Husband’s Shocking Revenge On Cheating Wife After Learning The Truth!

the living room of the Rockwell residence. The stage is set, the overture is over, and the curtains have opened. It’s not like it looks. Somehow, I expected something a little more eloquent from a woman who teaches creative writing at the local community college. The room was dark, very dark, and I could barely make out Sally sitting on my favorite recliner.

Her legs were pulled up and a blanket wrapped around her. When I got closer, I could see her hair was wild, her makeup ruined, and she stunk from vomit. Let me tell you how it looks, then you can correct any inaccuracies. My wife started to protest, but I barked. Shut your mouth. I’ll tell you when you can talk.

I stood over her and began to speak. It looks like I was walking through customs with my crew when two men in suits flashed badges and told me to come with them. They identified themselves as Chicago Police Department detectives and escorted me into one of the Immigration and Naturalization Services interrogation rooms.

The older one followed me inside and closed the door. The room was bare with the exception of a single chair. He said, “Take a seat.” Then asked, “Where were you at 12:00 noon today?” Through a gap in the curtains, I could see the younger agent interviewing my crew. I looked at him like he was an idiot. You do realize I’m an airplane captain and just landed from Frankfurt.

That’s in Germany, not the suburb out of Joliet. Since I’ve flown through half a dozen time zones today, I’ll assume you mean Chicago time. In that case, I was piloting a Boeing 747200 at 35,000 ft over the Atlantic Ocean. We were cruising at Mach 0.84. Here’s my log book if you want to verify that.

I opened my case and offered it to him. He didn’t look, so I continued. I had a crew of 14 as well as 416 passengers who can vouch for me. Now, what exactly is this all about? The younger agent walked in and announced. They all agree he was flying the airplane. It was amazing how quickly their attitudes changed when they realized how foolish they looked.

Well, Captain, I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, but we are following up on a murder. Murder? No one died on my plane, I protested. No, sir. Earlier today, back here in Chicago. Since I’ve been in Europe for the last couple of days, I think I have a pretty good alibi. Yes, sir, he answered. Then, who said I killed someone? I asked.

Your wife did, sir. What? I screamed. My reaction was genuine as Angelo’s friend was only supposed to beat the crap out of the bastard, break his nose, his jaw, too, not kill him. What? My wife said what? Who did my wife say I killed? Wait a minute. This is a joke, right? This is no joke. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she said you murdered her paramore.

I jumped out of the chair and got in his face. Paramore? You mean like a lover? He didn’t back up an inch. Yes, sir. This isn’t funny. My wife is faithful. She would never cheat on me. You’ve got the wrong man. I was rambling a 100 m an hour. That’s it. You must have me confused with someone else. I’m sorry, Captain, but your wife said she was certain you did it.

She said you beat him to death in your driveway with a baseball bat. How? I was on an airplane. She knew that. She knew I was in Germany. Explain that to me. I’m sorry, but she said she thought you traded your trip when you found out she was having an affair. Stop saying that, I screamed. My wife is not having an affair.

She would never betray our wedding vows. The detective stared at me with blank looks. I guess they had seen too much death to show compassion. I dropped back into the chair and started sobbing. For what it’s worth, it looks like your wife got played by a lothario. The bastard prayed on women whose husbands spent a lot of time out of town.

It’s probably no consolation, but we’ve got three other humiliated husbands to interview. Hearing it said out loud in a cold, unemotional voice made my heart feel like it was being ripped from my chest. I doubled over in agony. One of the detectives placed his hand on my back and asked, “Captain, is there anyone I call for you?” “I want to talk to my cheating wife.

” I pounded my fists in the air. “I don’t think that’s too good of an idea until you cool down,” he replied. The older detective whispered something into his partner’s ear and then stepped out of the room. “When he returned, he apologized and said they had to get going.” Wait, before you leave, who was he? I asked.

The older detective took out a well-worn notebook from his jacket pocket and thumbmed through it. One Michael Wakeakeman, 30 years of age. He was the same age as our son. If I can ask one more question. Did he die fast or did he suffer? A sadistic smile swept across his face. His asalent lured him outside by starting his brand new Corvette convertible on fire.

Wakeakeman ran out your side door in his skiibbies. The first swing of the baseball bat caught him across the chest. The me said it broke several ribs. The next broke his back. The asalent then rolled him over and kicked him several times in the groin. Just before the car exploded, he delivered the fatal blow to his skull.

