The BTB-Team

Author's Note:

What do Loving Wives readers want most in a story? The answer is obvious: tongue-in-cheek satire based on 1980s television shows.

The following fever dream of a story won't make much sense if you've never seen an episode of the old American action-adventure TV series The A-Team. Hell, it might not make sense even if you have seen the show. You won't find sex here. Or willing cuckolds. Or heartless wives. What will you find? Good question. I can't remember. You'll have to read it to find out. My sincere thanks to Demosthenes384bc for his feedback on an earlier draft.

*******

Ten years ago the members of a crack commando unit each filed for divorce for infidelities that their wives had chosen to commit. These men promptly escaped from their marriages and started new lives in the Los Angeles underground. Today, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have an unfaithful wife; if no one else can help; and if you can find them, maybe you can hire: the BTB-Team.

I heard them before I saw them. The music blaring from their vehicle was deafening. I recognized the song: "Here Comes Revenge" by Metallica.

I watched from the window as their van―a two-tone black and gray monstrosity with a slanting red stripe―squealed around a corner, raced up the driveway, and skidded to a halt.

My neighbor's beagle, Otto, sprinted back and forth along the perimeter of the invisible dog fence. I could see his mouth moving, but the pounding drums drowned out his bark.

The music stopped. The van's doors opened simultaneously. Four men spilled out and began to make their way to the front door.

Leading the group was a silver-haired gentleman with black leather gloves and a cigar in one hand. A tall, skinny fellow wearing a baseball cap and leather jacket shuffled along behind him, glancing nervously from side to side. Next to him strode a muscular, stern-faced man with a mohawk, camouflage tank top, and an assortment of gold chains draped around his neck. A man with perfectly coifed hair, a tailored blazer, and an oily smile brought up the rear.

Otto growled at the new arrivals. The man with the mohawk gave him an icy glare and bared his teeth. Otto yelped and hightailed it to the safety of his front porch.

The men looked nothing like the team of high-powered attorneys I assumed I had hired. But looks can be deceiving, so I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.

I glanced at my watch. Eleven-fifteen on the dot. At least they were punctual.

I opened the door and extended my hand. "Gentleman, I'm Ted Davis. Thanks for coming."

The silver-haired man fixed me with a jovial smile, grasped my hand, and gave it a firm shake. "Name's John Smith. Most people call me Nero."

"Like the emperor?"

He pointed his cigar at me. "That's the one."

"Why do they call you Nero?"

"He likes to watch things burn," growled the man with the mohawk.

"You mean like ... cities?" I asked, confused.

"Like bi―"

"My loquacious associate here is T. A.," Nero interrupted. "And these are the other members of my team." He clasped the shoulder of the nervous man in the baseball cap. "Murphy." Then he nodded at the man with the oily smile. "And Chase."

"Nice to meet you all. Please, come in." I gestured toward the living room, where I'd set five chairs around the table. Each man took a seat. I joined them.

"I understand you have a problem," Nero said.

"I do. My wife, Allison, is cheating on me."

T. A. slammed both fists onto the table. "I hate cheaters!"

"Easy, big guy," Murphy said, patting his arm.

"You're sure that your wife has been unfaithful?" Chase asked.

"Pretty sure," I said. "She told me this morning that she was leaving to spend the day at her new lover's place. Said I shouldn't wait up for her."

"I'd call that pretty solid evidence," Murphy said.

"That's a bold thing to tell your husband," Nero said. "Is this type of thing common for her?"

"No. That's just it. It came out of the blue. One minute, she was a perfect, loving wife. The next minute, she was a completely different person."

"Interesting," said Nero, stroking his chin.

"This must sound crazy."

"Nope. We hear this all the time," said T. A.

"You do?"

"Constantly," said Chase.

"Like, multiple times a day," said Murphy. "Though most people don't explain it as succinctly as you. Some go on for thousands and thousands of words about how awful the wife is. I mean, you wouldn't believe some of the stories we get. These women are just ... monsters."

"Irredeemable, inhuman monsters," Chase said, nodding.

"That's kind of hard to believe," I said. "I mean, if all these women are so awful, why would anyone marry them in the first place?"

Murphy held a finger to his temple and made a circular motion. "People are strange, Ted."

"You should talk," said T. A.

Nero rapped the table with his knuckles. "Let's stay focused, gentlemen. Ted, I have to ask: how did you find us? We don't exactly have a website."

I held up a white business card. "Someone slipped this under my door."

