59 comments/ 109414 views/ 15 favorites I Did Mind, I Did Matter By: EMiamiRiverRat This is the conclusion to, "I Don't Mind, It Don't Matter". It's tough to reach an emotional high when you've just lost, as happened in chapter one. This one was easier to get fired up over; but if you're looking for a quick jackoff story, this ain't it. And, if you aren't of legal age where you are, this story is off your reading list...find another story. Several of my editors have, in the past, coached me to minimize details and stick to the required elements of explicit sex and increase the dialogue; and that made sense to me, particularly in this venue. On the other hand, a number of readers have requested more detail, and more emotion, as well as more dialogue. That made even more sense. But, adding detail is a 'slippery slope'. Although it adds 'color' to the story, it also adds exponentially to the editing process and a delayed finish. It seems I need to find a balance point on this seesaw. For those of you who commented on the part in Chapter One about my 'ex' poisoning my faithful old dog and his burial in freezing sleet and snow on Christmas, I regret to say it is unfortunately completely true and actually happened. That, as much as anything, fueled what happened next and led to the title of this chapter. I loved Coon as a man loves his best friend ever in life, a kindred spirit bond that survives even death. This chapter begins a little more than three years after the end of the previous chapter. Here, the seemingly "wimpy" husband comes out of the corner he was pushed into against his will, and the key villains face the full consequences of their actions. Paul Harvey (1918—2009) - Rest in peace. "...and now for the rest of the story" The first chapter of this tale concluded in 1995 with a red-eye flight home at the end of a reluctant but successful business trip back to my old hometown, my first in the three years since my divorce and permanent departure. I'd had fun that last evening at what was once my favorite watering hole watching football, drinking, and laughing with my few remaining loyal friends from home for the first time in too long. The sole low point of the reunion had been my ex-wife coming on as the night bartender. Three years ago, she had caused quite a furor when she'd gotten caught up in cocaine, engaged in a long series of one-night stands and affairs with a multitude of other men, gotten pregnant by one of them, and tried to foist it on me. Sarah had lied to everyone about me refusing responsibility for "my" baby, badmouthing me to the point that people who had known me as an honest upstanding kid all their lives were shunning, berating, and insulting me; even my own step-mother. Other than for a few close friends who knew the truth; I was figuratively tarred-and-feathered by most of the townspeople and pushed to a decision to move away in order to maintain my livelihood, sanity and freedom; and to regain a sense of self. My own divorce for "irreconcilable differences" had been relatively quiet and nothing was revealed of the real reasons and circumstances, such as her long-running affair with a 98-pound steroid user. However, Steroid Steve was an over-proud braggart. When his wife learned he'd been the guy who had knocked up my wife, she divorced him and took everything including their house and car; and got heavy alimony and child support for the one healthy child she'd had with him. Her daddy fired Super'roid Man from his big-dollar salary job. He now cleans bathrooms in nursing homes for the current federal minimum hourly wage. In trying to defend himself in his divorce, Steroid Stud named several other married guys who'd been with him and my wife for their weekly creampie trains. That nailed his coffin shut and started several other divorces. To divert blame from themselves, most husbands who'd fucked my wife also named others who had done her, causing a litagatory cascade in family court. Divorces were going off like Roman candles on the 4th of July. The divorces, plus alienation and STD lawsuits, forced the state to send down a traveling judge to help clear the docket. After two years of a legal free-for-all, the ugly truth had become public knowledge. The only person in town who wasn't carnally guilty or embarrassed by their actions was yours truly; and I'd been driven out by all the busy-bodies who were now red-faced for having 'run me out of town on a rail'. It might be useful at this point for readers of the first chapter to understand why I didn't "go postal" back then when everything went down. I realized at the time I'd be seen as a wimp for not fighting for my wife, but let's take a look at the situation and my options back then. Should I have just picked one of the dozens of guys she was fucking to be the sole representative of the whole gang and limited myself to just handing him his ass on a platter? How was I to choose just one of them - the biggest one, the Steroid Shrimp, the first, last, or longest; or just flip a coin - and was I to let the rest of them off scot-free? Or, should I have taken them all on - one at a time, or all at once; perhaps by inviting all 75 or 100 of them into one building, then blown it to smithereens with a fertilizer bomb and spent the rest of my life on the run as the FBI's No#1 most-wanted? Whoops, I missed one, should I go back and finish the job? Dang, there's another. And, if I'd killed them all and "gotten my honor back" (whatever that means), what would I have have won? Perhaps you think I would/should have happily taken her back, supported her cocaine habit and remained her unwilling cuckold forever while she popped out other guys' kids like a fuckin' gumball machine on my nickle? Or do you think she would change? I was pretty much a normal kid growing up and had my share of scrapes; but my stint in the military (black ops) and a guerilla war changed the way I looked at things. The guys I'd fought against had taught me it's better to live and fight another day than to fight a battle that would be lost; or worse, one that had already been lost even before it started. In all of history, guerillas have NEVER lost a war; and by following their winning example, I found I could dictate the terms, location, and timing of the future battle - after I've had time to boobytrap the battlefield, cut their supply lines, and limit their tactical options. I guess learned well. They gave me a nickname, "Reaper", and stuck a million-dollar gold bounty on my head, dead or alive, that outlasted the war. I don't get scared or worried or mad. I just focus on solving the immediate problem. Once I decide to take action; I plan, prepare and execute without passion or remorse - paying strict attention to the details. And, when I report "mission accomplished", it means, "over forever, unless God restarts the world from the beginning". So far, I hadn't gone that route with my ex. When my ex and I parted as we did, it would have made no sense to fight for her. That battle had already been lost and there was nothing for me to do but extricate myself from the shit-filled mushroom pit and get my life back together. So I did. That's not to say I hadn't felt the shots to my male ego. The bullets to the heart hurt like hell; but my new life was full and good, and I neither needed nor wanted the distraction of dealing with her again. That changed when I saw what she was now targeting my good friend