“I saw your wife’s car at the bar,” his neighbor says.
It is a dark, stormy night that should have made him stay home, but he had to venture out into it. She told him that she had stopped seeing the man that she dated before shacking with him.
“He’s still a part of you,” he said.
“No, that is not true,” she said.
“I don’t believe that bull,” he said.
“I’m yours, please believe me,” she said.
He walks through the bad weather, worse than the weatherman predicted, stops in the bar’s parking lot, hides behind a tree. He can see in the bar that she is with the man; they’re talking. She smiles the cute smile that’s only for him. He knows now that he has no other choice than to do what he had made up his mind to do if he saw them together. The pistol rests between his stomach and belt, he grasps its handle, wraps his finger on the trigger. A sudden thunderclap startles him; he feels hot pain slicing through his penis; he drops to the ground, grabs his groin, rolls around on the ground, screaming, “please help me, I’ve been shot.” A fellow leaving the bar sees him, calls the police. Police officers arrive before the fire-rescue ambulance. They assist him. A fire-rescue officer tells the police officers, “the guy shot his weenie off.”
“No fooling,” Police Officer says.
“Damn,” the other Police Officer says.
The fire-rescue officer gives the pistol to the Police Officer. “That’s why I didn’t see a bullet hole in his clothing,” she says.
The fire-rescue officers lift him into the ambulance. He sees her. She is no longer interested in the commotion. She gets in to her car with the man.
“He should be home from work now; you’ll like him dad. I really love him.”