Gwendolyn had never even held a hacksaw, but she thought her lying, cheating, mean as a snake, waste of human flesh husband had one in the garage. She needed him in smaller pieces to fit inside the big, black trash bags now that her iron skillet to the back of his head had worked. He was good and dead and getting stiffer by the minute.
Thank goodness she’d had the presence of mind to whack him in the kitchen so the gruesome blood and brain matter would clean up off the linoleum rather than soaking into the gray bedroom carpet.
My theme this year is 100 word fiction. (So, no, don’t count this line!)