Psst...(Jill killed Jack)

“I very much need some socks pretty please with sugar on top.” 

This was the text that I sent to my estranged ex-wife. The one who wanted to drag me out to the wilderness under the guise of talking about financing our first childs’ entrance into college. I knew that she was old fashioned and wanted to push me from a hill. Just like Fellini. 

So my last request was not very sinister. I mean, even death row inmates should get some free laundry or a meal. Maybe even a prayer? 

I looked into the pantry of my rental and decided there was no good food. Bachelor food is disgusting when you leave it in the fridge for a week. I needed my dog. 

“Hey, can we bring the dog?” 

I knew that Caspian hated hiking just as much as me. It was like walking without purpose. Like smelling flowers just to get allergies. I also knew that if Michelle threw me over a cliff, and I was able to not immediately die, then Caspian-the-Berner could theoretically pull me up with a rope. I decided to wear my flax bermuda-styled shorts, which can be unwoven and turned into rope or a joint. 

She did not immediately text back and scold me for overpacking. This was a good sign because I had previously said I would find some kind of therapy. She wanted a stranger to break my will, make me cry, pay for the breaking and send me back all trained. Also, I had a very large life insurance policy at the time. 

Husband Therapy is kinda like dog training but the wife forgets that she has to remember the commands or the husband will forget and the 2 weeks and 1500$ in Idaho won’t take. She has to reinforced the electric shock therapy, the way the Husband Therapist swings a hand like windshield wipers and asks if my mother ever touched me inappropriately. 

It was just 38 minutes before the murder.

Err... I mean hike. 

In Nights of Calabria, Fellini taught us us that a kind whore will get many marriage proposals, walk up to the mountain of love with all her savings, and get thrown over the mountain by her fake fiance. I decided to pack like Fellini. I went up to my rented room and looked for all the things that could be lugged in a Hefty Garbage Bag suitcase. There was the square bottle with a ship that my grandfather had constructed with tweezers. “Nah. He’s dead.” 

There were piles of clothes on the ground. These kept me from bringing a drunk woman home. No one wants to make love next to dirty laundry. That’s pretty gross if they do. I saw pictures of my kids when they were young and realized they were getting old, going to college, all taking medications to avoid giving me grandkids. 

I looked at the pillows. They were stiff so I used them only to prop up a cell phone to watch Italian movies. It was better to pillow on a wad of sweaters and save the neck. I went into the closet and found my mafia money. It was just an envelope from the bank full of cash because I hate wasteful tipping. For some reason, the kids at the register have a very difficult time begging for tips (of cash) when they only punched in buttons. They do not have this problems with cards because they say , “Please follow the instructions on the screen” when they ask for 30 percent, 40… one of the cashiers actually said my card was declined because he hit the 50% tip option for me. I use cash so the kids can beg like adults. 

There is no need for great cash when your former/estranged spouse wants to go hiking in the wilderness. Also, I think she is bitter because of the dating. She pretends she doesn’t mind that much but always gets me drunk and asks for details. I don’t know what I tell her half the time. 

I see a bottle of Canadian Mist (whiskey) that was purchased for toothaches and bladder infections. It is not a very good bottle of whiskey. But it is light weight since half of it is missing. It is best to be slightly inebriated before being thrown off a cliff. Also, the fall hurts less. 

I packed the whiskey. 

Now my closet is executive clean. I have ten handkerchiefs laid out in case one of the kids gets married. Handkerchiefs are the required minimum for a gentleman of the ages. You can offer the spare to a woman in tears. You can use the linen to avoid touching bathroom knobs. It makes a wonderful mask in the case of desperate last minute need for larceny. I love handkerchiefs. 

I packed ten in the garbage bag, knowing that large puncture wounds should be full of gauze. For this reason, I had to return the silk hankies. It is better for the absorbent cotton in case of a fall. 

“What else?”

It was a tiny room with windows facing the main road in town. The firemen and police went up and down the road trying to find an entrance to Starbucks. They put in a one way driveway to be tricky. 

I had some bills on my desk but I didn’t want to bring these to the afterlife. I decided to quickly pay for my parking bill because I didn’t want my extra truck to get towed if I should be in the Community Hospital for very long. I said a small “Thank you, God” because two of our three nurses had wanted to date but you should never date medical people in a small town. Amputations happen when you are not a gentlemen. 

“What else?” 

Sheets? NO.

Comforter for comfort? No.

Michelle had felt bad that I was cold without her cuddles and bought a comforter matching certain parts of her body. Peach. It was definitely a distraction if ever a gentleman has lady company. A man should have his bed colored in very serious colors, perhaps gray and black and …? 

I needed a multi tool. A multi tool is the American version of a Swiss Army Knife. It is neither a knife nor from the Swiss. Our multi tools should be from Leatherman because they have pliers and blades which do not fold back on fingers. They have finger locks. Unfortunately, I had the Lowes knock-off multi tool which had already severed half of a finger. A nurse, who I did not date, stitched it back on with some weird thread that was supposed to dissolve. She kept sticking that fishhook needle and whispering, “Does it hurt? Does that hurt? What if I do this?” 

