Precipice by Kj Hannah Greenberg

I plan to improve my judicial status by showing that impossible woman’s culpability in the entire matter. My lawyer suggested, as we shared a few lines of bright dust, that clues could be planted to expose my ex-wife as a ditzy Alice B. Toklas. For months already, I have suffered the indignity of Internet postings regarding her intent to serve me with a patrimony suit. It is of little wonder that I spill entire teaspoons of street caviar when I try to snort.

Ted suggests, that in the courtroom, I ought not to try to shushing that gal and, ought, if possible, to encourage her to get wiggers during sentencing. He claims it wouldn’t be my problem if that K-club proxy gets so animated as to be charged with contempt of court. Albeit, I’d rather get her served with one of the restraining orders I already purchased, surreptitiously, from one of the judges who owes me. Ted, though, says such a strategy would bode poorly for future court appearances. I’m not sure how to weigh his counsel. He’s a Jim Jones man if ever existed, whereas I take my powder straight.

Regardless of whether that huffer babe, with whom I once shared my bed, gets slapped with a warrant or not, it looks as though I am not going to be left alone to cool. My ex’s representative, that fossil who runs hot and cold, is such a stoner that she answers none of my subpoenas. Rather, that fey gal orbits around my charges like a gravitationally opposed open cluster. If only I had had more quiet time during which to complete my doings. I would seem a nicer guy to the jury and could emerge, at least in the press, as “The Mindful Millionaire.” Instead, I stink in the yellows like a mackerel two weeks old.

When Tracy Anne and I hitched, I was a stringer for a girlie paper and a would-be novelist. A year and change later, my expose’, on New York’s supply of hot ice, won no Pulitzers, but morphed various important distributors of herbal bliss and of hearts into my best friends. Shortly, thereafter, I was asked to supervise select goings on of supply-side economics. Few citizens argued against the important results I was achieving in lowering trade barriers and in subsequently bringing large streams of the good stuff to the general population.

Tracy Anne, unfortunately, was one such rare antediluvian. Too bad it wasn’t until I met Ted, nearly half of a year later, that I began to believe that the judges’ writs, delivered on Tracy Anne’s behalf, were largely ineffective injunctions based on specious proof, which, more often than not, were backed by politicos who wanted a chunk of my wealth. I had been retired to my Florida Keys estate and was dumb about further of Gotham’s vexing legal issues.

While I shaked and backed in the South, it seems that Tracy Anne had also severed most of my cartel connections by making large contributions to government ties and suits. What money couldn’t buy, she plied with skin, sleeping with almost all of the lackeys of the most publically vitriolic antidrug officials. At the same time, her media ruses, too, blasted on full. That lady waved, on national television, the disc containing my most precious business associates’ contacts.

After that bit of drama, that she is alive is no small wonder. It was incredibly expensive to persuade Ted’s most elite goons, an entire cadre of professionals, not to silence my beloved. I paid many ounces to make those hired helpers desist. Hence, my hag thrives. Bringing sexual excitement to men three times her age, while wielding the media like a six inch pump of happy dust, makes her glisten and glow. That chick gets off again and again from popping social blisters and from watching the resulting pus of my business ooze all over YouTube.

Ted, a swordfish sailor of good record, has tried to bring about my renaissance. He avers it wasn’t the gem-studded pinky ring with which I gifted him, but the sweet reek of goofballs oozing out of my pores, which constituted his initial fiduciary attraction, I mean basis for friendship. My newfound pal hired a captain, took me aboard, and has been making my chemical world grand again ever since.

Except, of course, he’s neither lawyer nor man enough to get me through tomorrow’s hearing. Tracy Anne’s newest inclination is to fry me by broadcasting choice cuts of my fraudulent paperwork. It seems that after the IRS eyeballs failed to get their regular donation, during the time when Ted and I were at sea, they’ve been bent on doubling their take even if they have to stoop to legal means.

As for Tracy Anne, I’m convinced she wants more than jingle. Gamma G and letter biscuits no longer keep her from attempting to hit my head against any available railing or from sending her crew to open new orifices in my face.

I gave her a son, four houses, lots of sparkle and a taste for multi-stacked goods. Yet, she insists, still, on my undivided attention. Not even those burly youths, with which I tried to distract, ahem, gift her, sufficed as appeasement. Twenty-something year-olds ought to have been able to rock her in ways geezers can’t. Those lads seemed willing to make her happy in exchange for my Italian watches and leisure suits. They seemed studly. Pity that I forgot my doggie’s sentimental nature. All she yaps about is her wanting to dismiss the divorce, to hook up again, to rebuild her credit line, and to get our Ralphie released from juvie. I could spin that song if she would stop acting like such a spaced player.

Hence, impotent Ted. He means to cork that broad, on record. Ted, who can hippie flip better than the most track-marked of street people, is the only man I know willing to try to cleanly stymie my ex. For the price of a new car, a fast boat and a small, Swiss inheritance, Ted is arranging for special computer filters to be inserted into Tracy Anne’s PC. All of my sweetheart’s business correspondence will be regarded by her machine as spam. Hazardous waste cleanup will clog her.

Such machinations would be unnecessary if Tracy Anne esteemed me. I don’t expect that it’s yellow fevers or hooch or even middle aged loins that she’s after when she says she’s missing, her husband. She wants love and money and afree kid, but she mostly wants me to fess up, to give up the trade.

She’s jealous. Worse, she’s hot. An invidious fem is one thing. A woman who is possessed of libido-inspired zest is another. Ted’s warned me to look straight at the jury or only at the judge. Stupid man. Whereas he’s good with white gold, and even fabulous with the Asian boys, he knows nothing of loving Tracy Anne.

My fair one is possessed of the very real knowledge that with a blink of her eyelashes, she can reduce me to the thinnest of zigzags. Worse, she has no compunction against wooing me in front of the press, public officers, and any other parties participating in our courtroom actions. I wager that as our proceedings wind down, but before the panel jigs, she’ll have undulated her belly at me, rubbed her corpulent hand across her face, and let her blouse gap enough to reveal her abundant adipose tissue. There has yet to be manufactured any icing that can keep me from wanting to taste all of her magnificent, womanly inches.

Ted had planned to safeguard me by bringing, to court, magazines full of queen-sized women dressed in little less than teacups. Tracy Anne’s ice monster of an advocate, though, got a stricture passed requiring court monitors to search all briefcases, backpacks, and the like for fat porn. During the pretrial, guards seized and confiscated all three of my team’s caches of fleshy illustrations and related good reads. Ted rots as a mule.

If Tracy Anne had been an ugly, skinny girl, I’d be enduring no litigious losses. Yet, I attribute, in the end, my suffering to me. I choose the good life. I chose to marry one of the world’s most notorious mistresses of blubber.

I crave her bounteous body, I suspect, I’ll be paying alimony, patrimony and a monthly allowance to my Valkyrie for decades to come.

Kj Hannah Greenberg’s a verbal vagrant, who gave up a academic hoopla to chase a hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs. Some of the homes for her writing have included: AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Bards and Sages, Big Pulp, Morpheus Tales, Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Theaker’s Quarterly Fiction, and The New Absurdist.

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