On the front of the card was a picture of a black van with the words "The BTB-Team" emblazoned on the side. Printed below were a phone number and three lines of italicized text:

Burn the B*tch

For all your infidelity needs.

Because nothing purifies the soul and restores the spirit like fire.

Nero took the card. He flipped it over and examined it. "Looks like you have a friend. Probably someone who knows about your wife and has used our team in the past." He pocketed the card, then removed a tri-fold brochure from his bag and slid it across the table.

"What's this?" I asked.

"We like to think of it as a menu of our services," Nero said, smiling.

I picked up the brochure. The cover read: A Menu of Our Services.

"I don't know that I need a menu. What I really need are some top-shelf lawyers who can draw up divorce papers and fight in court to get me the best possible settlement."

"Don't worry. Chase is two steps ahead of you."

Chase held up a thick binder stuffed with papers and waved it in my direction.

"We'll burn her. I assure you," Nero said. "The menu isn't for her. It's for him."

"Him?"

"Yeah. Loverboy," said T. A.

"Oh," I said, opening the brochure. "I didn't realize I had any legal recourse when it came to ..."

My voice trailed off as my eyes focused on the first menu item.

"Rhinoplasty?" I asked.

T. A. stood up and launched his fist at my face. It stopped inches from my nose.

"Okay," I said. "Got it."

I scrolled further down the list. "Opening night?"

Murphy stood up. As he did, his foot clipped the chair. He performed an exaggerated tumble, clutching his shin and writhing on the floor.

"I think I get it," I said. "Break a leg?"

Nero smiled. "Now you're catching on."

I gave a halfhearted grin. These guys certainly had a dark sense of humor. T. A. helped Murphy to his feet.

I continued down the brochure, pausing when I reached the last item in the left column. The words wouldn't register in my brain. I blinked, then read them again.

"Snake pit?" I said aloud.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Nero said.

"Really? Because it sounds pretty bad. Are these poisonous snakes?"

"Venomous," Murphy said.

"What?"

"You mean are they venomous snakes. Venomous animals inject toxin. With poisonous animals, the toxin has to be absorbed. Like with a―"

"Poison dart frog," T. A. said.

Murphy threw up his hands. "Why do you always interrupt?"

"Cause you always take too dang long explaining it."

"Seriously? Dart frog. It's two words. You couldn't wait for me to say two words?"

"Three words. Poison dart frog. And no. I couldn't wait. That a problem?"

"Hey, fellas?" I said. "Can we get back to the poisonous snakes?"

"Venomous," T. A. and Murphy said in unison.

"Whatever. Are the snakes going to kill him?"

"Course not," said T. A.

"They're not venomous," Murphy added. "They'll just scare him. And probably bite him a bunch."

"Look," I said. "I think I made a mistake. This is not at all what I had in mind."

"We can fill the pit with constrictors if biting isn't your style," Nero said.

"Snakes aren't my style!"

"Understood. They're not for everyone. Not a fan myself. We have a wide variety of other options that I think you'll find intriguing."

He reached over and tapped the middle panel of the brochure. I read the options listed on the column, my jaw slackening with each fresh new horror.

"Nutsack ants?" I said in disbelief.

"Oh! Good choice!" said Nero, rubbing his gloved hands together.

"No. I'm not choosing them. I'm asking what they are."

T. A. looked at me like I was an idiot. "What part of nutsack ants do you not understand?"

"Every part."

"Allow me," said Murphy, shouldering aside T. A.

"Paraponera clavate, or bullet ants, are the most painful stinging insect in the world. Their sting produces an ungodly agony that lasts for more than twenty four hours.

"An indigenous group in Brazil uses a natural sedative to subdue the ants, then weaves them into gloves made from leaves. Young men wear the gloves for up to ten minutes as part of an initiation rite.

"We do something similar, only we weave the ants into a custom-made jock strap that we duct tape into place."

"That's horrible," I said.

"You have no idea," T. A. said. "I pity the fool."

Nero put a hand on my shoulder. "It's not just about burning your wife, Ted. It's about burning her lover. And believe me, this will burn."

"You're all psychopaths. This isn't just illegal. It's torture."

"Look, Ted. Accidents happen. One night you're walking down a dimly lit alley, and the next moment you trip penis first into a jock strap lined with bullet ants that someone carelessly left lying around."

"No thanks," I said.

"Okay, how about this one?" Nero pointed to an option in the last column.

"Floor is lava?"

