This Guy

This Guy was cheating on his Wife.

The Wife had become pregnant, and was no longer interested in sex.

Unlike most affairs that are fallen into, that are the result of quick and rash decisions, that aren't intended to be long term, This Guy had actively planned to have an affair.

He was meticulous. He choose a college student, young, impressionable, firm. He had vigorous sex with her on his lunch breaks and sometimes on Sundays. She would do things that his wife was never into, and she secretly hoped he would leave his wife for her.

This Guy had other plans, of course. When his wife was very great with child in her third trimester, he decided he would end it.

The College Student keened and wept and begged him to keep the relationship going. To stay. To please don't hurt her. He coldly declined. She threatened to kill herself, and he told her "don't be absurd." She threatened to tell his wife and he slapped her.

"This is over," he spat. "Move on. You have your whole life ahead of you."

Like anytime an adult tells a child that they have their whole life ahead of them, it didn't seem true. But the College Student wiped away her tears, and said "Okay."

This Guy straightened his tie, dusted off the sleeve of his suit, picked up his suitcase and left.

He tried to walk from the university to the parking garage where he kept his sporty but sensible foreign car. He took a half day, partially to break up with the college student. Knowing it would be emotionally taxing, head planned to head home and tell his wife he loved her and he was ready to have this baby and spend the rest of his life with her.

But he got lost.

In six blocks the city folded the wrong way as This Guy walked. Suddenly he was surrounded by the graffiti, boarded up houses, corner stores and the constant groaning buses of the poorer parts of town. Rain began to fall, large drops but sparse.

And he was being followed.

This Guy was sure of it after making three lefts. A lithe Punk Rocker who looked like food was a distant memory. Heavy boots slid along the pavement, clearly following This Guy.

That third left ended in a dead end. An alley covered in bright, detailed graffiti, with a dumpster in the back corner, turned on one side with nothing inside it. Its lid swung in the updraft like a door.

This Guy spun on his heel and tried to appear threatening to the Punk Rocker and got a better look at him. He was lean, yes, but he had some muscle to him. He had snake bite piercings in his lower lip, a ring in his right nostril and six rings in his left eye-brow. Jet black tattoos snaked in and out of his clothing on his bare skin, making it seem even more pale.

This Guy felt the opposite of threatening.

"Why did you do that?" the Punk Rocker asked.

"What?" This Guy asked.

"Why did you do that, bro?" asked a new voice. A taller, stronger looking young man with a popped collared shirt, aviator shades and a square jaw. He was clean cut, no tats, and looked like he worked out all the time. Yet, he and the Punk Rocker were some how similar. It was like they played for the same baseball team. No, more than that. Had fought in the same war on the same side. Recently.

"Who are you?" This Guy asked.

"We're the guys." said Big Bro.

"We're the guys that fix other guys." said the Punk Rocker.

"What?" This Guy asked.

"He doesn't get it." the Punk Rocker said.

"You wanna tell him, bro?" asked Big Bro.

"Tell me what?" This Guy asked, raising his suit case as a sort of shield.

"We already know what you did," the Punk Rocker said. "We don't want you do to do it again. She doesn't want you to do it again."

"Who's she?" This Guy asked, certain now that these were other college students and that petty little bitch had sent them a text or an e-mail.

"Not her." said Big Bro, answering This Guy's thought. "But our She did send us. You've got to make up for what you've done."

"You want money? Are you going to beat me up?" This Guy asked, as though he was asking about sports scores, already accepting an uncertain fate.

"No," the Punk Rocker said. "No, man, like it's really up to you. You can either join us, or She will come, and She will cut you."

"What?" This Guy asked.

"Yeah," said Big Bro. "It's simple. She'll cut you up. She appeases us. We avenge Her."

"Where is she?" This Guy asked.

"She's here. She's waiting," said the Punk Rocker.

"Waiting for what?" This Guy asked.

"Waiting for you to pick a side." said Big Bro. "Join us. You can't imagine what She'll do to you."

"Join us," said the Punk Rocker, "and you can avenge Her, too."

"Okay," said This Guy.

There was a metal scraping noise. There was a perfume, there were soft little hands holding This Guy's face.

Then he was at his parking garage, on the level with his sporty but practical foreign car. He got in. He went to the florist, got his wife some flowers, got home before one in the afternoon.

"Why are you home?" the wife asked when he walked in the door.

"I wanted to give you these," This Guy said, revealing a rather stunning, out of season bouquet. "And I wanted to tell you, I'm ready for you to have this baby."

Her eyes welled up with tears and she didn't know why. She nearly jumped into his arms and started bawling.

This Guy knew why, though. When he told her he was ready, he had meant it. It was the first true thing he'd ever said to a woman.

He had joined them. He would avenge Her.