Belle Eva Unger

 
 

first quarter of October

In this game of life, I can count on two fingers the times I've allowed my red horse to run over my black. The first time it cost me a goodly number of years confined inside the state pen. This time, hopefully in time, my black horse awoke and properly kicked red in the head. Balanced my brain so I could accurately recognize the realities of Mike "Mayhem" Mayhew.

Yes, Mike's nickname is apt. After two days of freedom, after two days of wallowing in our motel room's double (not his accustomed-to single) bed surrounded by four walls painted puce (not his accustomed-to white, and perhaps the tackiest color ever to tacky up a motel room), after multiple attempts to pleasure me with a little man which in no way, shape or form came anywhere near to what, based upon the size of the ring he presented me, could in its wildest dreams approach such a diameter (and don't even ask me about its length or ability to find my hot spot on a consistent basis), Mike's frustration, coupled with his rapidly-fading-in-strength, anti-psycho medication, caused him to lash out against the unfamiliarities of his environment.

When he attacked the pillows by tearing their covers and flinging their stuffing about the room, my initial amusement quickly turned to counting the pennies required to replace damaged goods. More pennies when he ripped apart sheets and coverings with his threateningly-powerful arms and hands. When those same hands damaged themselves by pretending to be battering rams, making into fists and plowing into putrid pink walls, I recognized that, even though my unchecked emotions had brought me to foolishly bring Mayhem Mike out into the world of normal people, my black horse had secretly prepared me for such an event.

Sometime during the dithering whirlwind of my packing and plotting for the abduction of my groom to be, I had placed in my purse a pair of Keen Kutter scissors. Heavy metal, about nine inches long, the very kind I used the first time my red horse took me down a bad road. I don't know why I brought them. Had no plans for serious snipping of twine or thread, but when Mike's boiling brain told his bloody fists that walls would no longer do, and that pummeling my enchanting cheeks might make for a much more entertaining exercise, your normally-lovable Belle Eva morphed into bad bitch Evangaline and whacked that maniacal son of a sadist right where the scars from his shock therapy blemish his forehead.

Used the scissors' handles this time, I did, rather than the points driven through an eye and into the brain. That's because I loved this man. Still do, but can't have him. He's broken and I don't know how to fix him. My delusion on that front has been diluted and dissolved.

Mike stopped in his tracks, blood trickling down his forehead, nose, mouth, chin, as he listened to my calming voice.

"Mike, darling, would you like to go home?"

He nodded yes. Quietly sat on the floor, staring at his reddened hands while I telephoned the office of Sheriff Ruff Rausch. Mike never moved until authorities arrived, ambulance and straight jacket included.

So, he's back at the Wheeler home and I am in the Crocker County jailhouse. My fate rests with judge Wally "Walter" Cronkletonkite. He is a good man, a just justice who as you know has justly and recently ruled in the case of Ethyl Veral versus just about everybody in Meddletonville.

I want to thank Jack McCutcheon (my second nephew, if there is such a thing... oh, hell we're blood related somehow, I can't remember how) for allowing me to post my protestations and pontifications on his web site. He assures me that I can use his space any time I want, provided I don't try to upload any three-hour movies or some other mega-MB content. I won't do that, but accessing a device to do the trick might be tricky for awhile, plus, I need my god damned camera!

Allay your fears and dry your tears, my sentimental sappingtons, and I will keep you up to date on my whatevers whenever I can. Until then, this is Belle Eva Unger staring at cold, gray (still prettier than puce) steel. xoxo

 

 

second quarter of October

In the case of Judge Cronkletonkite figuring out what to do with yours truly, Evangaline "Belle Eva" Unger, I pulled a few strings over at the newspaper office so you could get a glimpse of the man whose caressing (lordy, would that ever feel nice) hands will decide my fate. The Sentinel interviewed him a while back and had this pic in their archives.