Sam and knew there would be an endless string of others after him. Some of them had family pets, too. It forced me to revisit my prior decision to leave things with her ...not bygones ...just alone. The mirrors Sarah had been eyeing me through that evening had worked both ways. My view was of her palming the money she collected for drinks and stuffing it in her pocket without ringing them up on the cash register. She was also overcharging new customers and would skim that money when she reconciled her drawer that night. On the corporate jet home, I considered the situation. Sarah wouldn't stop hurting good people. Sam, the bar owner was one of my very few remaining loyal friends and his problem was my problem. Now it would soon become hers. The only questions I had were who and how many, and how to do it in a way that would insure she/they wouldn't see it coming and would never pull those tricks/trains again. During the week I'd been in town, I'd caught up on a lot of gossip about the so-called friends and others who had fucked my wife. None of them had fared well. I'd even found myself face-to-face with the asshole that had been her last and longest affair while we were married. He was more than three times as big as the "98-pound weakling" he'd been then. Back when it all happened, he was the scrawny kid with the concave chest - the 'before' picture in the "How to Become a He-Man" ads adorning the back covers of all the action comic books like SGT ROCK and the HULK when I was a kid back in the 50's and 60's. Respond with a dollar or two and get a physical exercise or martial arts pamplet. He reminded me of that tiny banty rooster in the Foghorn Leghorn cartoons (I'm gonna get me a chicken!) ...lots of attitude and nothing to back it up. I could tell back then the fool had begun to use steroids heavily so he could skip the exercise and jump right to the He-Man look. "'Roid rage" had preceded his bulking up; and only being hit across the backs of my knees by a pool cue and then tackled by a 280-lb Kansas City linebacker buddy of mine on a tiled concrete floor had stopped me from busting that midget's rage all to hell and back when Sarah had thrown him in my face in the presence of my friends. It still hurts when the weather changes. But I would have killed that little peckerhead. Since then, Steroid Weenie had far surpassed the 'after' picture in the He-Man ad. Only about five-foot-seven, Steroid Chubby now weighed over three hundred pounds and the chemical muscles had already turned into red-streaked jowls, a grotesque jellybelly soaking his Baby Huey half tee shirt with sweat, immense flabby legs in grubby PJ pants that smelled of urine, and filthy swollen bare feet in thong flip-flops. He said he'd quit using the 'roids because they'd wrecked his heart. But despite barely being able to lift his fat arm and draft beer mug with his remaining 98-pound muscles, he still wasn't done with his blustering. To quote him, "I dumped your bitch when she told me I'd knocked her up." Despite the nasty chemicals, his little soldiers could obviously swim back then; but the baby's DNA was so deformed by all the crap that it barely survived the late-term miscarriage / preemie birth with a severe case of Down's syndrome along with several other problems, and was determined to be cocaine-addicted at birth. Studly's sperm was wicked junk and his doctors had convinced him to get snipped to avoid the risk of having to support more deformed children. It had all been about his need to feel like he was the Alpha male...a false hypodermic dream. What he and others had done to my marriage was bad enough; that he shoved it in my face again now led to the "Reaper" incarnate rising again for the first time in the fifteen years since the war. He was now number two on my list and slated for a very heavy retribution. I knew his ex-wife, Claire, from my own divorce. She was listed in the phone book, so I gave her a call and told her I'd just run into her ex and what he'd said. She asked me over to her house where we commiserated about our lousy ex's over a bottle of Drambuie for a couple of hours. As we got tipsy, she began to let her own skeletons out of the closet. "You and he don't know this, but Steve isn't the father of my first child. I got knocked up at my wedding shower by my maid of honor's husband and and let Steve think it was his. He's so proud of himself. Lately, I've been thinking I'm ready to have another baby. Your timing is impeccable because I'm as horny as a goat when I'm ovulating like today. I won't ask for child support if you knock me up or put your name on the birth certificate. Steve could become a 'proud daddy' again, if you'll cooperate; and he owes you that much." With that, she took my hand and led me upstairs. By the time she finished undressing, I was naked as a jaybird and waiting for her on the bed with my stiff cock saluting her magnificently sculptured body when she turned to face me. "Oh my...your wife was a damn fool. Are you going to slide that big log into momma and fill my tight little pussy up? Are you going to pound my pussy and squirt your potent seed into me over and over until you plant a baby in my belly for Steve to pay for? That's what I want ...give it to me good ...fertilize my egg, big boy ...make me fat and fill my titties with milk. I want a boy this time, so give me your best stuff." With her talking like that, I didn't last too long the first time. "Oooh, I feel it." Her hand grasped the part of my shaft that wouldn't fit inside her. "I can feel each shot of cum go up your tube and then a splash of heat comes out deep inside my pussy and spreads all the way to my throat. There's so much of it, too. Don't take your cock out when you're done. Leave it in me to keep anything from leaking out. Please, I want your baby and you get the pleasure of doing it...repeatedly I hope. I've waited three years to make Steve pay; he deserves it for what he did to you and me." We fucked until dawn and then went one more round before she had to get her four year-old up and feed her. My pecker was no longer in working order after putting five healthy loads deep inside her; and, from the racket she made, she must have had a few dozen good orgasms herself. I hoped she got her wish. We said our goodbyes and I headed to the client's office after stopping at my motel for a quick shower, shave, and a fresh suit. All the other ex-husbands had also lost everything in their divorces and were up to their eyeballs in maximum alimony, child support, and health insurance. Some had even lost their jobs over the fiasco because, like Stevie, they worked for the daddies of their ex-wives. The single guys weren't much better off. I dealt with the single guys who had fucked my wife by buying up all their "paper" for pennies on a dollar -- their home mortgages and equity loans, truck loans, business loans, bad contractor warehouse accounts, debts in collections, etc; and sicced a law dog on them with instructions to leave nothing but smoking dirt - like a Russian retreat. He could keep all the money he collected for his fee. By definition, lifeless is already dead; and they were the living dead, a bunch of miserable zombies with nowhere to go and no way to get there. How do you hurt a zombie? After final due consideration of the male side of the coin, and with aforementioned exception of the Steriod Acne Guy, I flipped the coin over. On the other