The Last Great Act of Defiance

"Well, it looks like cucky-boy has finally grown a set of balls," he said. "What are you going to do, cuck? Are you going to shoot me?" He laughed and the woman joined him.

"This ends now," Allen said with conviction. "And yes, I'm going to blow your fucking brains out."

"Well, then, I guess I had better prepare to meet my maker," the man said sarcastically, his arms wide.

"Shut the fuck up and don't move," Allen said, cocking the pistol. The man's face changed as he realized Allen was serious. The woman's tone also changed.

"Allen, please don't do anything stupid," she said. "Look, you don't have to watch us fuck, okay? Just go away and we'll celebrate without you. It won't be as much fun, though, without you here for us to humiliate."

"Shut up, bitch. I'll deal with you next." Her eyes widened in shock. Allen had never spoken to her like this before.

"Allen, look, we don't have to resort to violence. This isn't necessary. You're not going to shoot me or anyone else and you know it. Please, put the gun down and let's discuss this like mature adults," the smirking man said, now clearly nervous.

"Oh, so it's 'please' now, is it?" Allen said. "You see, that's the problem with assholes like you. You think you can just waltz into someone's home, steal the wife, strip the man of his dignity and then expect the injured party to discuss it calmly. The problem with people like you is that you mistake patience for weakness. You get cocky and overconfident. Well guess what, asshole? Tonight, you're going to pay the piper. You fucked my wife, stole my dignity and my manhood and tonight, I'm taking it back. And yes, you will die."

"Allen, I'm begging you, please put the gun down and we can end this," the man said.

"Would you get on your knees and beg for your life?" Allen asked. The man slowly got on his knees, his hands in the air.

"Please, Allen, I'm begging you, don't kill me. We can put this to an end right now and you'll never see me again," he said. Allen addressed his wife.

"Look at that, Maggie. Your lover is now on his knees begging me for his life. What do you think now? Not so cocky now, are you, you sonofabitch?" he asked the man. "Whaddya think, Mags, should I let him live? Mmmm... No, I don't think so. Goodbye, asshole," Allen said as he pulled the trigger.

The man's eyes grew wide at Allen's last statement, but he had no time to respond as the .45 caliber hollow-point bullet struck him directly in the forehead and exited out the back, taking about half of the man's brains and cranium. He fell backward, a pool of blood soaking the ground. Maggie screamed and covered her ears. Allen shifted and pointed the gun at her.

"Shut up," he yelled. "Just shut the fuck up." Maggie stopped screaming but her makeup began running as tears poured out of her eyes.

"You murdered him," she yelled.

"Yes, I did," Allen said. "But you and your lover murdered me two years ago. And you've been driving a stake through my heart every day since then. So I guess that makes it even. Now it's your turn to feel pain."

"Please Allen, don't kill me," she sobbed. "I'm sorry I hurt you like that, really I am."

"No, Mags, you're not sorry. Not at all. And don't worry, I'm not going to kill you," Allen said, a twisted smile forming on his face. "Not that I haven't thought about it. Oh yeah, I actually considered killing you a hundred times and I could've done it, too. But I figured that would be too good for you. Now, I want you to live to be 100 and I want every day to be a reminder of what you did. That's right, you are directly responsible for the deaths of two men. One being your lover and the other being the man who loved you exclusively for 17 years.

"And by the way, Mags, I'm dying. Four months ago, I was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and given six months to a year to live. But I decided to take charge of my own fate.

"And before you celebrate my death, I want you to know that I changed my will and all my retirement accounts after my heart attack. You're getting nothing. Zero, zilch, nada. After I'm done here, there'll be a nice young man giving you something that explains it all," he said.

"Can't we talk this out?" she asked.

"No, Mags, I tried talking to you for the last two years. You made it clear how you felt about me. Now you're going to pay the price. Hell, you probably didn't even notice that I haven't worn my wedding ring for the last few months, have you?

"Yeah, I know you spent $2,000 on that ring. I got $20 for it a pawn shop. Maybe if you're quick, you can get it out of hock before they sell it," he said.

"You did WHAT?" she asked. "That was a special ring I had made just for you."

"Yeah, about that. You didn't seem to give a shit about it the last ten years, did you? You sure as hell didn't care the last two years," he said. "In fact, I don't even remember you once telling me that you love me in the last few years. In fact, you made it clear I just didn't do it for you anymore. I could've accepted a divorce, but no, you had to hurt and humiliate me every chance you got."

