Shelby Fidelity, a name not a description, was blinking at the closest of something like 10 to the 24th of fiery balls of gas above and beyond the sky. Her blinking was sort of like winking, but with two eyes, and no sexual underlining. Well. No overt sexual underlining. Well. So she was totally winking at the sun, and using both her eyes, but the sun didn't care. The sun hated Shelby, and expressed its hate for her, through her own lack of melanin.
Shelby was a fine person, if you can call any person fine, and yet, a lot of people didn't like Shelby.
Simon, a divorce lawyer who had gotten 6.25 out of 10 clients at least 80% of whatever was rightfully someone's before divorce to be entirely theirs after divorce, was not one of the people who didn't like Shelby.
He was one of the people who thought that if, under his watch, Shelby was shot, thrown in a trunk, and then driven across country boundaries, left in a desert, and told to walk, that he would probably have himself a honey ham and swiss cheese sandwich, with lettuce, mayo, and half a tomato, cut slightly too large, followed by a McDonald's size giant Coke, followed by a Burger King sized hit of heroin, then, if he was feeling up to it alert the authorities, most likely though a passive aggressive complaint letter that would look something like,
"Dear Chief of Police Benjamin R Fidelity,
I hope this message finds you well, though probably it did a piss poor job finding you, very similar to the job you did in finding little Patrice back in '86, and was probably carried most of the way by an underemployed mailman, and then dropped into a box full of similarly addressed letters, and handed off to a mail room attendant, who, also underemployed, arduously sorted through each and every paper looking for a check, or soft warm cash to steal, not finding any, finally put this hand written stamped envelope into a small rectangular container, with your name printed, on it, and then went about the rest of their day, wondering why they couldn't get someone to let them waste their time in their own way, and still pay them a minuscule amount of money.
I think you're a good for nothing, lousy, over-promoted meter-maid, only without popularity and kind-regard those workers earn night and day.
I think your wife, my sister by birth, but an idiot by her own right, is a fine woman, who was led astray in her formative years, is probably right now planning on murdering you, with diagrams and blue prints spread out on your desk at home, and even if she laid out the plan, and posted it on the community bulletin board, no one in your department would be able to make heads or tails of what could possibly have caused you to be three and a half years late for the Monday morning staff meeting after she has killed you.
I also think you dress poorly for a man of your stature.
Sincerely,
Without love,
-Simon.
ps: You're an illiterate.
pps: Maybe someone named Shelby is missing. Might have been in the trunk of a 1997 Saturn S-Series, license plate ETY-9034, heading south on rt 387 at approximately 12:05pm February 22nd, 2013.
ppps: That means you can't read."
that Shelby was missing.
Shelby was the woman that Simon was going to, in a matter of two and a half hours from now, in front of a large group of his own family and friends, vow to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, though ideally less in the sickness, and not at all, honestly, in health.
He kept leaving the keys in his ignition, and the trunk open, but so far no one had taken the bait, or even read the note meticulously written with cutout letters from magazines with instructions on what they could potentially do with his future Misses, and how surely it was a great resume builder for many a budding killers and crooks.
He wasn't a man who could let go of hope, and began to make a ham and swiss cheese sandwich.
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