I Did Mind, I Did Matter

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.