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Working Overtime

by Jon Bishop

My wife Stacey stepped in through the front door. She was wearing a black leather overcoat draped over her white “I Love New York” t-shirt and her faded blue Levi’s jeans. She smiled as soon as she saw me happily waiting for her in the living room. She looked worn out.

“Hi, honey, how was work today?” I asked. We both headed departments of human services at different companies. Stacey worked at the local Wal-Mart.

She sighed: “Same as usual, dear. But today was extra tiring.”

I tried to sound reassuring: “How so? It couldn’t have been much worse than usual, could it?”

I had meant to console her, but it obviously didn’t work. Her mouth dropped open slightly and the rest of her face sagged. She looked about fifty years old, even though she was 28.

“Oh it was bad,” she said. “I had to fire, like, forty people today. And not all of them would go peacefully. Some put up a big fight. I had to call for help to put ’em in their place.” She flashed me a smile that said ‘I told you so’.

“Wow, that is bad. I don’t think I’ve had a day like that in at least four, maybe five years.” I walked over to her, put my arms around her, and we hugged for a bit.

I pushed her long brown hair out of her face and said, “Look, I know work has been tough for both of us the past few weeks, but I think you’ve had it worst. I want to make it up to you. Whatta you say we get our coats on and go down to Pargoli’s for dinner.”

She beamed at me and kissed me on the cheek. “I’d love that. Let me freshen up.” She strolled happily down the hall to our bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

I was ready to go. I went over to the sofa and sat down to watch some TV. After a few minutes of channel surfing I suddenly heard a loud bang. I shot out of my seat and bolted over to the living room window. There was nothing.

Stacey came running down the hall, her expression worried. “What the hell was that?”

I just shook my head and shrugged.

“Well, I’ll be back in the bedroom getting ready. Let me know if something’s the matter.”

I nodded and she left.

I was just about to go back to the couch when a vampire pressed his pure white, snakelike, hideous face against the window. He was talking. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I knew from years of experience that it was “Let me in!”

I called to Stacey. “Honey, you might want to get down here. It looks like we’re gonna be working overtime.”

She ran down the hall as quickly as she could, looking exasperated. “Oh no. Not another one.”

“Don’t worry, it’s only one. Looks like dinner’s still on for tonight.”

I got our weapons from the study, and we clutched them with anticipation. This would be our first kill together in a while. I put my arm comfortingly around Stacey and we sauntered over to the front door. As we opened it, I repeated our standing joke: “Let’s fire this bastard.”

Stacey smiled and we plunged out the door, our flamethrowers high, ready for action.

Copyright © 2006 by Jon Bishop

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