side, my ex had life entirely too good. She was the same cold-hearted carnivore she'd been with me. She lived in a nice condo with expensive furniture, drove a good car, and wore fine clothes - all stolen from me and Sam's family. I didn't care about me, but Sams's family didn't have it so nice and her continuing predation made my decision an easy one. I had the time, the money, and the motivation to rip out that pound of flesh long owed me. It was time to teach her the full meaning of "heartless and cruel" in my world. The 'Reaper' was coming up to full power. During the remainder of the normally tedious four-hour flight home, I laid the groundwork for a plan to cage that she-beast until it no longer had teeth or claws or instincts. It was a classic 'bait-and-switch' scaled up by a factor too large to even be detected. Once begun, the plan would run to completion on auto-pilot. When it was time, I would watch as she entered a funnel within which her options would be step-wise eliminated and her possibilities swiftly narrowed until she found herself with a singular non-option. The three basic elements to my plan were: The "bait": my ex entered every free Sweepstakes she found, never remembering the providers' names or prizes. Nor would she care where a grand prize came from, as long as she could get her hands on it. She would never refuse a luxurious, all expenses paid, extended Pacific tropical ocean cruise on a giant liner. Think of the 'fucking' possibilities! The "switch": When my ex attempted to board the cruise liner at the designated foreign port, she would find her cruise ticket had been cancelled; and her only possible course of action would be to follow the 'emergency' instructions that would put her in the trap. The "trap": A tramp freighter going hither and yon around the Pacific, the captain of which would have reached an agreement with me. She would be kept aboard to be "used and abused" by the crew until she was completely broken in mind, body and spirit. After the events of 9-11, this is now much more difficult or impossible to pull off; but back then, money talked and nobody looked too closely. The next two things were the most difficult to set up. I needed to find a port that handled both cruise liners and freighters, was too far for her to get home on her own, and where she would receive no outside assistance. Then I needed to match up a liner and a freighter with a captain who would go along with my scheme; all in the same port at the roughly the same time. It's a good thing I thrive on serious challenges, because this was all that. The minimum distance to the port would be dictated by how much money my ex could put together. A friend in financial circles confirmed she had only a little over a hundred dollars in the bank, no credit cards, and her credit rating wasn't good enough to qualify for a new card. I also knew she'd torched every other bridge that may at one time have helped her. The only resource she'd have would be what she could steal from my friend Sam between notification of her "win" and the start of her trip. That was something I had to minimize. As soon as she knew she'd won the prize, she would try to increase her theft from Sam's; so I called him and told him about her stealing. I didn't let him in on the plan. I didn't want her fired immediately, but I did hint she was going away soon and would need money. It would take 90 days to get a passport and that's what she'd get. Sam was my only friend who knew my military background and his response indicated he knew this was a mission, but he had a family to feed and it was his decision. Flight and sea fares being what they were at the time, the departure port needed to be at least five thousand miles from the US to be sure she couldn't get back home with what money she could steal from Sam anyway, plus pick up by spreading her legs and giving up a few dozen crappy blowjobs. Given the mileage requirement, I hit the library for detailed maps, color pictures and basic information about the west coast of South America (SA). It was perfect in terms of the distance, terrain, jungle, drug cartels, huge guerilla-controlled tracts in the northwest countryside, boundary disputes, and recent attacks and kidnappings. From the few suitable ports on the SA west coast, I quickly selected Valparaiso, a multi-purpose port city, well down the coast. It has a major airport (Santiago); a foreign language and customs; and no Chilean visa was required for up to a six-month visit. It's also a beautiful city with wonderful sights to see and a spectacular launch point for her luxury cruise. Built in the rambling foothills of the Andes, Valparaiso has brightly-colored houses on streets of cobblestone. Chilean tourist sites include the world's driest desert and its amazing "Valley of the Moon", Incan ruins; eye-popping scenery of glaciers, fjords, hot springs; volcanoes forming part of the Pacific "ring of fire", and the unbelievable 8,000 ft vertical "Towers of Paine". The tourist bureau pictures would be a nice addition to the 'You Won!' package announcing her prize. I Did Mind, I Did Matter It was easy to get her in and impossible for her to get herself out. Air and sea were the only viable means of transportation heading north and she couldn't afford either. << Page 02 >> (this line should be removed) Chile extends about 2,500 miles south to the tip of SA and Antarctica where there would be no escape. Nor would going east over the 22,000' high Andes Mountains and then 750 miles across the Argentina pampas to Buenos Aires get her no closer to home. Going north meant passing through a dozen corrupt and guerilla-ridden countries from Columbia to the US border with all the border crossings and checkpoints, and her not having any pass-through visas. There were also the problems of drug cartels and bandits. A 7,000-mile retreat north on the ground from S.A. to N.A. by a lone female "gringo" through all the remote areas was impossible to anybody but "GI Jane" with full armament and backup. Thank God I didn't teach the bitch to shoot or give out any names to use. To the west, unless she decided to swim up the coast half the length of SA and all of Central America into San Diego, or hitch-hiked a ride on a drug-smuggling boat, her only option was to enter the seagoing 'trap'. Having selected the port, my next task was to get matchups of all the possible cruise ships and freighters stopping in Valparaiso that would give me enough time to set everything up. In 1995, the Internet was barely more than Usenet and BBS's, so I worked through travel agencies to hunt down three Pacific cruises that met my criteria, and tentatively picked one that was registered in Hong Kong and would most appeal to her. It rolled a lifetime of dreams into a six-month-long, all expenses paid vacation that that would stop for a day in Valparaiso about nine months from now. Like a seagoing bus, it stopped at all the tropical isles and every tourist hotspot from the Antarctic to the Arctic. My ex would need to pack everything from bikinis to snowsuits. My problem then became finding tramp freighters that fit into my plan as the 'trap' and work a deal with one of the captains. Freighters come in two flavors -- corporate and 'tramp'. Corporate means large companies and immense ships under long-standing contracts with lots of strict rules of their own. No funny business is allowed, and a thousand-foot-long