Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #264

Lady on the Left: “Wow. That’s some really interesting needlepoint you’re doing there.”

Lady on the Right: “Why, thank you. I’m making a commemorative swatch of the night I killed my husband.”

Left: “How fascinating. May I ask a question?”

Right: “Of course. I just admitted to taking the life of another human being and you didn’t run away, so I’m thinking we’ve bonded a bit.”

Left: “What’s that silver thing that you’ve accented with scarlet thread?”

Right: “It’s a meat cleaver. It’s what I used to make him finally shut up.”

Left: “Really? Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

Right: “Have you ever had a husband who complained every night about the quality of the steak you put on his dinner plate?”

Left: “Well, no, not that I recall. But did it ever occur to you to just get a divorce?”

Right: “Ohhh. I forgot about that part. Well, too late now. Say, do you have any extra brown thread? I really want to make the tiny little steak on the table stand out, because that was the last one I’ll ever broil.”

Left: “Sure thing, girl. Let me get my kit.” [She drags out said kit and begins to muck about with the contents.] “By the way, what did you do with the body? That was always the tricky part when people pissed me off in the past.”

Right: “I didn’t do anything with it. He never did anything for me. I just packed up this car and moved here to Texas, where you can open-carry a meat cleaver and nobody asks any questions.”

Left, handing over the brown thread: “Here ya go, hon. So, what are you going to do now?”

Right, quickly re-threading her needle and then punching through the fabric with woodpecker intensity: “Well, I was thinking I might start a new life as a schoolteacher. I’m sure you’ll agree that a lot of women in this country need a better education on how to take a bad situation and make it better.”

Left: “Oh, that sounds wonderful. What kind of things are you going to teach?”

Right: “Well, this would be my first lesson.” [She holds up her now-finished needlepoint crime scene.] “And there you have it.”

Left: “Wait a minute. That’s my name you’ve stitched at the bottom. I didn’t kill your husband and I’ve never broiled a steak. And how do you know my name? We only met fifteen minutes ago when I sat on your bumper because the line was too long for the communal bathroom two cars over. And the writer of this piece hasn’t given either of us a real name because he’s too lazy to come up with anything.”

Right: “The writer, and you, have forgotten that your name is needle-pointed on your needlepoint kit. I don’t know why you were dragging that thing along when you just needed to pee, buy hey, it works for me. Now I just need to drop this off at the local po-po station and I’m free and clear.”

Left: “But that’s ridiculous. Who would trust in something that you clearly made up on the spot in order to hide your own crimes?”

Right: “The people who voted for Trump.”


Previously published in “Crusty Pie” and “Bonnywood Manor”. Modified somewhat for this post.


27 replies »

  1. I thought they were going to Thelma and Louise, but you brought the whole thing home brilliantly to the POTUS who boasts he can shoot someone in the street with impunity.

    You’re my writer hero!

    Liked by 2 people

  2. There was also a weensy little cross, cleverly stitched on the sampler o’ death (aka needlepointed crime scene) because we all know that the Orange Menace is Christ, reincarnated too, right? Oh those deluded rabble, following that ugly piper to the cliffs and to their deaths. Don’t they realize they’re dragging the rest of us (innocent) along with them?

    Liked by 1 person

    • First, I’m really enamored by “Sampler O’ Death”. I think I can get a blog post out of that.

      Second, it’s very possible that the Orange Menace is a reincarnation, but I’m fairly certain it has nothing to do with eventual celestial ascension. The only way Trump is getting to Heaven is if the White House blows up and he is temporarily airborne. But he’ll quickly plummet downwards, bypassing the first eight circles of Hell and landing smack in the ninth.

      Third, the rabble might try to drag me, but I have very big heels and I intend to dig them in with a vengeance.


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