The Bonny Situation

“Who’s there?”

“This is Bonnie Clive, and I think my husband is dead.”

I get clients like this all the time. Pregnant fat white women whose husbands stay out past midnight without calling; they call his cell phone once, he doesn’t answer, they think he’s dead. Now, I’ll take these cases, because when a woman is in hysterics, they’ll pay a lot of money to find out what happened to her husband. You see, when a woman gets pregnant, they get irrational, and they start coming up with all these wild ideas of what could have happened. He gets into a car accident, he gets shot by a man in a club, a feral cat bites his dick off and he bleeds to death, I’ve heard it all. I thought this Bonnie Clive case was no different.

“Look, I’m sure if you just go home, fall asleep, he’ll be there in the morning alive and well.”

“But he’s usually home by now, and he isn’t picking up his phone!”

“How about I make a few phone calls, and see if I can’t track him down.”
“I would pay anything for that!”

“I know.”

The best part is, she’ll go home, I get drunk, her husband returns home, she thinks I’m the one who brought him back, and I get paid for it! The logic works perfectly; for all of these types of clients. Because the majority of the time, their husbands have been with some prostitute; so when they start talking about “where have you been I thought you were dead?” The husband, to save himself, will simply say some bullshit line like “don’t worry yourself, I’m home now and that’s all that matters.” It totally works too, because she’s so happy he’s home she won’t question it. So, all the while they are pregnant, they’ll never catch onto this trend because they are so emotionally wrapped up in what’s happening that logically they’re brain-dead.

Bonnie was a completely different story though, because this trend still occurred for months after giving birth.

I didn’t mind this of course, as I was getting paid to get drunk, but it seemed odd for me. Every month or so, she would come into my office in hysterics that he’s dead. Now, I’m no psychologist or anything, but it would seem to me that after the second or third time, something in her mind would click and scream “WHORE!” and her husband’s game would be ruined (along with my paycheck).

I was just going to keep this going, cause it’s essentially free money for me, minus the cost of the alcohol I drink after having to deal with this woman. But, I decided to actually figure out where her husband is, and why she still acts like this; mostly because I don’t want to keep dealing with her.

“Detective Paine, I need you. My-“

“Wait wait, don’t tell me. Your husband is dead?”

“YES!”

“And your baby is home, alone?”

“I NEED YOU TO FIND HIM!”

“And I need you to be a good mother. Can’t have everything can we?”

“Please, dear Lord please find him!”

“Well, I feel I should tell you I just raised my rates by 20 percent, today.”

“I’ll pay you anything.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

I figured I’d actually track her husband down tonight; save me some money, and my liver. Besides, there’s a ninety percent chance he’s with some prostitute…and by ninety I really mean he’s with some prostitute. Now, here in Rhode Island, there aren’t many prostitutes. Prostitution is legal here, but deals can only be made indoors. This deters a lot of women from the profession.

I decided that I should start by narrowing down the hookers I contacted. I knew that for a married man to run off with a hooker for a night, she would have to be better looking than his wife. Bonnie is fat, but she’s sort of that cute fat. It’s as if that baby fat that makes babies cute never really went away. So I’d give her about a seven out of ten. This meant that the hooker must be an eight, nine, or a perfect ten. In all reality, this just left one hooker; since this is Rhode Island, and no one in Rhode Island is attractive. Monica Spermaid.

“Hi Monica? This is Detective Paine.”

“It’s 50 dollars for a blowjob. Pay up front.”

“Uhhh, as nice as that sounds, unfortunately I’m not here for one of those. I don’t even know what a blowjob is. I think it’s against my religion.”

“So, what you want?”

“I’m trying to track down someone. I believe he is a regular client of yours; that is what you call them right?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he leaves his wife for a night every month without contact. I assume it’s because he’s with a prostitute. And, since you’re the only hooker who is even semi-attractive, I think he sees you.”

“Semi-attractive?”

“Can I get a list of all your clients so I can see if a name matches?”

“Why don’t you just tell me who he is so I can tell you if I know him or not? That sounds exponentially easier doesn’t it?”

“Uh, I’m the detective here. But I’ll humor you and go along with your stupid idea.”

“…well?”

“Well what?”

“His name? Genius.”

“Oh, well his name is…it’s…motherfuck I never actually got his name.”

“Glad to see we’re done here.”

“Wait! I do know his last name is Clive.”

“Clive…Clive…Oh! Jim Clive. Yeah I know him!”

“So he has been with you!”

“No.”

“…The fuck?”

