Bobbie Gets Her Divorce
by Robb T. White
“Don’t leave me . . . begging you . . .”
“You thought I’d go along with the
crappy settlement you offered. Bill,
dear, I’m not the kind of girl to weep and moan. I thought of adding antifreeze
to your morning Bloody Mary. Then I thought of something better.”
“Choke you . . . bare hands . . . snap your
windpipe . . . like a twig.”
“Well, here I am. Come get me.”
Bill writhed on his haunches in the dirt, his
movements no more effective
than a marionette’s, with its strings cut. His center of gravity shifted, and
he toppled over, did a face plant in the foul black muck.
He lifted his head, sputtering, cursing. “Kill
. . . you, bitch—”
Bobbie checked her watch. “Ten more seconds,
I’m going to undress you.”
She tugged his clothing off, ripped whatever she
could reach. His arms were
stone clubs too heavy to lift; his fingers no longer grasped. She moved like a
matador out of reach of a bull’s horns. The cocktail of drugs she’d researched
on the web and watched him ingest in his whiskey flask made him limp and
immobile. Off went shoes, socks, underwear.
His frightened penis hid, in its pubic nest.
“Not cocky, are you now, so to speak.”
He made gargling sounds; spittle flew from his
mouth, making tiny wet
circles in the dirt.
“Goo-goo baby talk, honey. See if it works
“. . . Them . . .” Thick-tongued,
it sounded like Thum.
do you think I made you take
me on this Jakarta trip, demanded this excursion to the Lesser Sunda Islands?
Do you think it was to look at sea turtles? When you came home smelling of
pussy and demanding a divorce—on Valentine’s Day of all days, you prick!—that
was when I began planning . . . this.”
“They’re ferocious, run faster than
a dog. They can kill water buffalo.”
I leave, one more thing to
She took a perfume bottle out of her belly pack
and sprinkled him, in his
hair, on his back, and the genitals.
His face transformed from hatred to fear.
“Deer scent, a doe in estrus. Too bad they
don’t sell water buffalo scent
back home. You won’t be making fun of them as fat and lazy once they come
charging through the brush when the scent reaches the river.”
Bill gargled sounds at her, ropy spit drooled
over his chin.
“What? I can’t hear you. Just so you
know, I’m going to spend your money
on that silver Lamborghini Aventador with the gull-wing doors you were eyeing
in the Hamptons last summer.
made more goo-goo sounds. He
stopped trying to get up.
Bobbie stretched out on the couch, flipping through the pages of the inquest
report sent from East Nusa Tenggara. The papers came in a small, neatly wrapped
box cluttered with colorful stamps and the official letterhead of the POLRI,
which she assumed was the office of the national police in Jakarta. Bill’s
Rolex was included with the papers. Thank God, he didn’t take the Cosmograph
Daytona, worth a quarter-million. The facing was cracked and there were claw
marks on the band. The hands had stopped at 6:02. She’d left him there at
exactly 2:52 and had to rush to make it to the boat dock in time. Three hours
alone in the baking heat, naked, too drugged to move, listening to every sound
and movement in the undergrowth.
Knowing they’re coming . . .
Remembering what the guide said about the contaminated
mouths of Komodo
Dragons, she picked it up with tongs and tossed it into the wastebasket. The
Day-Date with Champagne Dial a mere $35,000. The money had cleared probate two
weeks earlier. Home free.
Someone, fluent in English, had translated. Bill’s
clothes were found
where the attack occurred. “If the Bu kartini wishes, she may claim
these items by writing to the address at the bottom of the letter . . .”
The thought of those keepsakes shipped from Indonesia
made her smile. That—and
the twenty million she had inherited.
has published several crime, horror, and mainstream stories in various
magazines and anthologies. A forthcoming private-eye novel featuring Raimo Jarvi
will be published this summer. “The Girl from the Sweater Factory,” a horror
tale, was a finalist in The Dark Sire Magazine’s 2020 awards. Two more
recent horror stories are “The Backyard Digger” in The Yard and “The
Tick Bite” in Black Petals.
Hillary Lyon is an illustrator
for horror/sci-fi and pulp fiction websites and magazines. She is also founder and
senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. An SFPA
Rhysling Award nominated poet, her poems have appeared in journals such as Eternal
Haunted Summer, Jellyfish Whispers, Scfifaikuest, Illya’s Honey,
and Red River Review, as well as numerous
anthologies. Her short stories have appeared recently in Night
to Dawn, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Sirens Call, and Tales
from the Moonlit Path, among others, as well as in numerous horror anthologies
such as Night in New Orleans: Bizarre Beats from the Big Easy, Thuggish
Itch: Viva Las Vegas, and White Noise & Ouija Boards. She
appeared, briefly, as the uncredited "all-American Mom with baby" in Purple Cactus
Media’s 2007 Arizona indie-film, "Vote for Zombie." Having lived in France,
Brazil, Canada, and several states in the US, she now resides in southern