"Yeah," Murphy said. "We take him to an industrial foundry and strand him on a tiny platform above a large crucible filled with molten iron."

"For how long?"

Murphy shrugged. "As long as it takes."

"As long as it takes for what?"

Murphy just stared at me.

"I'm not comfortable doing business with murderers."

"Easy there, Ted. We don't murder people," Nero said.

"Then how do you explain this?" I pointed to the last menu option in the brochure. It read: Cold-Blooded Murder.

"Oh, that's just a joke," Chase said.

"Yeah. A joke," Nero said, winking.

"Stop. I don't want you to touch this guy. Understand? Not a finger. I'll take care of him myself. Got it?"

"A man of action. I respect that, Ted. A lot of our clients feel our methods are too tame. They prefer to dispense their own justice. We'll leave this scumbag in your capable hands."

"Yeah. You do that. Now let's get back to my wife."

"Let's. Who is she with right now?"

"Some asshole named Stanley Richardson."

Nero nodded at Chase, who pulled out a laptop, set it on the table, and began to type.

"Tell me about this Stanley. Is he attractive?"

"Is that important?"

"It could be."

"Handsome enough, I guess. Nothing special."

"Rich?"

"Definitely not."

"Charming and funny?"

"Never struck me as either, but my wife must think so."

"Unusually gifted at something? Great singer? Amazing athlete?"

"Not that I know of."

"Interesting. Why would your wife seek out this man, I wonder? What is it about him that she finds so alluring?"

"No clue. She's always hated him. Maybe he's hung like a horse."

"Statistically unlikely. Even if he were, women in happy marriages don't trash their vows just because some guy sends a dick pic."

"Are you saying I'm not in a happy marriage?"

"Are you?"

"Yes! At least, I was."

"How's the sex? Be honest."

"Fantastic. She can't get enough. Especially the last few days. She's been all over me."

Nero raised an eyebrow. "Again, interesting. We don't have any reports from this area, but I wonder if ..."

He trailed off.

"You wonder what?" I prompted.

"Got him, boss," Chase said. He spun around the laptop and pointed to a map showing an image of a modest single-story home. "837 Maple St."

"Could be a reinforced bunker," Murphy said.

"That'd be my guess," said Chase.

"Bunker?" I said. "It's a single-story ranch."

"To the untrained eye, maybe." Nero stood and walked over to the laptop. He pressed his index finger to the screen. "There. That's our extraction point."

"Extraction point?"

Nero nodded.

"Wait. You're gonna barge in there and drag Allison out? Isn't that kidnapping or something? I hate that she's with that asshole, but she's there of her own free will."

"Not necessarily."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I'll explain later. Right now, we have to gear up. Does your wife have a car we can borrow?"

"Yeah. She took an Uber this morning, so her Honda Pilot is in the garage. Why?"

"Don't worry. It's all part of the plan."

"What plan?"

"Trust us," Chase said.

I sighed and led them to the garage. Murphy whistled as he slid a finger along the gleaming red paint of my wife's car. "This baby new?"

I nodded. "Allison bought it last month."

"It'll do," Nero said. "It'll do just fine." He glanced at T. A. and smiled. "Of course, we'll need Ted's permission to make some ... modifications."

"Yeah," T. A. said. "Modifications."

"Hold on. You're not going to cut the brake lines or anything, right?"

"Ted, relax. We may operate outside the law, but we're not going to murder your wife."

"Okay. It's just, when you said 'modifications,' you raised your eyebrows and gave this creepy smile." I twisted my face into a maniacal grin to show him what I meant. "Then T. A. nodded and gave an even creepier smile. So I assumed 'modifications' had some sinister undertone."

"Stop reading so much into things."

"Yeah, sure. But I feel compelled to reiterate at this point that I do NOT want my wife to be hurt. I just want her to pay for the affair as part of a nasty―but legal and totally above board―divorce."

"Duly noted. Now, can we get some privacy? We have a lot of work to do."

I returned to the kitchen and busied myself researching local divorce attorneys, since the guys in my garage were clearly insane.

For the next five hours, I endured a cacophony of deafening noises: banging and clanging, scraping and pounding, drilling and sawing, the awful rending of metal, and a sound like frying bacon that I knew could only come from arc welding.

Multiple times I rose from my chair to find out what the hell was going on, but each time I slumped back down after deciding that I didn't want to know.

At long last, the noises petered out. The door connecting the house and the garage squeaked open, and Murphy's grease-stained face appeared in the crack.

"You wanna see?" he asked, a huge smile plastered across his face.