container ship didn't fit my plan. Tramp freighters, owned by smaller companies and individuals, were tiny, considerably cheaper and abided solely by the "laws of the sea" -- the Captain's orders overruled all else. I needed one of these slow boats to China that works when and where there is supply and demand, no matter how small the port. They might go back and forth between the same two ports for years on end, or they might not hit the same port twice in a decade. I called the Valparaiso port authority and asked if they could fax me what information they had about the smaller, non-corporate freighters that had docked there in the past year -- names, dates, country of origin or registry, owners of record, contacts, etc...whatever they had. They faxed me a list of twenty-three with basic information I could work with. Within two days time, I had located the freighters' owners and called their offices to find out when a ship of theirs would be back to Valparaiso. Through various means, I was able to quickly pare the list of tramp freighters down to four and got the names of the ships and their captains, their normal radio frequencies and call signs, and recent photos of the ships. Their home offices faxed me mostly B&W photos of rusty, crusty, barnacled bathtubs. If any of those floating caskets could get up enough steam to actually create a bow wake without blowing themselves up, no self-respecting porpoise or flying fish would surf it. An old army buddy I drank with on occasion had a Ham radio and often comm'ed with ships at sea around the world. I called him and explained what I needed to do and that I had a bit of a time crunch. He told me to come right over to his house and we contacted the ships' radio operators via Morse code. I had to work a deal with one of their captains or my grand plan was a bust. Within two weeks, I talked with all four of them via collect calls from various ports. One was too drunk to understand what I was saying; another wouldn't consider it. He was a straight-up guy, for a tramp steamer captain. The other two captains had no such qualms and proved their mettle at haggling; but one demanded too much and gave too little. I found I could work with the other captain and it appeared we would be able to negotiate terms we were both willing to accept. "Captain, I'm looking for a non-corporate ship that spends as little time in port as possible; and I want my ex-wife to be kept aboard your ship for at least three years without shore leave and no communications outside the ship. "Señor, I am one ship of three plying the Pacific and Indian Oceans for a private owner who decides where and when our loads come and go, and we often have to anchor offshore for days until he can find us another load. We sail the west coasts of the three Americas, across to Asia and India, and down Africa. We have just come off shore leave and only Buddha knows when we will have another. "On the date you mentioned, we will be taking a load of copper from Valparaiso to Seattle where we will trade for iron bound for China. There, we will get a load of cheap electronics and other trade goods to bring back to the smaller markets of Central and South America." "Captain, in exchange for taking my ex-wife aboard, I will wire you an upfront payment to agree to our deal, another payment each year she is aboard, and a final amount when our deal is concluded and she is returned alive to any US port. We will agree to the amounts. "What you offer is very tempting. My crew is a tough, multi-national bunch who would fuck a skunk's ass while he's squirting, but they may bruise her. Does that concern you?" "No, captain, a little bruising won't affect our deal. If you can time your departure to be on the evening tide of the day I inquired about, it would work well". The captain raised another important point. "That can be arranged, but this is a working trade vessel and the only way the authorities will allow her to leave port on my ship is if she has 'able seaman' papers. I would have to add her to the ship's crew roster as a cabin girl. However, I can have a set of Chilean papers ready for her when she arrives at the dock that will work to get her out; but I will not have time to bribe the proper official and get his real signature, and a forged signature would raise a red flag should we return. "I will keep her passport and papers locked in my safe until the end of our agreement unless they are demanded by officials. If the ship's papers are inspected on our return to Valparaiso, she will be discovered; but fortunately, we only visit Chile two or three times a year and they've only checked my papers twice in the last ten years. "In any port we visit other than the US, or if she tries to get aboard another ship, the forgery will be discovered if she can't answer a port official or ship's officer fluently in Spanish/Quechan dialect; but I will make certain she stays aboard." "Fine, Captain; and please use cost of the papers and bribes to collect all the money she has before she boards your ship. She should have about $1200 USD. Don't let her hide any of it. Search her and her baggage. If she does get loose, she must not have money. It's yours as part of the deal, keep it." "You should also know she can swim at least a mile and needs to be watched when in sight of land. If she sees shore, she's going overboard, even into a school of sharks. She would never believe that being a bitch doesn't change her flavor all that much to a hungry 16-foot Tiger shark." When I described my ex and her history, and faxed him a very personal picture I had no further need of, he talked me into allowing him to keep her for additional years at his option without further payments from me; and to allow him to "loan" her to the other two ships in their fleet for a little extra money after his crew tired of her, maybe rotating ships annually (anally?). I agreed, provided it was limited only to his fleet; and regardless of which ship she was on, he would be personally responsible for returning her to the US alive or my plan would have served no lasting purpose. Plus, she had to be aboard his ship when each payment was due from me. Each year, I'd fax him a unique message with the current date displayed on it and a note for her to assume a new pose. He would take a picture of my ex in that pose holding that fax clearly showing the message and date, and fax the picture back to me. Then I would wire that year's payment to his account. We agreed on the final terms, conditions, and amounts for the upfront payment, the annual payments for each of the first three years beginning as soon as she stepped aboard with her seaman's papers; and a final payment for putting her ashore alive on U.S. soil at the end of her "vacation". Upon closing the deal, I immediately wired the upfront payment to the account he gave me. He would receive the first year's installment payment as soon as she was aboard with her papers and the ship cleared the harbor. Now with the port, liner, and freighter locked in, I went to work on the 'switch' process. It was seven months before the sailing date. I needed a cover to provide the prize, so, I created a new corporation, using the ID of a young US ex-patriot who had just recently died from natural causes in a foreign country to be the Agent of Record for the state of incorporation. While I waited for the corporate charter, I advertised in the big city newspaper near