The paramedic said he was still moaning and spewing blood out his ears and mouth when they got there. He lingered a couple of minutes before his heart gave out. So yeah, he didn’t die peacefully at all. I tried not to make my smile too obvious. I should probably warn you that your wife might not be there when you get home.

It was damaged when Wakeman’s car exploded. All the windows on that side blew out and there was some fire damage. Part of me wanted to scream for joy. Instead, I buried my face in my hands and started wailing. The reality hit me and I stayed in that room unable to move until someone from INS knocked on the door and said they needed the room.

Somehow I managed to find my car and drive home or what’s left of it. So now you tell me what’s not like it looks. One month earlier, a quiet suburb just west of Chicago. In the late 1960s, there was a TV show named Bewitched. One of its quirky characters was Glattis Kravitz, a neighborhood busybody who was frequently shown peeking through the curtains at the Stevens home.

In my neighborhood, the role of Glattis is played by Angelo Diaino, an elderly widow who lives directly across the street from my house. Since Marie, his wife of 52 years, died last autumn, Angelo spends his time keeping track of comingings and goings. On nice days, he sits on his front porch shouting hellos to passers by.

When the weather is bad, he sits in his bay window and waves. Today was July 15th, and the weather was perfect. Angelo kept watch, wearing an old luau shirt, black shorts, and black knee high socks. Most people, my wife especially, avoided him like the plague because he would talk your ear off. Since I was gone for extended trips several times a month, I appreciated Angelo keeping an eye on my house.

He was always waiting for me to return home and filled me in on the local gossip. I would usually give him an inexpensive present from my trip. German chocolates and coffee being very wellreceived. He stood up as I pulled into my driveway and waved for me to come over. He looked eager to share some bit of gossip, so I left my bags in the trunk and crossed the street.

“That friend of yours sure has a beautiful Corvette.” “Friend? What friend?” I asked. “The one who parked in your driveway yesterday? I would have thought Sally would have told you because she invited him in. He showed up at 12 sharp and stayed for exactly 3 hours.” What did this friend look like? I asked. Good-looking playboy type with fancy mirrored sunglasses, nicely dressed, khaki pants and a polo shirt.

I tried to think who it could be. My guess was one of the other pilots bought a substitute guy and wanted to make me jealous. I was a Porsche fan and had argued the merits of the two sports cars many times and was sure another pilot wanted to take me for a ride. But who? And why would he have stayed so long? And why hadn’t Sally mentioned anything about it when we talked? I guessed the mystery driver wanted to surprise me with his fiberglass toy, and he asked her not to say anything.

I was in our bedroom unpacking my bags when Sally got home from shopping. She bounded up the stairs and threw her arms around me, almost knocking me off my feet. How’s my lover, boy? To say this was a much warmer greeting than I typically received was putting it mildly. We were soon in the throws of passion and all thoughts of mystery cars were forgotten.

The rest of the week was like being newly weds. Sally was the perfect wife and lover. When we went out to dinner, she wore one of the outfits I bought, which she had labeled inappropriate for a 48-year-old woman. She even wore nylons and garters. I discovered what she hadn’t worn when she got out of the car.

When I left for work the following Wednesday, my love drive was fully sated. She even slipped a romantic note into my suitcase. I was the happiest guy in the friendly skies on that trip. I couldn’t wait to get home. Unfortunately, Angelo dropped a bombshell on me. That friend of yours with the Corvette came by again yesterday.

I pressed him for more details. He’s a younger guy. He laughed and said, “Well, everyone is younger than me. I guess he would be 30, maybe 35. Looks to be in good shape, too. Real punctual. Got here at high noon and stayed until 3. Who the hell was this mystery visitor?” I thought once again, Sally got home while I was unpacking.

I walked down the stairs and was rewarded with a bear hug and Sally’s lips. When I broke the embrace to catch a breath, Sally announced she was going to make me a culinary masterpiece from a recipe she found in a magazine. She had bought a couple of expensive steaks and was going to feed me like a real man. I have to run to the grocery to buy one last ingredient, but you take it easy while I do the cooking, she purred as she handed me a beer.

Red lights were flashing and alarms screaming in my head. In 30 years of marriage, my wife had never brought me a beer and told me to relax when I got home from a trip. She always had a honeydew list to hand me before I even took my uniform off. That little voice in my head said she was feeling guilty and trying to make herself feel better.

I decided to do a little snooping to see if I could find anything a miss. As soon as her car pulled out of the driveway, I hustled outside and began rumaging through the garbage cans to see if I could find anything. I didn’t know what exactly I was looking for. Maybe empty condom wrappers. They were filled with nothing but common everyday garbage.