"Please, Allen, let's get some help, maybe some counseling. Don't do this," she begged.

"Now you give a shit? Now that I'm really dying? No, Mags, it's too late," he said. "I warned you this wouldn't end well but you wouldn't listen. Oh, and by the way, you might want to prepare yourself to get a shitload of calls after I'm done. You see, this is all being recorded and will be sent by email to everyone you know – your friends, family, everyone you work with, even a bunch of media contacts."

"No, please," she cried. "Let's start over, please. I've learned my lesson."

"Too little, too late, Mags," he said. "Goodbye."

With that, Allen put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The top of his head flew off, spraying blood and gray matter everywhere. Maggie screamed hysterically.

"NOOOOOO! Please, Allen, NO. Don't die, please. Come back to me, Allen, please, please, please. I'm sorry, Allen. Really, I am. ALLEN! Please! I didn't mean it! I really do love you!"

I stopped the video, saved it, then pulled up the email draft, attached it and hit send. I waited until I saw the notification that the email had been sent and turned the phone off. I walked to the hysterical woman, who looked up at me. I pulled out the envelope marked, "Mags" and handed it to her.

"Who are you?" she asked through her sobs.

"From what Allen says, I'm the closest thing to a son he ever had. Too bad. I think he would've made a great dad. Good luck," I said. I heard the sound of sirens and left as quickly as I could.

I may have seemed calm outside, but was shaking for quite some time. I had, after all, just witnessed one man's murder and another man commit suicide in the most violent way imaginable. It took me some time before I could keep it together long enough to place a couple of calls.

The first call was to my buddies, telling them I had to leave early in the morning. They took it well, but asked if I was alright. I promised to tell them about it sometime. The next call was to the attorney whose number was on the card in the envelope Allen gave me.

I identified myself and we spoke for a few minutes. He told me to come see him at his D.C. office in the next day or two, then gave me the directions to the bank that held the safe deposit box where I was to store Allen's phone. He then told me to turn on the news. I did, and saw a shortened, edited version of the video I sent out. Apparently, the suicide of a prominent member of the Washington political class was considered newsworthy.

"Attempts to reach the widow of Allen Jacobs have so far been unsuccessful," the announcer said. "According to videos sent to a number of media outlets, tonight's incident is the result of what appears to be an ongoing love affair she allegedly had with a foreign diplomat. It's not known exactly how Jacobs sent the video of his own suicide, but it's generally believed he had help doing so. The State Department has not released a statement on the murder of the foreign diplomat. Stay tuned for updates."

I flipped through the news channels to see my video everywhere. I fired up my laptop and found that reports on Allen's suicide had gone viral. Reports said there were three videos, but parts of only one were considered safe for network use. At least one of the other two videos, the articles said, were pornographic in nature and showed Mrs. Jacobs engaging in sexual activity with the foreign diplomat.

The next day, I returned to the States and made my way to the attorney I had spoken to earlier. He informed me that Allen had changed his will some time ago making me the sole beneficiary of his entire estate except for his house, which he had given to a non-profit group so it could be turned into a shelter for homeless veterans. After taxes and fees, he said, I would receive about $10 million.

A few days later, I was at Arlington National Cemetery, attending Allen's funeral. Mrs. Jacobs was there as well, playing the role of the grieving widow, but no one paid her any attention. She sobbed as a Marine in dress blues handed her the flag that was draped over his coffin.

The reading of Allen's will went about the same. She tried contesting the will, but withdrew her objection after Allen's attorney suggested some of the more salacious videos of her with her lover would be used against her and thus become public record.

After the meeting, she came over to me.

"I hope you're happy," she said. "I lost everything." I couldn't believe my ears.

"You didn't lose anything," I told her. "You threw it away. To be precise, you deliberately fucked it away. Now you're getting what you deserve."

I left her standing there and went back to school, where I became more determined than ever to do my best. I wanted to be the kind of man that would make both Allen and my dad proud.

At the same time, I kept a loose tab on Maggie Jacobs and caught an interview with her on one of those daytime talk shows for women.

She tried to play the victim, claiming abuse and infidelity, and three of the co-hosts went along, but one of the hosts had apparently seen all three videos and began to politely confront her with her own words. Maggie denied ever saying what the host recalled, so she played the video where she admitted that Allen had never abused her or cheated on her.

"And isn't it true that you refused to call 911 when your husband was having a heart attack?" the host asked. "From what I understand, you and your lover kept right on having sex even as your husband was dying. How do you respond to that?"