I didn’t go back to remove the stitches, which didn’t shrink or get dissolved. The nerve was actually clipped by the fake multi tool and i can feel the rain coming five days before the weatherman now. 

I put the multi-tool in the garbage bag with the whiskey and the handkerchiefs. 22 minutes. 

Now, in the smallest case that Michelle actually wanted to talk about paying for our kid’s college (and not throw me over the cliff) I was prepared to bring a check book. I would argue that the check should be endorsed to the child, herself. Michelle would argue that kids might spend all the money drinking and whoring like their father. I resented that comment because our town didn’t actually have any real prostitutes. 

In order to avoid the impasse of how the child will spend the money, “for education,” Michelle would push me over the cliff, wait six weeks and get my life insurance. She didn’t like long and sustained arguments because she was taking yoga. 

I decided to bring my checkbook and not transfer any money into the account. What would they say? “We’re sorry. He has the money in a Money Market but we cannot legally transfer this money to you. Is he around?” Then she would feel really silly about kicking the goose over the glade. 

It is important for husbands and fathers to always be useful. Do not teach them how to start a BBQ grill. They will inevitable become vegans and hire a gardener. They will keep the seat down and the toothpaste caps fully engaged. The planned obsolescence of a man starts with money. Try to get your spouse fired. 

In my case, this was not possible. She worked for the state. So after so many decades, the man is not necessary. He must be thrown from the hill under the guise of good health. His dog may or may not follow (depending if the man fed the dog in the last few months). Dogs are ultimately loyal to the person who puts kibble in the bowl. It is nothing personal. 

16 minutes till death. 

The waning sun reminded me: You could throw her down the hill!

Wow. I never considered murder for life, insurance or love. I never considered her last words. Would she fall down the hill and say, “I was just kid…..ding…..” 

Wow. 

This was huge. 

It didn’t seem very noble to throw a former wife down a hill. I don’t know what was going on with Jack and Jill but I bet it wasn’t his idea to get any water. Notice that Jack broke his “crown” (head) long before Jill slipped on the murder weapon. Moral: Do not go up hills for water. Water likes to be lower due to gravity. 

I knew that a former spouse did not really care about my good health, never dying due to exercise, but I also felt she would bring me some socks out of duty. She is prideful like that. She wants her man to die with clean socks because a coroner will look for the meaning of death and should not be confused by bad odors nor have to cut the socks off the body. They get stiff with grime. 

Also, (11 minutes) , I really wanted to get some veneers before death. It seems really creepy to have a perfect white smile in death but hide the blemishes with a beard in life. The coffee struggle had taken its toll. I have never heard of anyone suing Starbucks for their loss of white. How would you even quantify the loss? 

“You honor… I was going to get a new hot wife but I couldn’t smile due to Starbucks Stains.” 

“How much did that cost you Mr. Goround?” 

“The lady from San Jose had stock options of Oracle. She’s probably a billionaire. I lost this opportunity because of Starbucks Stains. I would never smile.” 

“Can you show me your receipts?” 

“No honor. I paid in cash to avoid needless tipping.” 

“How do we know you didn’t stain your teeth from Peet’s Coffee?” 

“Peets roast gives me heartburn.” 

“Can you prove this heartburn?”

Ouch. It was going to be just like the cigarette debacle. If you smoke one Marlboro in your life you cannot blam Camels for your cancer. Tobacco manufacturers know this and promote community smoking to destroy the single source theory. 

7 minutes. 

In my last seven minutes of life, before Michelle brought the dog in the Prius, before the socks were delivered and she had a large aluminum canister of water filled with melatonin to knock me out at the summit. She knows I get sleepy near the summit. 

Contrary to popular notions, Saint Bernards and their cousin dog, The Bernese Mountain Dog, do not actually have smelling salts in their saliva glands. They cannot lick you to consciousness. They usually have less than a tankard of whiskey around their neck because the whiskey is menat to fortify the dog in bad weather. Some share, that is true. But mostly the large dog will watch you falling into snoring as the Michelle commands that he uses his large head to push his former master over the hill. 

The dog will think it is just a game since his eyes are poor on telescopic visions. He cannot tell if the cliff is a few feet or a few leagues. He will actually get excited to be playing a lazy game where he dones’t have to fetch and get sweaty. My poor dumb dog will be an accomplice to murder.

No!

If not for my own sake, I must think of California Law. How they will eventually kill Caspian because he was a man killer. The law does not care if it was his idea or the woman. He will be taken to the Black Ops section of the SPCA and ethically sent to heaven. They are very moral about these things and over-crowding is at an all time high. (Please remember to spray an neuter your pet to avoid euthanasia). 

My body? I need something reflective for the Air Force. She will probably bring me to Fort Ord to hike. They are an inactive Army base. This is why we need the Air Force to gather my remains. 

1 minute

What the hell can they see from outer space?

I decided to wrap myself in mylar. I would go out looking like a Chinese Spy balloon. Someone would find this story and know … It wasn’t the dog’s fault after all. 

(I will _try_ to come back to edit this. She just arrived with a Prius. The dog looks hungry.)