Streetwalker Samba

Jeannie sits alone in the front seat of the old Lincoln. She feels queasy. The scene she watches makes her want to rip at her hair, but the housewife knows she can’t do that. Jeannie needs to be proper. Jeannie needs to be perfect. It’s what’s expected of her.


She wishes her husband would hurry up. The sooner they get out of the empty hellhole parking lot the better. Jeannie doesn’t like that Franklin is all alone in the building with that hussy of a real estate agent.


“The bitch,” Jeannie mutters, and she’s sure that they’re in there screwing their brains out. She fans herself gently in the noontime sun. She had made Franklin turn the car off to save on gas, and the heat is getting to her. Jeannie didn’t know that it would take so long. “How dare she decide to ruin my happy marriage.”


Through one of the store-front windows, Jeannie sees the agent and Franklin. They’re laughing, and Jeannie would love nothing more than to put the car in gear and run over the blond Angelia Jolie bitch.


She pulls down the visor and studies herself in the mirror. Her age is catching up with her; there are crows’ feet around her eyes and purse marks around her lips from twenty years of smoking.


“If that man doesn’t hurry up,” the 38-year-old housewife says, “we’ll be late in picking up Greg from school.” Greg gets out of high school at two-thirty, but the fact that she and Franklin still have two hours doesn’t mean anything to the woman.


Jeannie watches Franklin and the agent as she flings her arms wide, highlighting her ample breasts. “He’s looking at them,” Jeannie says. She wishes ardently for a cigarette, but she told Franklin she quit, so she knows that she can’t smoke anywhere around him. That doesn’t change the fact that looking at the two people not thirty feet away from her automatically makes her crave a cigarette.


Jeannie knows she’s attractive – Franklin wouldn’t have married her if she was ugly. But the agent looks like she’s 25 and would spread her legs wide to make a sell. Jeannie knows that she was brought up better than that.


The leather of the passenger seat is sticking to her short-clad thighs. The armholes of her tank-top are ringed with sweat. Whether it’s just the heat or a combination of the heat and the stress of watching her husband basically fornicate with the slut, Jeannie isn’t sure.


She can’t bear to look at her husband and the hussy anymore. Instead she looks out the window to the right. Across the street, there’s a graveyard, and Jeannie smiles.


“That would be the perfect place for me to hide her body,” Jeannie whispers. “It would be my most inventive place yet. And no one would think anything of it. It’s not uncommon to see disturbed ground in a cemetery.”


Franklin is laughing with the agent in the store now, Jeannie sees from the corner of her eye. To keep her recently eaten lunch down, she thinks about how good it would be to kill the whore in there with her husband.


Jeannie will do this one slow, she decides. There’s no real fun in doing it quickly unless she absolutely has to. Jeannie knows this from prior women that have tried to sleep with Franklin – everyone from old girlfriends to colleagues to hussy neighbor girls. Of all the would-be prostitutes that have tried to take away her Franklin, Jeannie has only had to kill one of them quickly. All the other women Jeannie was able to take her time with, and Jeannie knows just how much fun carving can be. She is a housewife after all.


Jeannie decides that she will take one of the stilettoes the agent is wearing and stick it through her heart. No, maybe not her heart, she thinks. The agent might die too fast for her liking. With this bimbo, Jeannie wants to take her time. A fast death would be too good for the hussy.


Perhaps what Jeannie will do is cut her. A human body can’t be too different from a chicken, can it? If she nicks the throat, the agent shouldn’t bleed out too fast. And if Jeannie nicks the right place, the agent won’t be able to scream very loud. If the agent can’t scream, Jeannie can have more fun with killing her.


She decides that, as long as the agent doesn’t bleed quickly, she will dissect the agent’s breasts. If the breasts are fake, Jeannie will pop then and laugh as they wither down to their small former selves.


Maybe Jeannie will even burn her. She’s isn’t sure how much she wants to torture the other woman, but she knows that she wants to make her suffer.


Jeannie loves Franklin very much. She knows that he’d never cheat on her. Instead, it’s the women – the whores – who coerce him into screwing. Franklin is a man, she thinks, and men were never very strong when it came to resisting sex. It isn’t his fault.


That’s why she has to take care of all the women who will try to lure away her Franklin. It’s because she loves him. He’s her husband, and she took a vow to protect him until death do them part. That’s why Jeannie kills.


She is so lost in thought that she doesn’t hear her husband walk to the car. Her fantasy is good, and she jumps when Franklin opens the door and slides in.


“Love you, baby,” he says, and Jeannie smiles. He’s such a good husband.


“I love you, too,” she says as she leans in to kiss him. If she ever sees the agent again, she’ll be sure to take her down. There is no way Jeannie’s going to let that woman take away her Franklin.