK.
She hit Derek square in the groin.
He folded.
Chaos exploded.
Phones came out. People shouted. Someone fainted. The choir dissolved into screaming accusations.
I stood up, walked calmly down the aisle, and exited through the front doors as their empire collapsed behind me.
I didn’t look back.
The war wasn’t over.
Three days later, Michael Brooks called me. “We have a court date. And bad news.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “The judge.”
“Judge Rebecca Collins,” he confirmed. “She hates husbands. She mandates counseling with Dr. Allison Reed.”
I smiled. “Perfect.”
The counseling session was theater.
Lauren cried on cue, mascara perfectly smudged. She talked about “self-discovery” and “sexual freedom.”
Dr. Reed nodded solemnly.
“Mr. Ericson,” she said, adjusting her glasses, “your thinking is… outdated. Monogamy is a social construct. You owe it to yourself to be more open-minded.”
“I’m done,” I said, standing up.
“If you leave,” Dr. Reed warned, “I will report you to the court. You could be jailed.”
I leaned forward, lowering my voice.
“Tell the judge the Casanova Club at the King James Hotel is closed,” I said. “And tell her my friend Mike Starr, investigative reporter, knows about the elk head on the wall—and who was sitting under it.”
Her face went white.
I walked out.
The final move was municipal.
I went to my boss at City Maintenance. “We need snowplow storage. That abandoned lot behind the King James Hotel is perfect. We should fence it immediately.”
He nodded. “Smart. Saves the city half a million.”
Within twenty-four hours, my crews welded shut every access point.
The club was closed.
Permanently.
Court was anticlimactic.
I didn’t attend.
Michael Brooks went in alone.
When Lauren arrived, she expected a fight.
Instead, she watched Judge Collins receive a whispered update at the bench.
The color drained from her face.
Bang.
“Decree granted,” the judge mumbled.
I got the house.
I got my retirement.
I got sixty percent of the liquid assets.
Lauren got nothing but freedom.
EPILOGUE: THE CLEAN EXIT
Las Vegas, Nevada.
The desert heat felt honest.
I pulled into the driveway of my new stucco house. Inside, the AC hummed like a blessing.
“Hey,” a voice called.
Kayla stepped into the kitchen—confident, smiling, loyal.
“Did the house win today?” she teased.
“The house always wins,” I said.
I had sold the old life. Packed the truck. Left without looking back.
From one reckless woman to another who chose me, I traded counterfeit love for something real.
The calendar was empty.
And for the first time in years, so was my mind.