"Not really."

I trudged to the door and stared at what had once been my wife's Pilot. In its place now sat what could only be described as a miniature tank.

I don't know where they found all the scrap metal, but slabs of it had been welded or bolted to almost every inch of the Pilot. Even most of the car's windows were now shielded with metal. The door from our garage freezer had been ripped off and affixed to the car's front grill―alongside chunks of what used to be our washer and dryer―forming a makeshift battering ram. The car was a hideous Frankenstein's monster, the physical manifestation of the insanity swirling inside their twisted minds.

All four men stood proudly in a circle around the vehicle, probably waiting for me to rate their work and share my comments.

I shook my head. "I don't have words."

"Your face says it all," said Nero, grinning. "You're welcome."

I sighed. "Chase, let's make sure the paperwork for division of assets specifies that my wife keeps the Pilot."

"You got it, chief."

We piled into the car for the fifteen-minute trip to Stanley's house. T. A. drove and Murphy rode shotgun. I sat in the first row next to Nero. Chase sat in the back, humming an upbeat tune I didn't quite recognize. It sounded like the theme from some old TV show. The others in the van all seemed to know it, because they joined in a few seconds later.

For three miles I sat in stony silence, surrounded by a band of happily humming hooligans.

"You going to tell me what the plan is?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I did," Nero said.

"That's probably true."

Stanley's house sat at the end of a long dirt road. He didn't have any neighbors, which was fortunate, because the sight of our van would almost certainly have convinced them to call the cops.

As we approached the house, the Pilot began to pick up speed.

"Hey, slow down," I said. "It's just up ahead."

"Don't tell me how to drive!" T. A. said.

Murphy craned his head around and gave me a somber look from the front seat. "He hates that," he whispered.

The car lurched into another gear and sped even faster down the dirt road.

"If you don't slow down, you might miss it," I said.

"I'm not gonna miss it," T. A. said. "I'm gonna hit it. Head on, just like we planned."

"You're going to do what?" I yelled.

"You might want to hold on to something," Nero said, cocking an eyebrow and seizing the grab handle above the door.

The Pilot kept accelerating. The side of Stanley's house loomed larger through the windshield, filling almost my entire field of vision. I clutched the grab handle with one hand and braced myself against the front seat with the other.

"Knock, knock!" Murphy screamed.

The seatbelt thrust itself across my chest and an explosion of sound overwhelmed my ears. The car crunched to a stop halfway inside Stanley's house. Dust from shattered bricks and drywall filled the air.

I stumbled out of the car, coughing and patting my hands over my body, checking for injuries. Everything seemed to be in one piece.

I surveyed my surroundings. Stanley sat on a large sectional sofa at the center of the room, naked from the waist down. Surrounding him in various states of undress were four women. One of them was Allison.

All five were frozen in place like statues, heads turned toward the remains of Stanley's wall, looks of utter bewilderment on their faces.

T. A. strode toward the sofa. Stanley's eyes widened in terror. He struggled to stand up but kept sinking back into the soft cushions.

"Who the hell are you people?" he said, leaning forward and trying once more to stand. "Get out of my―"

T. A. placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved him backward. "Sit down, fool."

It was at this point that Allison finally noticed me. "Ted? What are you doing here?"

I shrugged. "Same as you, I suppose. Watching Stanley get fucked."

Nero stood next to the sofa, staring down at Stanley. He propped one foot on the glass coffee table and extracted a cigar from his jacket. "It's Stanley, isn't it?"

Stanley nodded.

"Mind if I smoke, Stanley?" he asked, already lighting the cigar.

"I'd prefer if you didn't."

Nero puffed on the cigar, then blew a thick cloud of smoke into Stanley's face. Stanley coughed.

Nero gestured to the women in the room. Like Allison, they were all scrambling to find their clothes and get dressed. "You're quite a popular guy with the ladies, Stanley."

"A real Don Juan," Chase agreed.

Stanley said nothing.

Nero blew another puff of smoke into Stanley's face. "Why do you suppose that is?"

"I don't know," Stanley said. "Just lucky, I guess."

"Lucky. I see. So, it wouldn't have anything to do with that little gizmo over there?"

Nero pointed to a microwave-sized contraption on the kitchen counter. Its iridescent surface was flecked with bits of green. A circle of metal shaped like a miniature satellite dish extended from one end and pointed toward the sofa. A long rod was fixed to the center of the circle. The rod's spherical tip shimmered and pulsed like a beating heart.