Not everyone could boast having a crazy wife.
Not that I’m saying your wife isn’t, mind you.
She probably is.
You know how wives can be.
But my missus, she was honest to God full-blown bonkers.
Flying frogs dripping golden ichor while singing lamentations.
The whole she-bang.
She definitely fit the bill.
The poster girl for Sunnyvale Sanitarium.
And that was just on her good days!
And I loved her.
Doctors called it schizophrenia.
Her condition, not me loving her.
I called it an interesting distraction.
Again, her condition, not me loving her.
There was an upside to the whole off her rocker affair.
There always is.
She could never get enough of it.
Everyone should know what I am talking about when I say “it.”
Boy, after a long, hard day at work it’s a long, hard night in the sack.
She was quite imaginative.
I reckon being crazy had something to do with it.
It helped to be a good sport.
That was the third bed in six months.
It also helped to have a fat paycheck at the end of each month.
But I drew the line at fire throwing in bed.
She called that particular position Great Balls of Fire.
I didn’t want to make it literal.
She was a beast between the sheets.
And outside the sheets.
In the kitchen.
In the fireplace (don’t ask).
On the roof (I told you she was imaginative).
In the– well, you get the idea.
The contortions of her face would have put Linda Blair to shame.
Hell, if a priest ever performed a coitus interruptus, well, hello thar, exorcism!
I reckon an exorcism would probably have helped.
After all she was schizophrenic.
Isn’t that just another word for being beset with demons?
A vastly underrated writer of noir stories, Ross H Spencer is at once clever and hilarious. This bit I did is in the style of his Chance Purdue stories, which are funny as hell, as well as being one of the most convoluted you'd find in the genre. I keep trying to recommend him to anyone who will listen, but...
If you are a fan of gumshoe literature, you cannot miss out on Ross H Spencer.