Mary’s in the kitchen, and my beer is almost empty. The fuck she doing in there? She’s makin’ so much noise it’s distracting from the game.

loss and sack fuck sakes

That clang better’ve been a beer bottle coming out of the fridge. If I wasn’t so busy I’d go in there and remind her what her fuckin’ responsibilities are.

TOUCHDOWN MONTREAL! put em in a fuckin’ body bag

I can barely get the glass to my mouth, my arm’s like a noodle, must have overdone it yesterday with the goddamn wood, if Mary got off her ass and helped haul I wouldn’t be so sore. Keepin’ this fuckin’ house warm for her ain’t good enough maybe I should lock her out in the snow and see how she likes bein’ fuckin’ cold.

Beer’s warm as piss, what’s takin’ her so long?

“Oh, honey, you dribbled on yourself again, let me get that.” Her voice is sweet as pie, and I want to smack that smirk right off her face. I can’t even jerk away as she dabs at my chin with her blue and white napkin—hate that fucking napkin. “There you go, and here’s a fresh beer for my special man. And a nice juicy sandwich.”

“Wi—ex—mu, muh—”

“With extra mustard, just how you like it.” She sets the plate on my lap, her grandma’s ugly flower quilt over my legs like I’m an old lady.

Where’s my Ti-Cats blanket? I musta grabbed the wrong one when I came in here. That’s why we’re losing. Mary did something with my blanket, her stupid smelly old blanket shouldn’t even be in this room. The living room is mine, my game space. My man space.

up the gut for a first down six point lead fuck

“Osk-Osk-”

“Wee wee, wa wa,” Mary says with a roll of her eyes. What the hell is up with her attitude today? When this game is done I’m gonna remind her how to speak to me. “Eat up, honey, I’m running low on meat, so enjoy it.”

Better not run out of fuckin’ meat.

She runs her fingers down the back of my neck, affectionate like she used to do when we were dating. Tryin’a suck up to me so I’ll go easier on her later.

hamilton field goal, come on boys

She better be prayin’ we don’t lose this game. It’d be so much worse for her.

I finally get the sandwich to my mouth, hand quivery, mustard squelching. The meat is nice and rare, but a bit stringy, even for pulled pork. Forget that, we just got another field goal and we’re tied now and take it home, boys.

The sandwich droops, meat slopping into my lap, bread thin and soggy and hard to hold. Too rare, too much blood, how many lessons am I gonna to have to teach that bitch today?

rambo’s got it down inside the 45

No. No no no. This ain’t happening.

“Christ honey, you’ve made a mess of the quilt.”

“F-fu—” ck the quilt, don’t interrupt me—

and the kick is up for the win!

“Nnnn—” My face contorts in rage and Mary jumps up and down next to the tv, hands up in the air.

The fuck is she wearing? I ain’t never seen that dress before, she better not’ve gone out of the house with that much cleavage showin’. My wife ain’t no whore. Dangly earrings bounce in time with her tits—when the hell did she get her ears pierced?

“Montreal gets the job done and the Alouettes are off to the Grey Cup!” she cries in perfect sync with the announcer, clappin’ her hands as a shit-eating grin opens her face. “That’s my favourite part.”

“Wh-Wh-wha—” My mustard tongue swells against my teeth.

She snatches up the remote—that’s MINE—and the cheers and roars pause. The game’s paused. What the fuck? This is supposed to be live.

“I don’t think you’re going to last much longer, I suppose I can throw this in the garbage.” Is that her iron? The fuck’s she ironin’ in here? Why’s it all crusty?

She kneels on the shag carpet, showin’ off her melons, does she think that’s gonna make me soft?

I’m gonna turn her black and blue. I’m gonna choke her until tears carve fuckin’ quarries in her cheeks.

Just as soon as I can get up.

“I’ve started that jewelry making business I’ve always wanted,” she says—oh bitch, you’re diggin’ your grave. “I turned your workshop into an art studio and I’m making bank, everyone loves my unique pieces.” She wiggles her head, making the bedazzled clay clack against her pretty neck.

She ain’t supposed to have her own money. I’m the breadwinner, she makes the fuckin’ bread.

She punts the beer glass out of my hand like she’s kickin’ a fuckin’ field goal, glass bouncing on the carpet, foam spreading, sucking up breadcrumbs.

Then the cunt winks at me. “You don’t need this anymore. I don’t think there’s any drug I could get my hands on that will keep you alive. You look dead already.”

My palms itch, I can see myself breaking her fuckin’ nose—

“It’s been fun, torturing you with this game.” She grabs the quilt, nails painted hooker red, what in the everlovin’ fuck has happened to my wife? “I’ll restart it for you, so you can bleed out listening to your precious team losing. I just need a little harvest for a necklace commission.”

I stare dumbly down at where my legs used to be. I can’t move I can’t—is that a saw? Black and yellow tie crisscrossed over my thighs squeezin’ me where are my LEGS—fallen meat from the sandwich looks just like the shaggy gore of my body—my body, my fuckin’ legs oh god oh fuck—bile risin’ but there’s no room to puke I’m gonna choke—

“Try not to pass out from shock, honey.”

A zombie stares at me from the saw blade, my fuckin’ saw, covered in—covered in—

“It would be so much sweeter for me if you’re awake to die.”

The Curiosities and Oddities Show is bustling, aisles of handcrafted goodies made with care. Tables covered in colourful jars of lotions, candles made from ethically-sourced fats and oils. Jewelry of all shapes and sizes, paintings decorating countless booths. Purses made with real leather, some decorated with intricate tattoos.

Mary smiles warmly as a middle-aged woman with a cute pixie cut examines a pair of delicate earrings. Mary had drilled little holes around the middle and inlaid obsidian shards, giving them an elegant gothic look.

“These are gorgeous,” the woman coos. “Your pieces are so unique. Is it real bone?”

“Yes,” Mary replies. “Ethically-sourced, of course.” She shares a wink with Chloe, the woman at the table next to her, who is practically glowing these days. The last of her bruises have faded now, leaving behind colour on her cheeks and brightness in her eyes.

The customer gasps at the sight of Chloe’s handbags. “What a lovely design!” She runs a finger over the mandala on the front flap.

“I’m very good with a needle and ink,” Chloe says, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

The customer wanders down the aisle carrying a brand new purse and wearing a pair of earrings like a sigil.

Mary and Chloe share excited smiles.

Huge thank you to for hosting such a cool community event, make sure to check out their listing of all participating stories! Looking forward to binging them all!

Also thanks to everyone who read my drafts, for all the betas, edits, and idea-bouncing. Especially for keeping me sane through my panicking. <3 This was a fun one.

One or two quick notes in case you want some fun Canadian facts:

The Hamilton Tiger Cats official fan chant is ‘Oskee wee wee! Oskee wa wa! Holy mackinaw! Tigers! Eat ‘em raw!’ How many times do you think Mary heard that one coming from the living room?

The game Mary’s torturing her husband with (he doesn’t have a name, fuck him) is the 2025 Eastern Final, Hamilton vs. Montreal. It was a nail biter, and an absolute blast for my Argo-fan parents.

While I didn’t have a specific Canadian locale in mind for this story when I started it, by the time I got to the last scene I couldn’t help choosing the Halifax Curiosities and Oddities show as the market setting. It’s a real market that happens once a year with the absolute best creative crafts and trinkets. While there are artisans there that make jewelry from ethically-sourced bones (one woman has a bumper sticker that boasts I STOP FOR ROADKILL) I am in no way insinuating that anyone has murdered their husbands and is using the parts for their crafts.