Here we are again folks. Week without a Wife is actually going to be longer than a week. But hey, if I have to be without longer, so do you. I know I promised variety, but the idea of picking up each day and seeing where this goes is too enticing right now. If you’re not liking it, or think it sucks, comment and tell me why!

Grey rose slowly to his feet and looked around. It seemed as if none of the other officers were around to witness his murder of this man. Except this one, who seemed all too eager to turn him into either a prisoner or a corpse, judging from his expression.

“Hey there, Officer….”

“It’s Sergeant to you, scumbag. Sergeant Duvic.”  He motioned with the pistol towards the pile of skin that used to be Grey’s visitor. “Care to explain how you did that?”

“I have no idea, Officer. I swear, I didn’t mean to kill him,” The officer looked at Grey’s gore encrusted fist, still dripping with bits and pieces of human.

“We get that a lot, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t exactly believe you.” He waved the gun at Grey.

“You seem smart, you’ve seen cop shows. You know the drill.” Grey did, and dropped to his knees, and laced his hands behind his head. He wondered how he was going to explain this to Frida. Maybe she was right to leave, if he was headed for prison. Jesus, how was he going to explain this to his son? Yelling at him about making his bed was going to have a lot less effect now.

The sun was breaking through the clouds now, hitting Grey right in the eyes. He was about to ask the cop if he could move a little. As he squinted, he swore he saw steam coming off the snow in front of him. Sun must be really heating shit up.

“SON OF A BITCH!”

The words snapped him to attention. He looked down at his hands, which were now steaming, if you could call it that. The blood and gore were somehow melting. The stuff was running in rivulets down his upraised hands, turning white as it went. It began dripping in front of him. Grey tried picking up a piece. It felt like some cold version of phlegm, like an ice cold loogie. As he held it up in front of him it began to fade in the sunlight. As he stood, the blood, viscera and skin of his visitor began to melt and then fade away.

Son of a bitch, indeed.