my ex's hometown for a recent college graduate who would handle a lot of the details and wouldn't ask questions. With six months to go, I found Sandra who had a 2.5 GPA and a recent local college BA. My ex should be able to relate to her, easing possible concerns. We spoke over the phone. "Sandra, this job entails doing much of the preparation work for a new TV practical joke show, as well as playing a small role in the joke we're doing as a test for the studio. We'll secretly tape the 'winner' in public and we may also tape in your office, so you'll need to adopt and practice a stage name and a fake history." I explained the job would only last nine months or so; but if she did well, I would give her a great recommendation as a facilitator for an "edgy" TV show to kick off her career. The 'You Won!' package would be sent to the target of our joke ninety days before the show would move to Chile. If all went well to that point, Sandy's job would last that final three months after delivering the package, plus a week or two to close up the local office. She agreed, and I flew out to meet her the next morning. We settled on a reasonable salary and I hired her. As the only human being I would actually be face-to-face with during the operation, I never told her my real name or anything about my life or the TV program that could jeopardize the plan. While I was in town, I also found out Claire was pregnant. She told me she was going to name the boy after me and Steve as the father. Good job, Steroid Cuckold. You must have some awesome lead in your pencil, since she says you haven't fucked her in three years. Let's see if you can pony up $600 for a DNA test and a few more grand in legal fees to fight paternity. If not, you get to pay for raising my baby boy out of your ex-wife's belly for the next eighteen years. By the way, Mo' Fo', there's something else still comin' at ya. Sandra set up a local bank account with a debit card under the new corporate Tax Id and the SocSec of the dead Agent of Record from the charter with a facsimile of his signature; and I wired in the funds to get rolling from an offshore numbered account. Ownership and control of those accounts was tied up in a maze of legitimate corporations, LLCs, LLPs, and "blind" trusts in which I, and now our dead compatriot Agent, both had an interest and could draw upon using only proprietary pass codes. Anything can be hidden by burying the answer in so many disconnected and convoluted facts and threads that it would take an army of Chinese mathematicians too much time and dedicated effort to trace it. Even the IRS gives up when costs exceed expected revenues, and smart CPAs refuse to try for fear of liability. Lawyers will keep trying because they get paid $100-200/hour, for their $12/hour paralegal failures until the client squeals. I would pay the freighter captain and the refundable portion of the cruise directly from my numbered account. The company debit card would be used to pay all other company and plan-related items such as office expenses and salary, travel tickets, publishing the 'You Won!' packet we'd be putting together, etc. We scouted some cheap office parks for space for a small office and Sandra put the deposit on the card. I told her to call me when she had the office operational, then flew home so I could do some of my regular work and take care of my tasks in this plan. She had it ready in no time. In the meantime, I had some business cards made up and shipped to her. When she called me, I gave her the phone number of the cruise company reservations desk, the name of the cruise ship, which cruise package I was interested in, and the date it would be in Valparaiso. I asked her to get the price of joining the cruise there and to request all of their marketing material about that package be sent to her ASAP. When she let me know the cost of reserving a top-side cabin, I would wire the funds to cover it so she could charge the non-refundable deposit to the company card. After making the cruise reservation, she started researching airline flights from the local airport that would land in Santiago as close as possible to when the cruise ship would sail, and for any information they had about transportation from the airport to the docks in Valparaiso. When she had the flight information, she called the Chilean bus company to find how long it would take to get Sarah from the air terminal to the cruise liner dock and what times of day they made the run. Sandy called me to let me know that the last possible flight was from San Diego and scheduled to land in Santiago the afternoon of the day before the cruise sailed. Buses ran every four hours from 6am to 6pm, so 10am the next morning was the best time for the bus trip. "Get the tickets from home to Santiago for that flight and a bus ticket for the 10am run to the docks the next day. Make sure all the tickets are non--transferable and non-refundable; and have the bus company send us the ticket or a voucher to insure there are no problems with that leg. Also, reserve a room for her one night stayover at an off-airport hotel. She can pay for the cab both ways." I also had Sandra get a non-refundable, non-transferable return flight from Seattle where the cruise was scheduled to end back to the home airport. It would never be used, but was a necessary cover piece for our 'joke'. We kept working on the 'You Won!' package: adding the VHS tape from the cruise company and the pictures I got from the Chilean Tourist Bureau; details like payments for rent, cars, and pet care while Sarah was at sea; and advice about converting her own money to Traveler's checks and stopping newspaper deliveries. We kept refining and polishing it right up until our publishing deadline. Sandra found an upstart advertising and printing company that would produce a professional-quality version of our 'You Won!' package for $500 in under thirty days. At 120 days before the departure date, we took the 'You Won!' package to the publisher so the finished product could be in Sarah's hands exactly 90 days before the departure date. I also paid the balance owed for the cruise out of my hidden account. The 'bait' would be a tasty morsel indeed. For my ex, having never been more than a few miles from her hometown, the VHS tape and various pictures would preview her expected luxurious journey to a litany of Earthly paradises, an adventure to give her major bragging rights back in her little home town. It was intended to make her think that, when she returned home, it would take years to tell all her tales. If I had my way, she would have plenty of tales to tell - harrowing tales of life lived on the high seas...tales to make men quake and women swoon. When it was done, the published "You Won!" packet looked very professional and contained all of the glossy visual and printed information we wanted her to have. We both checked it with a fine-toothed comb and signed off on it. Sandra prepped it in a FEDEX box with a "Priority - Same Day" delivery slip, and set it on her desk to wait until 90 days before the flight out. I took Sandra out for an afternoon of fun, an evening of dining and dancing; and a night of even more fun. I began writing her letter of recommendation on my flight home. Oh, what I could have written in that recommendation, but I focused on her efficiency, business acumen, and entrepreneurship. That 2.5 GPA understated her true value in business, and