 

photo courtesy of The Meddletonville Weekly Sentinel

 

Regarding me, the judge entertained my request that my hearing date of November 3rd be moved up. My reason being that I can think of no punishment more cruel or unusual than for me to be in my cell on Halloween, which as you might recall is also the date Mike and I were to have been wedded had we been allowed to have been wedded. Now we can't ever again be bedded. I will never know if, had his medication completely worn off, his peter would have functioned like a norm, even while his mind journeyed further away from.

This question will remain unanswered, but Judge Wally Cronkletonkite gave me his. Yes. He and I have a date for October 19th, and based on what I see in the picture -- a face exuding stern-ness, compassion, smartness both street and learned, and (maybe it's just me) a smidge of sadness -- I think I can play him like a fiddle... if I could only rip off his robe and find his bow! Ooh, using Jack's web site is fun. I can talk whatever grade of X suits my fancy. Will I ever go triple?!

Bye, and xoxo, for now.

 

 

third quarter of October

Do you like my new anklet?

 

 

It says Expect Miracles. It is not enough to believe in them, but to believe that if you believe you should also expect.

On the Crocker County versus Belle Eva front, I got about what I expected and then some. My justly justice, Judge Cronkletonkite, was justly thorough in the questions he asked, justly attentive in listening to my explanations, justly contemplative in considering my fate, and justly swift in dropping his bomb. Twelve months.

Does that sound harsh? Well, fear not, my frazzled non-felons, for things are not as bad as they seem.

After the gavel came down, my guard led me out of the courtroom and into a fitting room of sorts, where I was given a piece of jewelry of sorts -- a tracker device in the form of an anklet.

Do you recognize it? Correct, it is the very same. After my fitting, my belongings were brought to me and I was allowed to shed my yellow jump suit so I could dress in my clothing while a FEMALE (damn it) guard watched, and then I was ready for one last stop.

The office of the judge. Just him and me behind closed chambers, and apparently, my case was the final on the docket, for clearly, Wally's cocktail hour had begun.

 

Little could I expect that he did all the talking. Nor could I guess that he would bare himself, his flesh and soul, to me, while lamenting of his loneliness ever since the departure of his wife.

 

Thank God he did not go into details as to why she left him (miracle number one), but instead got directly to the point. By sentencing me to twelve months under house arrest, he meant for the house to be his house. He wanted me. He wanted me to live with him. No tracking device necessary. Marry him or be his singularly single lover, whichever I preferred.

And then, without warning, he stopped talking. Sat staring at me, his eyes glazed as though he were about to pass out, as he waited for my answer.

 

Did I have a choice? After all, he sentenced me in a court of law, but, the anklet he gave me has no tracking abilities. All it can do is remind me that miracles are to be expected.

Miracle upon miracles. Just as I predicted, I played him like a fiddle. Sure, he's the one who stripped away his robe, but I'm the one who stepped around his desk and sat on his lap. Wiggled my fanny on his very hard and miraculously beautiful bow.

Such a slut I am! Not even a month since I whacked my I-thought-he-was-right-for-me-but-brother-was-I-wrong husband-to-be on his forehead with my scissors, and here I am engaged to what can only be described as my big-bowed miracle, Judge Wally "Walter" Cronkletonkite. There will be a Halloween wedding after all, and then there will be a brief honeymoon, and then there will be a new writing assignment for yours truly.

 

Isn't this just the most startlingly stunningly miraculous chain of events, dear ones? I will undoubtedly do some tinkering with my masthead, in between tinkering with another head, which is long overdue for some tinkering, and which will assuredly receive my undivided attention for (hopefully) many years to come, but I'm quite sure that with my unwaxed ears and unblinking eyes constantly in the courtroom preparing for publication anything I hear and see, the crime rate in Crocker County should drop as dramatically as my panties on wedding night.

So, I suppose this will be my last posting for this month, unless something comes up that I simply must share with y'all. Until then, ta y'all.

 

 

 

 

 

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