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General Choade spent the afternoon trying to weaponize his wife.
“My hindquarters are politically untenable. My kill box is target rich!” He slapped his ass and waved it in her face.
“I’m sending in the hundred and first.” His wife recited her line with what seemed to be rote detachment.
“You’re developing more advanced strategic ballistic capabilities,” he started to say, removing his wife's little strap-on and fumbling with the buckle on the big black one. But he didn’t have the heart. Or the ass. It was still bleeding from Tuesday. He wanted to cry.
“Fortunately I’ve invested in Star Wars, er, uh, strategic missile defense,” he mumbled, confused.
What was he saying? Was he was going soft in his old age? The hell with it. “I was just thinking, I mean, you might find diplomacy to be a more appropriate in this particular situation.” He hung his head and slumped down on the bed. In order to prevent a preemptive strike he curled up next to her and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek.
He’d let his guard down and she knew it. He didn’t stand a chance.
Date Written: March 17, 2004
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 4.1111