didn't even approach her value in bed. When the calendar clicked down to the mailing date, Sandra took the package to FEDEX office and had it delivered to Sarah via courier right on schedule. Three days later, Sarah took the bait and arranged to meet Sandra at the office to officially accept her 'prize'. Sandy explained over the phone that as the prize required overseas travel, a passport was required. Since the passport would be good for ten years, Sarah would need to pay for that, in cash. When Sarah arrived, Sandra explained the flight, hotel, bus, passenger dock process and timing. Using the phone's loudspeaker while Sarah listened, Sandra called the reservation desks for the cruise line, airlines, and the bus company in Chile and all confirmed that there were prepaid-in-full airline reservations in her name from her home, a bus to the cruise ship, and a flight home when it was over. Then she had Sarah fill out the passport application form. She pointed out the passport application process could take a couple of months once it was sent in. No passport...no prize. Sandra added the certified cashier's check she'd gotten for the application fee to the envelope, and Sarah gave her Sam's money to cover it. Sarah had to go a few buildings away to get two passport photos taken to be sent in with the application. When she returned with the photos, they mailed the application and photos from the leasing company's office mail room down the hall. Sandra went over the rest of the package and got the necessary information from Sarah about her rent, car payments, and two pets; and made the phone calls while Sarah listened in on the arrangements with the landlord, the company holding the car lien, and the pet kennel / stable we'd selected. Sarah agreed to make any other necessary arrangements on her end, and to be ready to travel three hours before flight time with passport in hand. She would be picked up at her home and receive the tickets and last-second information prior to entering the airport terminal. I put a PI on the other very important problem I needed to know absolutely everything about; and gave my lawyer a heads-up regarding an anonymous "Friend of the Court" brief I wanted filed for the health and safety of a minor child when the time was right (as soon as Sarah was officially 'a missing person''). With my glowing references, Sandy spent most of her time over the next ninety days job hunting and going to interviews. She finally nailed one down that was a distance up the western coast from my home. I Did Mind, I Did Matter At the last minute, I decided I needed to insure there were no last minute foul-ups, as well as get some closure of my own. I had to be there to watch Sarah sail off to her fate. I caught the previous flight to Santiago before my ex would arrive and took that crazy bus trip from Santiago to Valparaiso. I got to practice my rudimentary Spanish (they've got their own dialect, mixed with Quechan). There were chickens and piglets caged on the roof, and lunch cooking on braziers in the aisle with dried Vicuña dung as fuel. I doubt it's the same now but it was fun then. << Page 03 >> (this line should be removed) When I got settled in my hotel that evening, I called Sandra's home phone. "Sandy, as soon as Sarah's airborne, you can begin shutting down the office. Just don't close the bank account until all the refunds are in, the bills are paid current, and services are cut off." When the day of the Sarah's flight out arrived, Sandra picked her up and gave her all the tickets along with the "emergency" envelope, explaining what it contained. She should open it if things went horribly wrong, and follow the instructions immediately. Sandra escorted her to the flight gate area (this was before 9/11), sat with her until she got on the flight and then watched it take off. When the plane was out of sight, Sandra called to tell me everything was in motion before going back to the office to pack up her personal items while she waited for Sarah to make her San Diego connecting flight to Santiago. When she called me back to let me know Sarah was winging her way to Santiago, I had her cancel the return flight from Seattle. I made the call to cancel the cruise. It cost me the reservation deposit but the major balance was returned to my numbered account. When all the business matters were settled and the office was empty, Sandra got the leasing agent to inspect the space and confirmed she would be officially out of there on Friday. The corporation would rot in bureaucratic red tape and eventually be officially closed by the state when the required annual paperwork wasn't filed. No tax returns would be filed because the corporation had made no money. It was a wash. When I last checked with the airport the previous afternoon, Sarah's flight had landed in Santiago. A check with the bus company that morning confirmed she was now aboard the bus to the docks, with a couple of sightseeing stops at vineyards along the way. Both the cruise ship and the freighter were scheduled to leave on the evening tide, leaving her less than four hours for any last-minute maneuvering...precious little time. I spent the afternoon of her sailing day kicked back in a bar near the freighter, sucking down a locally-distilled concoction called Piscola (Chilean Pisco brandy and Coke) and watching the crusty old barge being loaded with copper ore when my ex arrived at the bottom of the freighter's gangplank. When she saw the rusty old bucket creaking in its slip, I expected her to immediately start calling to get herself back home by any other way. But, after taking a long look at the old sludge bucket, she marched up the gangplank as if she owned it; only to have a filthy sailor grab the collar of her designer blouse and the seat of her designer pants and march her right back down to the dock. All the way back down the ganglplank, she kept pointing to her "pass" and yelling the name on the ship's stern, as if louder invoked a universal language translator. He may or may not have understood English, but the sailor clearly didn't care for her attitude. I was in the cool black shadows of the café and close enough to have heard him call her a 'jodienda puta', an apt name or her, as he shoved her into her pile of luggage and went back up the gangplank, using the hand ropes like a spider monkey up two vines. This promised to be interesting and well worth the long trip down here. I put my feet up and ordered another drink, "Uno mas, no paraguas, por favour" (skip the umbrella). As soon as the seaman disappeared, she ran over to the dock's office. I was betting she was going to make those "help me, I've fallen" calls home and to the airline. When that didn't work, she would likely contact the US embassy or consulate. The US stance would be to let the Chileans pay to get rid of her; after all, they'd let her in. Finally, the Chilean officials would tell her "no ayudar" as well, because she already had emergency passage home (that knowledge courtesy of a prior phone call by me). If she failed to use the freighter pass, the Chileans would not likely be very happy and she could be stuck in a Chilean jail for up to a year until deported per treaty protocol. It was her choice whether to tell stories back home of a two-week sea voyage back to the US aboard a rusty freighter and possible rapes by a diseased crew; or of a year of jail and certain rapes by diseased