Verses By Beordoon

Musings of a Maskuraid…

CHECKMATE! – 2

checkmate 2

I wanted revenge badly, but nothing beats serving it cold and totally unexpected. Getting even needed a good plan, so I gave the bastard a while to cool off while I opened another account and built up a new profile with pictures from a hot US-based friend of mine who wasn’t into the whole social media scene. I waited all of six months in the shadows, before I went fishing for his attention.

Ever the narcissist, he took the bait without much ado.

Knowing his modus operandi gave me an undue advantage. I knew when to lead him on and when to back off, when to suck up to him and when to push him away. At every turn when I acted as he wanted (but didn’t expect) he would marvel and tell me he had never met a female like me who totally suited him down to the ground. I played the part of a fun-loving girl looking to ball without any emotional commitments like I wanted an Oscar for it. There were to be no phone calls, I claimed it was a precaution to prevent any unnecessary catching of feelings. Three months was all it took for him to be convinced I was there for the taking.


I ask what he’ll like to do to me given an open cheque. He is reticent at first, so I switch avatar to something very sexy and other guys immediately start queuing up. Jealousy gets him talking.

I tell him talking smut with him turns me on so much that I am willing to be his mule anytime he chooses to ride. He laps it up like a thirsty dog drinking cool water, and suggests a clandestine meet in a park n’ nack, but I decline. I tell him I want to get hot and dirty for him, hotter and dirtier than what a roadside hotel can safely handle.  Only his place will do, except he is married and is just being a sly demon, like many of his kinsmen. That stings, as I intend it to, and he finally gives me his home address. We agree to meet for Friday night.

I’m sitting across the street in my car, looking at him through the open window of his house as he goes about a last-minute rearrangement of his bedroom in preparation for my visit. He lives alone in a small bungalow in a relatively quiet area of town, which is just excellent for my purpose. Reconnaissance from the day before means I have information on the general layout of the place and movement in the area. The night is moonless and most of the street is hidden in darkness, although his abode has power. My ears pick up the steady thrum of an unseen generator.

Tonight is going to be a party, and I have a couple of my friends with me to share in the fun.

It is 9 o’clock. I send him a message to let him know I’m waiting for my cab and should leave my place in fifteen minutes max, to get to his within the hour.

Finally he is done, and he comes back to the window and draws the curtains shut, then goes out of the room into another part of the house, switching off the lights after him. A brief flash indicate the door opening and closing behind his exit. That’s my cue, and I get out of the car and across the empty street as quickly as the medium-sized plastic case I’m lugging allows. There is no fence, and in a matter of moments I stand directly outside his casement window, without burglar proofing. Fate is definitely in my corner tonight.

The smell of lavender wafts out of the room’s cool darkness.

A quick slash with my pen knife rips through the feeble resistance of mosquito netting. When the hole is wide enough, I carefully and very gently push the case through; having unsnapped the lid – only a slight tip should be enough to fling it open. Then I let it drop behind the curtain and immediately withdraw my thickly gloved hands. A thud tells me the plastic made good contact with the floor, and I’m grateful for the masking noise of the generator. The curtains effectively cover the tear from view.

Quickly looking around to be sure nobody is watching, I scurry back across the street and resume waiting in the car.

An hour goes by, and then another. In that time I get twenty-one messages from him, the first set  asking where I am and then what the hell I’m playing at. On the dot of 11 p.m., I send another message informing him of my change of heart. He loses his head and sends me a nasty message calling me a whore, cock tease and many other unprintable names. I smile as I reply him with a wildly laughing smiley; ‘LOL’ and ‘GOTCHA’, then calmly resume watching his window.

Ten minutes after that the bedroom door opens and closes again. He doesn’t switch on the lights and I imagine him jumping into bed in anger and frustration, probably with blue balls, cursing me and my entire generation for wasting his time. With that image in my head and a sigh of contentment I start the car and head for home, knowing it’s just a matter of time before my cold and hungry girls get attracted to his body heat.


Back at the venom research station on Monday, I report that two of the female black mambas had inexplicably bitten each other to death over the weekend and their bodies had been disposed of according to standard operating procedure. My line supervisor immediately sends an email to the supplier in Johannesburg.

As for my friend, as expected he never shows up online again. I guess someone finally learned the most important lesson in a man’s life.

Hell hath no fury…

 

 

None found.

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6 Comments

  1. Amity

    I love this story.
    Her revenge was agreeing with me until she introduced the mamba. I do not think death was a good ending for the guy though. There are better ways to deal with him than death.

    Well done mon ami.

    Keep the stories coming.

  2. Beordoon

    LOl. Thanks Am. She sorta went overboard. Musta been hurt real bad.

  3. Beordoon

    Definitely.

  4. Dolapo Omowunmi

    That was way too much..deadly revenge perhaps?

  5. Seyifunmi

    Yes!! !!!!!!! Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

  6. Beordoon

    Thank you Seyi, for visiting. Spread the message, and keep coming back.

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