I went back to our room and began carefully looking through her lingerie drawers. Sally had never given me even the slightest reason to doubt her fidelity, so I felt guilty snooping through her undergarments. Nothing. I checked the nightstand. Just the same crap that’s been in there for years. Next, I opened the hamper in Sally’s bathroom. It was empty.

Then, I noticed the bed linens were freshly laundered. I found this odd since they had been changed the morning I left. But I would need a lot more than clean sheets to confront her. I spent a few minutes looking through all of her shoe boxes. Damn, that woman has a lot of shoes, also without success. I looked through her closet, but didn’t notice anything new. Everything looked normal.

I had to cut my investigation short when I heard the door open. “Where’s my jet driver?” she called out. I decided to wait until morning to see if Sally mentioned her mysterious visitor. After all, I knew there had to be a simple explanation. I was glad I waited because she was a vixen in bed that night.

Over breakfast, I tried to give her several openings without being too obvious, but she never said boo. I got a really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. After lunch, Sally said she had to run to the store to pick up some things for dinner. I declined her invitation to join her because I needed some time at home alone.

The moment she left, I resumed my search for clues, beginning in the laundry room. There were two baskets. One was filled with Sally’s clothes. The other had our bed linens. That was two weeks in a row. Any potential evidence had been laundered away. I had to figure out a way to disable the washing machine to keep that from happening a third time. I decided to become proactive.

Ever since the airline began frying to Paris, Sally had been after me to take her there. Since it was a new destination, I didn’t have the seniority to hold Paris in my line, but I was able to trade for a friend’s trip the following week. When I told Angelo I would be flying to Paris the following week, his eyes lit up and he told me stories about liberating the city of lights.

I learned his one weakness was chatau de Monty fo cognac, a craving he developed when he was stationed in France during World War II. Unfortunately, the pensioner’s social security checks would only allow a domestic variety from the local big box liquor store. That night during dinner, I sprung my surprise. I told Patty I traded my next Frankfort flight for Paris and invited her to come with me.

I promised her a day of shopping on the Sha, then dinner at the Jeul Vern, the restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower, followed by a romantic moonlight cruise along the San River. Sally turned me down flat. When I asked her why she didn’t want to go, she hemmed and hawed something vague about being too busy to get away.

I begged her to rearrange her schedule and asked, “What could possibly be so important it can’t wait again?” She gave me the bum rush and said, “Maybe we could do it some other time.” Things were not looking good for our marriage. For the rest of the week, I was more of a zombie than a man. I couldn’t look at Sally without bile running into my mouth.

At night, I refused her advances. She kept asking what was wrong. I never answered. The morning of my trip, I made one more attempt to talk Sally into a romantic 36 hours in Paris. I placed my hands on her shoulders, looked her square in the eyes, and begged, “Please pick me.” Once again, she said no.

I almost told her of my suspicions, but knew I couldn’t prove them. So, I held my tongue. The last thing I did before I left was to slice the cold water hose for the washing machine. Not a big cut, but enough to discourage Sally from doing laundry. It began spraying water all over the wall. The laundry room floor was pitched toward the drain, and when it got a couple of inches deep, the water ran down it.

I closed the door and was pleased to see it was not seeping under the wall. Sally would have to go into the laundry room to put on a load to discover the flood. I was lost in thought on my drive to the airport and a little worried about being able to concentrate enough to fly the plane. Hundreds of people were placing their lives in my hands and did my best to repress everything except doing my job.

My co-pilot recognized something was a miss after we went wheels up and offered to take the controls. I said I must be coming down with something and took an early break. The crew has a rest area in the back of the 47’s distinctive bubble and I spent the next hour tearing my soul aunder. When we landed, I apologized for being sick and said I would spend my entire layover in bed.

Angelo said the visitor arrived at 12 sharp. I took a calculated risk. He had a reason for keeping that schedule and called home at exactly 122, hoping against hope Sally would answer or at least listen to my message as it was being recorded. It was picked up by the answering machine on the second ring. You have reached the Rockwell residence.

Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. I began, “Sally, my beloved, I’m in the most romantic city in the world, but without you, I may as well be in.” I never got to complete the sentence as the recorder clicked me off. I dialed zero for an outside line, then the country code, followed by my area code and home phone number.

The phone kept ringing, which meant someone had turned the machine off. I could only hope that hearing my voice put the damper on their trrist. True to my word, I never left the room for my entire layover. By the time I was sitting in the cockpit, I had reconciled myself to the death of my marriage.

