The revenge

He is 34 years old and does not yet give signs of being a creepy character. He is overweight, but often thinks of himself when walking down the street as disgustingly fat. Fat and bald, although the lack of hair around his temples highlights his big forehead. He looks just as an accountant should. Name? Caesar. Like Gaius Julius Caesar—the Roman general and emperor.

Half a year prior he had the misfortune of discovering his wife was cheating on him. She does not know he knows because, for a while, he decided not to collect on the revenge. He did not insult her with names like ‘bitch’, ‘slut’, or ‘whore’…he continued his accounting, adding penny after penny to his salary. He honored obligations to the treasury, and thus to the country while she, his wife, came home late every evening giggling…full of post-coital glee.

Three months after witnessing his cheating wife with her lover, he emerged from shock and decided to pursue his revenge. To lure her and her lover in the basement, lock the door behind them and then conveniently lose the key. Nobody would know they were there—buried alive in the back yard of the villa only five hundred yards from the house but far away from the neighbors. He thought about this plan—every time, a freakish smile blossomed on his overstuffed, sweaty face.

He needed a reason to get her in the basement so he built a bar. The cellar was never used before; he went to work installing a counter under three thick, glass shelves and mirror surrounded by a string of Christmas lights discovered in the attic. In front of the counter he arranged two spindled stools. So the cellar bar would look real, he lined up bottles—elegant, expensive, and irresistible. Caesar knew she would come down with her lover.



Caesar sits—his massive body perched on one of the stools. He holds his tiny glass between chubby fingers and thinks of many more things to put in place for the plan. He swirls cognac around his mouth and shivers with pleasure while idly counting the Christmas lights. Bored, he moves on to counting the bottles.

Eight bottles on the shelves.

Plus eight in the mirror, sixteen. Bottles of different configurations, sizes, and colors. Suddenly he frowns.

Eight?

With the one on the counter—nine.

Where is the tenth? Did he drink it?

No way…he allows himself only one bottle. A glass every Saturday when he stops by—counting every indulgent sip is part of an accountant’s way of life. The last constellation he set up was three bottles on the top shelf, three on the middle shelf, and three on the bottom shelf, all spaced evenly.

Now the bottom shelf holds only two bottles—missing one in the middle. He thinks of all sorts of nonsense explanations: thieving ghosts, leprechauns, and a thirsty octopus.

He feels very alone in the cellar. It’s too quiet…too much cold comes from hidden gaps in the foundation. The silence emanating from beneath the counter is too deep. The gap between the two bottles on the shelf at the bottom seems huge. After several minutes of discomfort, he decides to leave.

His body feels massive and solid while climbing the stairs. Pushing the heavy metal door, he breathes more heavily from panic than exertion. The door remains immobile…beads of cold sweat beads sprout on his brow. He pushes harder, but the door is sealed shut—like the entrance to a crypt.



Peeking through the bars covering the tiny window next to the door, he sees his wife and lover walking away…toward their cottage. She wears jeans and a knee-length coat; a black hat on her head and a yellow handkerchief wrapped around her neck. Her lover seems agitated…vibrating in a thin jacket. They approach the back door—where her lover politely holds the door open for her. They disappear inside without a look back.

Caesar descended to the bottom of the stairs and looked around the cellar. He would now need a new plan for revenge.