Monsters are real.
They lurk amongst you, in darkness, in shadow, in the workplace. In Mexican folklore they tell tales of a
particularly slimy creature. He comes to
those who do not treat their wives with the love and respect that they
deserve. A monster that will slither his way into your home, and
enter the coital bed when you are away.
They call this menace the Sancho.
You may not believe what I'm telling you, but I know it's true, for I
was the victim of this skeezy abomination.
The Sancho came for my wife one fateful evening, and a few times
thereafter as well. The smell of
disappointment and resentment attracted
him, like chum attracts a school of ravenous sharks. Much like those sharks, Sancho made quick
work of my wife, feasting on her desperation and desires as if they were in
short supply. I was never offered the
grace of an in person revelation of this tragedy, but rather had to find out
through the world's ugly face found at the palm of my hand. Sancho won't just fuck your wife, sometimes
he will elect to penetrate your soul, your manhood, your pride. As I stared down at the glowing screen that
is the face of humanity's worst qualities I found Sancho starring right back,
his grin sadistic and full of hubris. My
wife was by his side in this awful portrait of betrayal, smiling like she
hadn't since the day she convinced herself that I was going to be the one. The beams of internet light stabbed my eyes
as I tried to process a picture I never could fathom. Rage, sadness, curiosity all flooded my
cortex. I had no idea where to
start. Do I call her? Do I fuck the next willing genitals with
legs? Do I cry, scream, laugh? How about all of it? I took the coward's way out and lubricated my
psyche with Early Times whisky and PBR.
I spent the next week trying to duct tape my pain to my guts
with euphemisms like, "Fuck her, she deserves that piece of shit."
and "I won't give those two the satisfaction of a meltdown, that's what
she'd love, to have complete control, she won't get it!". The dam I built would prove faulty, as it
leaked rage all over every one who batted an eyeball at me. I decided to "man up" and face this
monster. I was Cuck Helsing on his way to slay the creature
who had sucked my love dry of all her juices!
Sancho had been spotted hawking popcorn to movie goers at
the local Cineplex. That's where I would
make my move. I spent my short lunch
shift at Buffalo Wild Wings stewing over my plan of attack. As soon as I punched that clock I was in full
on kill-mode. I parked my shitty little
Nissan behind the theater near the exit, in the event that a hasty escape would
be needed.
I wasted no time on strategy, and burst out of my car,
darted toward the door as if Sancho's buttery salty popcorn dick would
penetrate my ass if I missed a step. My
lover's scorned fervor was quickly halted when I looked up from the glass door
and locked eyes with my prey. We stared
only for a blink, but it was enough to unleash yet another deluge of thoughts
unto my brain; "What if I kill this man?", "What if he kills
me", "Will they call the cops?", "Is my son gonna get
hurt?". I quickly scurried to the
nearest bench and sunk myself deep into its cold slats. I was only there for minutes, but it felt
like days, then from around the corner, the monster appeared in grand WWE
fashion. His strut was only missing pyro
and sweet generic metal guitar licks when he made his way over to me, balls to
face.
"You got a problem
man?".
I said nothing.
"This is my
work, you can't come up in here looking to start shit!"
I didn't look at him,
but mustered the strength to ask,
"Were you
fucking my wife while we were still together?"
Sancho's bravado dulled a bit, and with a slight twinge of
sympathy he said no. It was almost, for
a brief second, a glimmer of humanity and remorse. Then I gave him what could be best described as
a timid push, my hands more sinking into, rather than shoving his supple
breasts. "Don't do that bro!"
Sancho pointed his little sausage of a finger that I assumed smelled of the
vaginal fluids of other wives he had collected.
"Fuck you, you wife fucking pussy! Do somthing!",
and as I let these
foolish words slip from my mouth I raised my arms into the air like a stumpy
Jesus welcoming sacrifice. I was a
beautiful target.
Sancho's first offering struck true, and landed right in my
dumb face. I staggered back clumsily, stunned just long enough for him to pull
my silly chicken boy uniform over my head.
Sancho let it rain bones. I was
able to slip away, and Sancho relented his attack. I spit some blood out, along with what I
think were a few popcorn kernels.
We both didn't know what to do next. Sobriety was setting in fast and we both kind
of panicked. He started toward the
entrance of the theater, but before he got to the door I said, "Just take
care of her dude." Sancho paused,
looked at me and replied, "Pay your own child support bitch." Then slinked off into the buttery abyss.