For a change, Sally was home when I got back from my trip, except she looked like a drowned rat. Without even saying hello, she proceeded to tell me at great volume how the basement was flooded and everything downstairs was ruined. She got very upset when I told her I would look at the basement after I changed out of my uniform.

I have to admit, I was curious why the water didn’t go down the drain. I put on a pair of cut offs and a t-shirt, then went out to the garage to get my boots. The first thing I noticed was a laundry basket on top of the table. I could see our sheets along with a pair of Sally’s undergarments on top. I discreetly slipped them in my pocket.

Water was gushing out of the copper plumbing fitting. So, I asked Sally why she removed the hose instead of turning off the valve. Her response was not very nice. I located the drain and pulled out some rags that were blocking it. A whirlpool soon formed in the water. I sighed as I watched the water level go down.

I told Sally to go upstairs and make a pot of coffee. I used that time to examine the gusset of the undergarments I had retrieved. They were caked with dried. I damn near pounded a hole in the wall, but kept my cool long enough to examine the sheets. There was a big stain right dead center. I moved the basket to where it couldn’t easily be seen and began to run the inevitable confrontation through my mind while I sorted through waterlogged things.

I got out a large plastic garbage bag and began stuffing things in. 10 minutes later, I was hauling bags of junk out to the curb when Angelo called me over. Let’s go inside. We need to talk. This was the first time I had ever been invited into his house. He bade me to take a seat. Captain. Angelo always called me Captain.

I have known you since the day you were born. Your parents were closer to me than most of my family. He held his hands in a tight embrace. I don’t know any easy way to tell you this, but your bride has been unfaithful. When the man with the red Corvette came by yesterday, I snuck across the street and peeped through your living room window.

I am sorry to tell you, but they were kissing as they undressed each other. I watched until they ran upstairs. My worst fears had been confirmed. It pains me deeply to see how she has disrespected you. My friend, I will try to put this as delicately as possible. A betrayal such as this cannot go unpunished. I have, shall we say, connections to a group of individuals who operate outside of the law.

Several of these individuals owe me favors from when we were in business together many years ago. My friend, all you need to do is say the word, and this son of a blip will never bother your bride again. I swear on my grandchildren’s eyes, not one finger will be laid on her, but she will learn her lesson.

I remembered mumbling something like, “Thank you, but I’m afraid it’s too late.” Angelo took my hands in his and said, “But it’s not too late to keep her from hurting you again.” I turned and nodded my head. Do it. We spent a few minutes discussing my schedule so I would not be anywhere nearby when justice was served. I was in a daysaze as I walked back to my house.

Later that evening, I remembered the fabled bottle of Conac was still in my car. I was still pretty rattled about our earlier conversation and had been debating non-stop whether he was serious. I left the box on Angelo’s stoop, rang his doorbell, then hustled back to my house so I wouldn’t have to talk to him again.

Jumping to the present, it was dark out when I rounded the last curve before my house. Traffic was stopped by a police car blocking the road. The officer walked over and said, “Sorry, sir, but only residents are being allowed in.” I pulled out my wallet and handed the officer my driver’s license.

He looked at the address, then the name. His face changed to an awkward, embarrassed look. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rockwell.” I could see people standing on their front lawns, pointing at me as I drove by. A few waved. There were a couple of large trucks from TV stations parked on the street and the remains of a burned out Corvette in my driveway, so I had to park a couple of doors away.

As I got closer, one of the reporters spotted my uniform, and I was soon the center of attention with a dozen questions shouted at the same time. The loudest kept screaming, “Did you kill him?” I held up my hand and began to speak. Flashbulbs blinded me for a moment. Earlier today, I was informed by the Chicago Police Department that my wife of 30 years was having an affair and her lover had been murdered in my driveway.

This took place while I was flying an airplane over the Atlantic Ocean. So, no, I did not kill him, but I would like to thank whoever rid society of that piece of human garbage. I had been rehearsing that line all the way home and was hoping I would get a chance to use it. A police officer shouted, “Let him through.” I thanked him and walked through the pack, pausing for a minute to survey the damage.

I thought it made a good photo opportunity. All of the windows were boarded up and my garage was a burned out shell. Thankfully, the solid brick walls kept the fire from spreading to the interior of the house. I opened the door and stepped inside. So, now you tell me what’s not like it looks. Sally wiped her face with her sleeve. she looked like garbage.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she muttered. “No kidding,” I shouted. “It was supposed to be you and me against the world.” I dropped to my knees, sobbing. “You destroyed us. You destroyed our family, our life together. You destroyed everything.” Sally didn’t answer, but I could hear her fighting for air. Her breathing sounded like an asthmatic who needed his inhaler.

