Bait and Switch

I knew it wasn't her the moment she swung her hips through my door.

My wife, you see, has a twin sister. The Harpy, I call her. Where my wife is sweet and kind and generous, her twin is the exact opposite. Anything she can do to make anyone else's life miserable, she will. I've seen her throw food at servers in restaurants, steal a homeowner's belongings when invited in, and pitch screaming fits at parties where she wasn't, and should never be, the center of attention.

I knew she'd be trouble when I married her sister. How my wife got all the good traits, when the Harpy got all the bad, I will never know. Taking my love out of that household was one of the better things I've ever done. Their mom had died young - and you'd better believe whom I suspect for her early demise - and their dad just wandered away broken one day. The Harpy wasn't invited to the wedding, though she tried - and my specially hired bouncers took great pleasure in strong-arming her sorry spectacle out the door, while she shrieked obscenities. I made a pretty penny on the video I posted of her antics, and of course she tried to get her cut of the profits.

I wasn't joking that my darling wife was Cinderella, and her twin was all the evil stepsisters rolled into one. Only she would never let a petty thing like being a full sister get in the way of her revenge.

The fact that they both looked so much like each other didn't help matters at all. My wife was mortified on more than one occasion, to learn she was banned from a store that the other had ruined for her. I can't tell you how many times I would have to go in first and explain things, for abused staff to let "the good one" in to shop.

It was wonderful to move away from the manufactured drama. We didn't leave a forwarding address.

But, as tenderhearted as my poor wife was, she'd sometimes make the trip back to visit. It seems, this time, she was kept against her will, and the substitution was made to torture all of us.

I don't play well with these kind of "games." Luckily, I was prepared.

So I played the opening card of "Oh, sweetheart, you didn't tell me you were coming home so soon, shoo, shoo, dinner's not ready yet!" and hustled her out the door. As soon as the latch was locked, I called my buddy at the precinct. He was more than willing to keep an eye on her in town, so the Harpy couldn't ruin my wife's rep here where we'd have to sort out her hideous mess all over again. As far as my buddy was concerned, this was kidnapping, and he fully approved of what I had planned.

And plan I did! A lovely meal - chicken mole, roast root vegetables in a bitter balsamic vinegar sauce, and thick rich milk to wash it down. By the time the Harpy had returned (and my cop buddy had warned me she was pulling in the driveway), it was all set out. The perfect trap.

And her face fell as soon as she smelled it. But if she knew the gig was up, she kept sailing on. Despite her protests that she'd eaten an early snack, and a late lunch, oh hey let's go out for ice cream instead, I sat her down and placed the napkin in her lap and handed her the fork with the first morsel delicately poised at the tip. Even pulled the sad face and played the second card of, "But, darling, this is your fayyyy-vorite meal, why don't you love me any more?" And watched with sad puppy eyes till she'd had good portions of both foods.

Then, of course, I brought out a thick, rich chocolate cake to top off the meal. And served it with more chocolate milk, like I had for the main course. I took great pride in slicing a thick, rich, gooey slice, and sliding it in front of her. I could see her face turn green even in the candle light.

It didn't take her long to try to run to the bathroom before heaving it all back up. By then she didn't even notice my precinct buddy waiting for her to wobble out so he could put her in cuffs.

You see, the Harpy was allergic to chocolate. Couldn't stand the smell, couldn't eat it without getting sick as anything, certainly couldn't keep it down for more than a few minutes after eating it. My darling wife had told me early about her twin's Achilles' heel, and I've exploited it ruthlessly and constantly ever since. Chocolate scented candles, chocolate sauces for all sorts of foods, chocolate-laced spicy perfume, chocolate candies and cookies at every party I host. And since my wife adores it as both food and scent, this works well for both delightful gifts and occasional Harpy detector.

If you ever need a chocolate balsamic reduced glaze to put on every veggie ever created, I'm your guy.

As soon as the Harpy sashayed her repulsiveness through my doorway, reeking of that fake gardenia perfume, I knew it wasn't my wife.

I made phone calls back to my wife's home town, and so did the whole precinct, they were buzzing like a hive of hornets. Sure enough, they found my darling wife stashed in her own childhood closet, tied up and crying. I broke all sorts of speeding laws to get to the hospital, and they did an amazing job of documenting the abuse she suffered while comforting her through the ordeal. I took over that last part as soon as they would let me in the room.

Please don't ask me to recount the trial and sentencing. My darling wife wanted to just forget the whole thing, but the police would not drop the charges. I wouldn't let her either! This went beyond revenge - and would it have led to murder? I think so, though my wife tries to deny it. She's still reduced to tears at the memories.

The Harpy won't get out of prison for a good long time. That's okay. I occasionally cook for them all, prisoners and warden and officers alike. They love my meals, since it's really hard to get good food there. They love how I incorporate chocolate into every part of the meal.

And chocolate cakes, one for each of the police stations that saved my darling. Rich, and gooey, and fudge-like sauce dripping from each forkful. It's a shame some people can't appreciate such delicacy. Bon appetit!