The room slowly started spinning and I realized my good friend Jack was up to his old tricks again. Another man had stolen my wife, my children, my life, and there was nothing I could do about it. Couple that with the fact women usually win these kinds of disputes (even if they don’t always deserve it) and you can see why things were looking so bleak for me. I didn’t have the money to fight a long drawn out custody battle or hire big time lawyers, but Pastor Alonso did. She said she was going to give him the family he always wanted – my family. She explained to me that the pastor invited her and the kids to move in with him once Darcy passed – an offer my “better half” had accepted. Names were called, expletives were hurled, and threats were thrown out (by her mostly). When I confronted my wife about the emails, things got ugly. She always did have a weak spot for material things. I guess that’s why my wife gravitated towards him. It wasn’t uncommon for him to drive a Mercedes Benz to church or showoff his collection of Rolex watches during Sunday services. Alonso had a taste for life’s opulent luxuries and wasn’t afraid to flaunt it. A lot of people would be surprised to find out just how profitable the preaching business can be, especially when you head up the 2nd biggest mega-church in California. He pulled in a far bigger salary than one might expect a holy man to earn. Pastor Alonso was a slick, fast-talking, cut-throat, shark who dressed more like a U.S. It wasn’t until I stumbled across a series of implicitly sexual emails between her and the pastor of our church (a married man in his own right), that I was faced with the morbid reality of my wife’s secret sexcapades. They say denial is the best remedy for heartache. For a while suspicions of infidelity had loomed over our marriage, but I had always chalked up my conjectures as nothing more than paranoid delusions. She had broken my heart, leaving me with nothing but a vacant grief-stricken soul, like a teenager who listens to Fall Out Boy and writes poetry on Tumblr. It was my wife who was the cause of my misery. The extraordinarily depressing location was poetically fitting in a way – I was extraordinarily depressed after all. In my right was a 32 caliber Smith and Wesson. In my left hand was a half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniels. That was fine by me – I didn’t come there for shut-eye, anyways. It was the type of room people did everything but sleep in. I was seated at the edge of the bed, shifting uncomfortably atop its warped mattress while trying to ignore the rank funk radiating from a pile of unwashed sheets bundled up in the corner. I wouldn’t be surprised if a whole civilization of the nasty things were living between the walls, laying their repulsive egg sacks wherever they pleased, and multiplying faster than an Asian kid on Adderall. It must have been the most run-down, filth-ridden, motel room I had ever seen – the kind of place where cockroaches didn’t feel the need to scatter at the flash of a light bulb.
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