The Case of Velda Blair

  Velda Blair was Ozarkan, ex military, married, and in her golden years. She felt good besides bodily aches and was extra salty. She wasn't your usual woman. She had more hair and muscle in some places than her husband. She was something of a fierce and resolute troll, too unprepossessing for most men and tolerable enough for one. She had a good mane of jet black hair if one were to look at her from behind and willing to forgive her squinting or not when she turned around. Any jeering or gibing in regards to her unique appearance was water off a duck's back to Velda - bless her heart. Her constitution was that of solid rock.
  Most days Velda loved life, raised her three daughters with an iron fist, worked hard, played hard, and tolerated her husband who tolerated her. Their tolerance of one another could be considered love, was a kind of love, but couldn't be analyzed with any satisfactory measure of precision. It baffled some and amazed others. It was inculpable much like the universe when delving too deep for illusory answers. The answers seemed tangible and explicable but disappeared as soon as they were grasped. However, their love seemed functional and indeed it was.
  Most women do not like being called a bitch even when behaving as such. Therefore the epithet is ineffable. A veritable bitch must not be called a veritable bitch aloud. That is a privilege reserved for lesbians, Athena's warriors, and...and ah - trolls. Like most racial slurs and epithets, they are off limits to the tongue of any outsider who did not suffer the century-old rancorous history. Persons directly and egoically associated to the history may use these words freely amongst themselves if they so choose. Some are more polite than others having no particular interest in utilizing these words at all. However, any outsider is off limits regardless and may begrudge his neighbor these words to no avail. That is all.
  Calling a woman a bitch is impolite, impertinent despite stark lack of feminine rank, and unthinkable. However,  the man in question is most certainly an asshole and may be called so without equality between sexes. This is the way of things. Would Velda know this? Most words didn't matter to Velda. Many times she rose above them. She was a woman of action. In her erstwhile military days she was more fit and masculine than her gunny whom she rendered unconscious for yelling too much. When he awoke  he was so impressed that he decided to forget the matter altogether and bestow upon her more befitting rank. She knocked him out again asserting her position in that she did not require anything from a man. When awoken he was so impressed that he gave her an honorable discharge and a couple of shiny medals to boot. He had never met a woman such as Velda Blair and would ne'er again in his lifetime. "I will amain see to it that ya don't," said Velda as there were no more Veldas in mass production on the planet.
  Velda didn't mind being called a bitch when she conducted herself as such. What she found irksome and intolerable was being called a bitch behind her back. Her husband grossly erred when her back was turned one foreboding and seminal day. He called her a bitch and not to her face when engrossed in an argument loud enough for themselves, sparing their children's presence of course. Her daughters were eating breakfast at the table before school. She bided her time like a champion, patient and surreptitious. She waited for her girls to finish their dainty victuals. "Okayyy, girls," she chirped, patting them each on their jet black heads and behinds before sending them off to school.
  Her husband was facing her still when she prepared him his eggs and bacon the same way she always did without complaint or rebuke. She loved him afterall, but she didn't have a clean shot and she was exceedingly patient. She washed the skillet till it shined like a mirror and spat smack in the middle of it for sportive affirmation. This was a good way to pass the time, waiting for him to finish his breakfast ere he dashed off to his construction job. She would later have to call  his employer under the pretext of her husband being deathly ill and who would need at least two days to convalesce. Velda had perfected her slippery whiles over time. "Sir, he can't come in, and if your establishment has any respect for its employees, ya'll should  just submit and heed my request." She talked to Elmo, the boss man of hers truly.
  She continued aggresively keeping her tongue chaste, "He can come in his state if you want a lawsuit on yer hands."
   "No no no," said the sheepish Elmo. "There's no call for that. Mr. Blair has always done exemplary work."
  "I'm glad we agree. You tell that wife of yers I said hello." She hung up the phone and trudged back into the kitchen where her husband breakfasted. She always ate last and strangely she didn't seem to mind.
 "Who's that," her husband said with his mouth full.
 "Just my lady friend from across the way. She's comin' over for shots and Hearts later.
"Oh, well don't get too carried away."
"Ya mind yer own damn business. Just be sure to bring home my bacon, Pappa Bear. Besides, I'm put out by ya."
  Her husband paid no heed and ate well never leaving anything on the plate. She enjoyed what a facile task it was to clean his dish. "Thanks, love" he said preemptorily giving her his plate. She said nothing, feeling no affection whatsoever for him due to his recent transgression and washed the plate. She kept the skillet at ready atop a counter space. She eyed it like a gun in a rack, her favorite and the one she used the most in battle. "Hellooo Darlin," she whispered grabbing it firmly off the counter and holding it at her side, drying it for an unusual, needless period of time. This estranged elapse was part of her machination for Hubbie. He turned his back and began to occupy himself. This behoved Velda and she was a speedy opportunist. She had a good balanced weight on the skillet. She tightened her grip on the handle, skin and sinues in a lithe and strong hand stretched soundly. She aimed for the back of his head. She thumped him good and layed him out. He fell quickly. She knew and was accustomed to  how thick her husband's head was and hit him a few pounds shy of premature death. She could've killed him  had she wanted to, but she loved him. Velda was a stout Ozarkan warrior, no more no less.
   The frying pan hit his bald apex and put him down like a bull before slaughter, fast and hard. The clamor of the impact resounded in the kitchen for a brief moment. Consequently the frying pan was  slightly cracked and dented down the middle. Velda thought better of herself and fetched a pillow to put under his head. She also reverently added an ice pack, dropping it lazily on a face with a gaping mouth and a tongue hanging out. She hung the trophy skillet where he could see if for days to come. He would mark and remember the day well.
   When he awoke he apologized soundly and with some alacrity. He professed his undying love for her. She forgave him his transgression and bid him never call her a bitch behind her back again. He never called her bitch in any fashion after that. He kept a civil tongue in the kitchen and would tip-toe passed the trophy skillet with dread and remembrance. There is and will be no other case like that of Velda Blair.