peasants, criminals, and guards -- a delightful choice, no? About 45 minutes later, she came back frowning and parked her ass again. About 15 minutes after that, the captain came to the ship's rail. When he recognized her from the picture I'd faxed, he came down the gangplank to get a better look. They talked for a few minutes before he disappeared back up the gangplank with her passport and cash in hand. After always having been able to think well on her feet, she was now out of her element and thousands of miles from home. She had no more money, nobody else to call, and no choices left. She'd realize she was trapped...lost in a world patterned after her own design and of her own making. She could guess I was somehow at the heart of her problem, but couldn't know for certain and wouldn't have time to ponder it. A few minutes later, the same grungy seaman came down and over to me at the bar. The captain had sent her seaman's papers for me to see and sign. I noted the name of the official, signed with my opposite hand, gave him the papers and first annual parment. After counting the cash and signing my receipt, the crewman went back to the ship. Two hours later, as the dock cranes and conveyors finished the loading and withdrew, the captain returned to the ship's rail and Sarah began ferrying up her luggage. When she had everything aboard, he made her stand outside the bridge as he barked orders for the crew to make ready for sea. Tug boats towed and nudged the ship away from the dock and turned her toward the harbor entrance. Then it was through the breakwater and underway to Seattle, eighteen days sail and around nine hundred fucks away. She ought to enjoy that part, anyway. I watched as the ship slowly made its way over the horizon before returning to my hotel to get ready to go home. Just before I checked out to catch the bus and my return flight, I called Sandra to tell her to cancel the rent, car, and pet care payments. Sarah had left me with a dead dog, an empty home, a devastated life, and nothing but memories of misery and confusion. It only seemed fair that she was now penniless, soon to be evicted in abstentia, her car repossessed and possessions put to the curb, her pets gone forever; and left with only a myriad of crushing memories. I called Sandy again on Friday and found she'd closed the bank account, but didn't know what to do with the $4,000 or so that had still been in the account after the bills and refunds. "Sandy, you keep the money as a bonus and good luck in your new home and job." The following Monday, I had my attorney notify Child Support Services (CPS) that Sarah had gone on an extended vacation and left her son with her aged parents, who were unable to provide adequate care to a severely disabled and very unruly child; and that Sarah had now apparently disappeared from a foreign country and could not be contacted. After investigating and finding Sarah's trail cut off in Chile, CPS filed a 'missing person' report about Sarah having disappeared, and contacted Steve to assume custody for his child. Claire called me several months later and told me she'd had a baby girl name Desiré and listed Steve as the father on the birth certificate. She was working on more child support from him. If he can't ante up the money to fight paternity and he'll have to pay support for my baby for the next eighteen years or more. "Hey Stevie, it's spelled, 'C-u-c-k-o-l-d'. How does it feel to be on the receiving end this time?" CPS pushed forward a child custody suit for my ex's baby, and Steroid Daddy was forced to assume sole custody of his deformed child by Sarah. I did what I could to make sure CPS stayed all up his ass with court-ordered monthly visits and reports that my lawyer passed on to me. Steve couldn't pay for the paternity tests and got stuck with my by Claire kid, too. "Sorry, good buddy, but it's time for you to get that third job to pay for 'your' three kids, only one of which is really yours. I guess you should have kept your dick in your pants and your mouth shut." As I said earlier, there would be special retribution for him. A healthy four year old child is a handful. A severely mentally and physically handicapped boy is easily a hundred times that difficult and will only get worse with time. "Hey, Stevie, just wait until he's eighteen, 6'8", 295 lbs, ten times as strong as you ever were, and way crazier than he is now. Selfish as she is, Sarah won't try to overturn the court order when she eventually gets home, so Steroid Pipsqueak is going have to man up for the rest of his life, unless he figures out something else. Three weeks after the freighter had sailed from Valparaiso, the captain called me from Seattle to let me know they would be leaving in a few minutes on the morning tide for China with my ex still aboard. All was as we had wished. I went back to living life as well as I could ever wish, in more ways than one. Making money was no longer my priority; having fun was, and before I got too old to enjoy it. My days were filled with new ideas about places to go and all kinds of things to see and do; and then going and doing them, one or two at a time. Best of all, I met a young wisp of a girl, not much bigger than a minute and as fresh as spearmint on the stalk. It seemed as if life was new to my Latin doll. After my first go-round with love, I didn't think I would ever feel that way again. And I didn't. I had loved Sarah with all my heart, but my new love is so much more than the old one ever was or could have been. Mariah fixed all the holes and filled all the empty places in my heart that Sarah had left behind. I love her name, Mariah, and every little detail about her. I respect and, even more importantly, I trust her. Yes, I was "once burnt and twice shy", but I also know she won't do me wrong...kill me maybe, but not wrong me. Mariah is wonderful with kids and critters of every type and temperament, and has lots of friends. She's very popular at parties but doesn't flirt and turns down guys by the dozen. She can also turn on the elegance, grace, and charm at formal society or charity affairs. Every day is another surprise. She never ceases to amaze me. What a life! I bought a house off the beach in the hills between Malibu and Santa Barbara; and about a year later, we got married in Costa Mesa in a Hispanic ceremony. I think about half the population came to our reception. We live in the hills behind the jealously-protected private beaches but we do have access to a couple of them thanks to some good neighbors who liked sharing barbeques and swapping lies, but not wives. After having two baby boys in two and a half years, we decided to space the next kids at least three years apart to give Mariah time to get back into her original svelte condition between pregnancies. With two older brothers to protect her, we both wanted a daughter next. Mariah's beautiful and, well let's just say, not the least bit disappointing in the boudoir. A lot of women can give a decent blowjob, but she can turn a simple "hummer" into a full symphonic orchestral production. When she is the maestro, I experience a range of feelings that can be represented as soulful strings, howling woodwinds, brass attacks, raging percussion tempests; and culminating in a rendition of the 1812 Overture with a mighty cannonade at its end. It's always at least a seven-gun salute to her talents...and she will swallow every drop. But what wins