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Robb White: Bobbie Gets Her Divorce

93_ym_bobbiesdivorce_hlyon.jpg
Art by Hillary Lyon 2022

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 on them.

“. . . Them . . .” Thick-tongued, it sounded like Thum.

 “Why 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.”

“Bob-beee—”

“They’re ferocious, run faster than a dog. They can kill water buffalo.”

  “Before I leave, one more thing to do—”

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.

 Bill 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. 

 

 

 

Robb White 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 EasyThuggish 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 Arizona.  https://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/                                    

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2022