Nine Years later. . .

Your wife kisses you as she climbs off of you. “Thanks, honey. I needed that. I need a shower then we have to get to the theater, it’s our big night after all.”

You hear the shower turn on and sigh. You can’t count how many actresses and directors you’ve sabotaged for your wife, from her high-school rival Jennifer and her permanent awful acne she suddenly acquired before her show “honoring” your wife. That community theater lady that said she lacked feeling in her singing, and then somehow lost the ability to hear music ever again. There was the producer who declined her first show, he would be eligible for parole in a few more years, everyone was surprised to find his DNA and fingerprints all over the emptied safe of the Springdale bank, and almost half the money hidden in Swiss accounts he had opened.

Her current show, and her first on Broadway was an easier sell. It wasn’t as much fun as your previous work promoting Kimberly’s career, but Broadway was big time, so you just financed the show through a few shell-donors willing to take credit for your money. The leading lady losing her voice wasn’t creative but it was also easier. And now, Kimberly, who got the understudy job because the producers insisted was going to be on stage on Broadway. Her life’s dream, and you made it happen.

“Suck it Jennifer, you ignorant slut.” You say and then laugh. You’d learned to embrace the little, petty pleasures in life.

That night.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, due to illness the part of Princess Penelope will be played by Kimberly Benedict.”

The crowd was shocked, the talentless celebrity that had been headlining the show was apparently popular. Someone stood up and booed. Immediately a small hand grabbed your arm. You looked over to your daughter, her face red, her jaw set. She raised her right hand, the freeze ray you made her for her 7th birthday clutched in her fingers. You smile and nod. The offending audience member was quickly dealt with, encased and suspended in a lovely blue ice crystal.

After a few shocked gasps and a lot of staring at your daughter who glared back at the entire theater, everyone settled down and the show began. You couldn’t help but notice the applause everytime your wife stepped on stage.

“Mommy looks happy, daddy.”

“That she does darling.”

“Don’t forget you promised we would rob the stock exchange tonight.” She says, clasping your hand.

“I know, baby, but Momma has an after party we need to attend first.”

“I hate those. I want to rob the Stock Exchange.”

“I hate them too, love, but they are important to Mommy.”

She scowled at you, an impressive amount of malice in her eyes.

“Tell you what, if you are polite to the imbeciles at Momma’s party, I’ll let you use the disintegrator on the vault.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

She smiled. “I can be nice to the imbeciles for one hour then.”

You chuckle to yourself, turn back to see your wife singing about her prince, she glances your way, a smile on her face as she does.

You smile back. She isn’t a good singer, but it doesn’t matter, you love her anyway. You couldn’t be happier.