hands-down is when she locks into my saddle and starts snapping her ass against me like she's riding a horse at a canter (faster than a trot, slower than a gallop), and stuffs her 36C tits in my face, spins to show me her rear, and rides me with 'mucho gusto', facing either side. Once she gets her jollies, she eases into a forward-leaning, ground-eating lope that brings her off about every ten minutes and me injecting another load of seed in her about every hour. We've never discovered how long we can continue that, but all-nighters are fairly common. We just go until we're both happy, one of us passes out, or the kids join us in the morning. Before you ask, yes, I have all the 'proud papa' pictures my wallet can hold, and albums full of my beautiful wife and my family that I would share with the slightest provocation. I'm finally fulfilled and satisfied in all the ways a man can be. I talked with the ship captain on the first anniversary of my ex's original departure, to get any news and arrange transfer of the annual payment to his account. He told me Sarah hadn't started to fully earn her keep until recently when he began to pimp her out to the dock workers of the ports they stopped at. They would come aboard three at a time, get a half hour, and another threesome would replace them. At the end of the third year, he said he was going to keep her because he was averaging almost $10,000 a month off her from the dockhands in the ports they visited. When fuel costs were up, he was staying extra days in each port until business "petered off" with my ex. He said he made as good a profit in port with her as he would have averaged under steam at sea, and would be able to buy his ship in a few more years. After that, I called him once a year anyway, just to see how things were going. I even helped him with some financing to let him complete the buyout of his ship. He continues paying me back in big chunks after every roundtrip from the Americas to the Far East and back. Mariah eventually managed to drag out of me what the big secret was with the foreign and ship-to-shore calls on the phone bills, and I finally told her the whole sordid tale from beginning to end. I could tell she didn't approve; but she never said another word about it to me. However, her family began to treat me with even more respect. It appears I am now seen as mucho macho...a man with money, power, and heart; and who makes good Latin grandbabies and doesn't take shit from anybody. Is seems revenge is big to those of Latin persuasion. A few years later, Claire called me one day and asked me to come back and put another baby in her. Her ex was in line to be promoted to supervisor sometime this year and would be able to support another baby, but he didn't have the cash to fight her yet. I talked with Maria about it and was surprised when she agreed without hesitation, so I went and did what was asked of me with pleasure. Claire was still stacked and energetic in bed; and she does make smart, good-looking babies. At only four years old, my first boy by her can already read Shakespere and play some piano. It seems the Reaper sows seed as well as he reaps and it appears that Steve would soon be paying for two of my kids. Finally, at the end of the seventh year, the captain told me my ex was no longer bringing in the big bucks and the fleet was tired of her bitching and stinky pussy. Her asshole was too loose and her blowjobs no longer sucked, so he was finally going to put her ashore in San Diego along with a shipment of Christmas toys from Taiwan in two weeks. Of course, I told Mariah and found myself waiting alone in the shadow of a warehouse at the slip in San Diego where the captain said he'd be moored. When the ship was secured and the gangplank came down, so did my ex. The ship had a new coat of paint and my collateral actually looked pretty good, but my ex looked a lot worse for the wear and nothing near respectable. What a difference seven years can make. She would be closing on forty in calendar years; but looked to be somewhere between eighty and eight hundred in mileage years as she swayed down the plank with sea legs and a small duffle bag over her shoulder containing everything she owned in the world. The captain had told me she'd repeatedly caught every venereal disease known except AIDS (amazing) and was required to immediately submit to quarantine and testing at the port infirmary for 10 days, and mandatory testing for six months after that. As she passed, I stepped out of the shadows. "Hey, sailor, buy you a drink?" It was definitely a hackneyed line, but why use the good stuff on a worn out old whore? She stopped and looked at me. Her eyes were lifeless, as if she'd had enough misery for one lifetime and was just going home to die. It took a full minute for her to react. "Jim, what are you doing here?" "I've been waiting for you." "You knew I was going to be here? Wait...you set the whole thing up, didn't you?" "Sarah, you hurt everybody who ever met you and any one of them could have been the one who set it up. They all hated you so much, they may have even formed a committee for it and taken donations to make it happen, but does any of that matter now?" "No, I guess not." "Do you have time for a drink before you go to the infirmary?" We talked for awhile in a pub at the end of the dock. I bought the drinks and asked her if she still had her original seaman's papers. As she pulled the folder out of her duffle bag, I said, "The official's name was Oriego Pansala, wasn't it? Do you recognize the handwriting of the signature?" "No." "That's because I wrote it with my right hand." "You were there when I was shanghaied and you signed these papers so that fat bastard could take me away? You even had him take my money, so I couldn't escape?" "You knew who and what I was and yet still you woke the "Reaper", even though I told you to leave him forever behind me. You insured your own damnation. Hell, I taught you most, but not all, of my tricks. You used them against good people, and even against me. For that reason that, yes, I was in Chile when you left on the freighter. Know also that I will have you in my sights if you EVER use another of my tricks to harm another person ... you will die." I got my personal payback when I showed her the picture albums of my wonderful wife and growing family, our palatial new home with the huge lanai overlooking our private beach in Hawaii with the outdoor garden shower; our 90' yacht at the seaside villa in southwestern Tuscany when Hawaii was too hot, etc. I said goodbye for the last time and watched her make her way to the infirmary. It's the last I ever saw or heard of her. I know she never went back home or contacted her family. When she dies, I hope old Coon gets the chance to sink his spectral teeth into her ghostly ass at the Pearly Gates before she gets sucked into hell. "Hey, Dante...I got another one for your Inferno!" As it turns out, I Did mind and it Did matter, after all. "And now you know the rest of the story." - P.H. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> I owe many thanks to the editors who helped me achieve a new level and to the readers who have shown their support of my early efforts. Many readers, named and Anon, have inspired me to try to become better, even those of you who ripped my early efforts (most times I agreed). I hope this, 'the rest of the story', has lived up to your expectations.