“Hey, great dinner, sexy,” your husband tells you, doing all he can to stifle the urge to open your throat with his butter knife. He heard a husband call a wife sexy on a radio commercial.
“Thank you, light of my life,” you tell him. You saw a wife say that to her husband on TV today.
Neither of you knows how normal people talk, so you both imitate what people say in popular media.You two are like Mr. and Mrs. Smith except instead of both of you being master assassins unbeknownst to each other, you’re both ingenious serial killers, each of you using the other as your cover story while you run off a couple nights a week to murder. You both assume the other to be a normal, a non-killer, just a victim-in-waiting.
You like to use piano wire. Your husband likes knives.
“I’m off to meet the guys, syrup,” your husband says as he goes out to kill. He’ll regret calling you syrup when he remembers it’s supposed to be “honey,” but you don’t notice.
“Have fun, you,” you say to him. You aren’t sure if you’re going to kill tonight. You have to stare out the porch window for a few hours before you get word that there’s someone out there who needs to die.
Bored, not feeling the murder tonight, you’ll go into the basement to sort through some old boxes and you’ll find the secret room containing a freezer full of body parts from your husband’s kills. It’s an even nicer freezer than yours in the secret bunker under the shed. You’ll be trying to piece the body parts back together into a single body, just for fun, when you’ll hear footsteps upstairs.
When you return to the living room your husband will be holding your bloody piano wire in his hands.
“I was just looking for one of my knives in the shed when I felt the floor under me sink a little,” he says. “So…birds of a feather, eh?”
Happy Married Serial Killers Day!
