Back in Blighty, I knew a bloke called Potter. We had been friends since our schooldays. He was a plump, excitable chap and I thought once we’d slipped the surly bonds of Copleston High, he would go on to great success. I was wrong.
He married in haste and repented at leisure. We didn’t socialize, but every now and again I’d bump into him – usually while walking my dog in Christchurch Park. But not long after his marriage, every time we met, it seemed his face had grown longer.
Finally, when we were alone in the park, he told me the reason for his disgruntlement. “It’s that BLOODY woman!” he shouted.
“What – your wife?” I asked, “She seems rather nice.”
“Yeah, she’s a looker – but she has a VORACIOUS sexual appetite. She’s constantly pestering me for SEX.” (It occurred to me that in her case, THAT kind of pestering I could LIVE with – but I kept the thought to myself).
Well, some years went by and things didn’t get better for Potter. Oh, his professional life BLOSSOMED – he rose through the ranks at the bank where he worked, eventually becoming Area Manager – but his home life remained miserable.
Then one day, while we were once again alone in the park (aside from my dog Jasper) he smiled for the first time in months and said, “I’ve finally worked out the answer to my problem. I’m going to kill her.”
“Wh-at?” I said, “Oh, come ON – why not just DIVORCE her?”
“Are you kidding?” he answered, “Do you know what I’m WORTH now? Her brother’s a bloody divorce lawyer. We’ve been together since the beginning of my career. She’d get half of everything.”
Having known Potter since we were boys, I figured he was just letting off steam. Previously, his violence had been limited to screaming at The Bad Guy at wrestling matches (when The Good Guy suddenly acquired hidden reserves of strength to turn the tables – did he never GET that?)
Anyway, he had a PLAN. “I’m going to f*ck her to death. There’s a thing called ‘La Petite Mort’ – it’s French – it means ‘the little death’.”
“Yes, I know that. I took the same French class as you, remember?” I replied.
He carried on as if I’d not spoken – “If you REALLY go at it and keep a woman having orgasm after orgasm – they eventually FAINT. I estimate after six months of CONSTANT shagging, her HEART will give out. It’s the perfect plan. I checked on the Web and no-one’s EVER been charged with killing someone by shagging them to death.”
“Yes,” I said, “For the very good reason it CAN’T BE DONE.”
“You think so? You’ll see – you’ll see,” he shouted, as he walked away.
I didn’t see Potter again for about five months, but when I did, I had the shock of my life. He was walking in the park with his wife. She looked RADIANT, but Potter looked THIRTY YEARS OLDER. He had lost half his hair, his back was bent and his gait made him look like he was riding a small invisible horse.
As they got closer, I saw he was also covered in sweat. Seeing me, his wife said to him,“I’ll see you back at the flat, Darling,” and beaming at me, she walked off. Actually, I swear she SKIPPED off.
As Potter trudged up to me, sweat dripping off his chin, he croaked, “Look at her, the silly bitch – she doesn’t know she’s only got a month to live!”