Long story short, she knew Jim Clive, but he wasn’t a client of hers. Instead, he was a client of Marcus Mandela, a known male prostitute. So Jim was bi-sexual, why am I not surprised? Now, I figure, all I have to do is go to this Mandela’s place, find Jim, send him home, explain to Bonnie what I found out (because Lord knows Jim won’t come out with the truth), get paid, and never have to deal with that bitch ever again. It’ll be a happy ending for all three of us (minus Bonnie and Jim that is).

So I pull up to Marcus’ house, and low and behold there’s Jim, I think.

“Are you Jim Clive?”

“Yes.”

So, yes, Jim is with Marcus. Perfect.

“Jim, my name is Detective Paine, and I gotta tell you, once Bonnie finds out about where you’ve been running off to every month you’re gonna be in a world of pain! Get it? See what I did there? I used my name as a descriptive word! Goddamnit I’m good. Wait, wait are you crying? HA! Don’t be such a baby, you brought this upon yourself. I would suggest you go home and explain to her what has been happening. Oh, oh why? Well, I guess you could say she’d probably be less mad if you told her than if I gave my report on this, which I’m legally bound to do unless everything I say is redundant. But, the real reason is I’d much rather be drinking right now than chasing down a faggot like you.”

I don’t know what I said, probably faggot, but right then Jim let out a humiliated scream; but not because he knows Bonnie will now find out what he’s been doing. As it turns out, Jim is a devout Catholic. Catholics believe that homosexuality is a sin, and that it’s bad. Catholics are also all about self-appearance. This meant that Jim could not go around having the world know he’s gay, because that’s also bad, I guess.

“Please dear God please don’t tell Bonnie about this because then she’ll tell all of her friends and they just can’t keep their fucking mouths shut and they’ll tell their friends and pretty soon the whole world will know that I’m Gay and then God will send me to Hell! You have to help me here!”

I really didn’t want to deal with this. Honestly, I just wanted to go home and drink. But I don’t know what it was, but I decided to help him. It was probably due to me never wanting to work with this family ever again, but that’s just a really accurate assumption.

“So, do you, like, want to have Bonnie think you’re with a female prostitute, such as Monica Spermaid? Or do you want to cover up the fact that you were with a prostitute? In which case we’ll have to come up with some believable story for Bonnie.”

“What does ‘believable’ entail, in your opinion?”

“Either getting her to believe you actually have died….a lot, and have come back to life, or some really good reason for spending a night away from home without telling her or contacting her. The choice is yours, I get paid either way.”

So Jim figured that it would be best if Bonnie didn’t know about him paying for sex, at any extent. So, all we really had to do was come up with some story as to why Jim goes away once a month without telling Bonnie or without her being able to call him. I thought this would be easy, but I never thought it would actually be this simple.

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Perfect! This is what you tell her, Jim. Every month your church has an overnight mass and prayer session; don’t worry she’ll believe it. There’s always some strange and random mass on Wednesdays. Also, you tell her that cell phones were required to be off during the mass, out of respect. When she asks why you could never tell her about this, you say that you would have felt embarrasses since she isn’t religious at all and would find this whole event rather odd.”

“But, she’s also Catholic.”

“Not anymore. Look, if I’ve learned anything from working with that crazy bitch it’s that you can get her to believe literally anything. If you insist that she’s Athiest, she will believe it.”

“Did you just call my wife a crazy bitch?”
“So just head on home, and call me in the morning to let me know how things went. Actually, why don’t you just come on in so you can pay me.”

His story probably would have worked, but Monica called up Jim’s house to let him know that I was looking for him, and Bonnie picked up. When she asked who was calling, Monica told her all about Jim’s homosexual encounters with Marcus. Needless to say, they’re getting divorced.

When he came into my office the next morning, and essentially told me the entire argument they had; which he amazingly memorized word-for-word.

“Are we getting divorced because of my homosexuality?”

“No. It has nothing to do with you having homosexual relations with this Marcus guy. Homosexuality has nothing to do with whether or not you’re a good person. In today’s day-in-age, I think that the majority of the population would agree that being homosexual is not a choice, but biological, and discriminating against homosexuals is fascist and is just as bad as racism. We’re getting divorced simply because you’ve not only been lying to me, but you’ve been out having sexual relationships with people other than me. Homosexuality is fine, prostitution is fine, but being disloyal is not okay, and now neither is this marriage.”

“…Well, at least God still loves me.”

No he doesn’t, Jim, no he doesn’t. You’re still a fag, and God hates fags.