Naturally, that pretty much ended the interview and Maggie left the set in tears, having been confronted by her own words and actions. To my knowledge, she never appeared on any other program.

Then an article appeared a few months later that said she was found dead in her apartment, the apparent victim of suicide.

According to the report, she had been placed on paid administrative leave following Allen's suicide. The man she was screwing turned out to be more than just a foreign diplomat. Several intelligence operatives had apparently connected him to ISIS and there were those who believed Maggie had passed on sensitive information.

Unable to deal with the result of her own actions, she took an overdose of pills, followed by a significant amount of alcohol. Officers who discovered her body said she was wearing her wedding dress and was holding her wedding photo to her breast. A note on her nightstand simply read, "Please forgive me."

I followed Allen's advice where women were concerned. I dated quite a few, did what I set out to do and moved on. I fell in "love" a time or two but changed my mind after I met their parents.

Then I met Karen. We dated for a long time and I found myself falling in love with her. She invited me to meet her parents over the holiday and I was struck by the way they interacted with each other. Although married for 30 years, they acted like teenagers, constantly sneaking hugs and kisses. It was obvious they truly loved one another. More than once, Karen suggested they get a room.

"How do you think you got here?" her mom said, laughing. By the end of the trip, my mind was made up. Her father spoke to me privately before we left.

"You seem like a really nice guy, George, and I see how my daughter looks at you. Tell me the truth, do you love her? I mean, really love her?" he asked.

"Yes sir, I do," I told him. It was true, I did love Karen, very much.

"Do you love her enough to spend the rest of your life with her?" he asked. That was the $64,000 question.

"I believe I do," I told him.

"Good," he said. "Because if you ever hurt my little girl, you'll have us to answer to." I considered what he said and carefully formulated my response. I realized he was only looking out for his daughter and I respected that.

"Sir," I said, "I know first-hand what can happen when a marriage breaks down. I've personally seen the pain it can cause and I swear to you that I would never, ever do anything to hurt her. Someday, I'll tell you my story and I hope you'll understand."

I'm not sure if it was the expression on my face or the tear struggling to escape my eye, but he seemed to understand and shook his head.

"Okay, George, that's good enough for now," he said. "And I'm going to hold you to that."

Karen and I married after I graduated law school. At her father's insistence, we signed a prenuptial agreement to protect both our assets. In addition to my $10 million, Karen had inherited a large sum of money from her grandparents and we all agreed it was for the best.

She and her parents seemed confused when I told them of my plan to join the Marines and become a JAG officer, a military attorney. They had assumed I would be accepting a high-paying job with one of the many prominent law firms that tried to recruit me. That's when I told them of my dad and Allen.

"Oh my God, that's so sad," Karen said. I played them the video I took that night in Cozumel. Although Allen's phone was still in storage, I was one of the 1,000-plus recipients of the email sent out that night.

"You were the one who took that video?" she asked. "I wondered how he got that video to the media so fast. Didn't anyone ever question you?"

"No," I said. "I guess the authorities figured it didn't really matter. And now with Mrs. Jacobs dead, the case is closed. I've got lots of video that he took, but it's not something for the squeamish."

I looked at Karen's father.

"Now you know why I'll never do anything to hurt your little girl," I said. "And I assure you, if there's any problems, I'll take the initiative and get them fixed before they get out of hand." He understood, giving me a manly hug.

"I believe you, son. And thanks for sharing that with us. It had to be painful to witness that."

About a year later, Karen gave birth to a boy. She asked me what I would like to name him and I said, "Michael Allen Richardson, after the two bravest men I've ever known." Michael was my father's first name, and you already know who Allen is.

"Michael Allen," she said. "I like it. Michael Allen it is."

And here we are, at Arlington National Cemetery, in front of Allen's grave.

I know there are some who, upon hearing this story, will think Allen was a gutless wimp for taking his wife's crap for so long. I know there are some who would question why he put up with the humiliation as long as he did. I'm one of them. Maybe he was a bit wimpy for a time. Maybe he thought the love they once had would win out in the end. Who knows? Maybe he thought she would come to her senses after a while. I chose not to judge the man since I wasn't there. What I do know for a fact is what I witnessed that day in Cozumel. That was certainly not the act of a gutless wimp.

I pulled a small Eagle, Globe and Anchor out of my uniform pocket and placed it on his headstone.

"Semper Fi, Allen," I quietly said. "Rest in peace."