“Why?” I buried my face in my hands and tried to catch my breath. Sally began to spew apologies, swearing she loved me. I don’t know why. You’re the only man I ever loved. I am so sorry I hurt you. I wanted to hurt my wife as bad as she hurt me. Did you know your lover was married and his wife is 9 months pregnant? Their baby will grow up without a father because of you.

Oh god, no, she screamed. Did you know you weren’t the only cheating woman he was seeing? The detective said they had several other husbands that were suspects. You were just another woman to him. She moaned a woeful sound like I never heard a human make. I swear I was going to break up with him today. It was over.

I felt so guilty over ruining Paris. I told her to shut her lying mouth. You felt guilty because you didn’t go to Paris. You should have felt guilty for being a cheating woman. And when exactly were you going to break up? I know the police found him in his undergarment, so don’t lie to me. Sally began to moan. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

I had the funniest thought. If you really had felt guilty over ruining Paris, you would have broken it off before you let that bastard into our house for a farewell intimacy. If you had done that, he would have been killed at someone else’s house, and you would have gotten off scot-free because I never suspected anything.

I would have gone on as the blissful idiot thinking my wife was faithful. “Well, cheating woman, how many other men have you met during our marriage that you got away with?” “I swear, I swear to God he’s the only one ever,” she replied weakly. “Why should I believe you?” I asked. Sally clutched her stomach and doubled over as if she was going to puke.

“I never thought I would say this, but my mother was right about you. She hated you from the first moment she met you. You remember that day? It was 3 months after our prom and you came by to tell me you missed your period. Mom said you did it on purpose to trap me. But even though she had nothing but contempt for you, she opened her house to us.

I can’t tell you how many times she slipped me a few dollars because she knew I didn’t have a penny to my name. She always made me promise not to tell you she had paid for the baby formula. And when I became a pilot flying milk runs who watched our son so you could go to college. I always wanted to prove mom wrong.

It made me sick to have her treat you like a pariah while fawning over my brother’s wives. But I always stuck up for you because we were a team. We were one. When you became a professor, I beamed with pride at what you had accomplished. That was the first time I saw her look proud at anything you did.

Now I thank God she’s not alive to see you destroy us. Sally screamed, “Oh, God, why?” Then grew silent. You know, my dad died when I was barely 12. One evening when I was about 15, I asked mom why she still wore her wedding rings. Before she could answer, I said something only a stupid teenage boy would. Mom, you don’t look that old. You should go out.

She smiled, wrapped her hands around mine, and said, “I can’t do that because I’m married.” We swore before God and all our friends and family to forsake all others. But dad is dead, I pleaded at that time. Nothing’s changed. Your father lives in my heart as much as when he lived in our home, and someday we’ll be together again.

I told her I didn’t understand. She just smiled and said she would pray that someday I would. It took a long time for me to mature enough to begin to understand the depth of their love and how their commitment went beyond the grave. I never told you this, but on my first flight, a stewardises invited me to have a drink with her on our layover.

She was drop deadad gorgeous, and I was tempted, but only for a moment. I thought of my mom, showed her my wedding ring, and said, “I can’t do that because I’m married.” I can’t begin to tell you how many times I turned down similar offers. Word got around pretty quickly that I was a wimp.

I wore that insult as a badge of honor. I let out a long sigh. I’ve never seen a more perfect love than my parents had. I used to think we were getting there, and now you’ve destroyed us. All I have left for you is hatred. Sally managed to stop crying long enough to say, “Please, I’ll do anything to make it up to you.

” Anything? Okay, just travel back through time, back to when that piece of human garbage began his moves. I want you to change history. I want you to tell him to bug off because you’re happily married. I want you to tell him your husband has the most glamorous job in the world and treats you like a queen. I want you to tell him to go home to his pregnant wife.

I want you to tell him that if he ever talks to you again, your husband will kick his back. Can you do that? Sally dropped to her knees, wailing. She shook her head in the negative. I don’t think you could, I roared. Please forgive me. Please, she pleaded. I’m leaving. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’ve got to get away from you.

Sally lunged at me and caught my ankle. No, please,” she pleaded. “Let go of me or I’ll break your arm off.” I roared angrily. She released her grip and I turned and began towards the door. As it opened, she screamed, “I wish he had killed me, too.” The cheating woman must have read my mind.