As the guys started arriving almost every one asked where my wife was. I told them she was out and wouldn’t be bothering us. I sensed disappointment...in them about my answer. Our little group ended up being seven of us. And we started sipping cold ones and talking smack, there was the normal Ford verses Chevrolet debate. I’m a Chevy guy so I joined in and soon we where loud and carrying on like men do. About half way through the race my wife came home, she walked in the den to ask me to come in. She was almost on the verge of death mere moments ago, she was black and blue from the last few days, and she likely had a broken nose, but she was still laughing. “Wow! Are you going to cry? Really? You gonna cry over daddy, now…you big fat pussy!!!” she said between fits of laughter. “Fuck, you really are a fag,” she quipped in a raspy voice. I covered Artie with a blanket robotically and stood up. My eyes rested on the big ax that I’d borrowed from Marco’s truck the other day. It was. More

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