And here's a little bit of vacation fiction for you.
Henry sat at the table, a dirty mug in his hand. "Where's my damn toast!" His wife looked at him and screamed. "Toast! Again? How many pieces of toast for you will that be today? 40? 50?" Henry drank the last of his cold coffee and stared into the empty mug. "No, but you like to make me feel guilty for enjoying toast on my vacation, don't you?" "Vacation! Ha! All you ever take are staycations and then sit around the house all day eating toast!" Henry got up and walked to the breadbox. "Well, if you had a problem with my love of toast, you should have said something before we got married." Henry reached for a slice of bread and headed for the toaster. His wife watched him with a look of both amazement and disgust on her makeup-free face. "Oh, so now you're gonna make me look like a bad, lazy wife by making your own toast? No way, Jose!" She ran to where he stood by the counter, snatched the bread from his hand, and inserted it into the toaster slot herself. "I suppose you want peanut butter on it again." "Of course. You know I always have peanut butter on my toast." She went to the cabinet where the peanut butter jars were lined up ten wide and five deep. "All this peanut butter. It's ridiculous. And you even have to spread it on your toast thick when I serve you eggs for breakfast. Who ever heard of peanut butter and eggs going together? Who do you think you are, William F. Buckley juniors?" "Just one. It was William F. Buckley junior, not juniors!" The toast popped up and she snatched it angrily from the toaster. "Yeah right, I happen to know there were at least three of them, so you're not pulling the wolf over my eyes, motherfucker!" For a second Henry looked shocked, then he laughed. "It's wool, not wolf!" She opened a jar of peanut butter, retrieved a knife from the silverware drawer. "A normal man would have jam on his toast once in a while, but not you!" "That's because I prefer peanut butter, jam is too damn sweet, and besides, we don't have any decent jam in the house." His wife held the knife in an almost threatening manner now. "No good jam? I can tons of jam for you! The basement is full of it, jars and jars of fruit jellies and jams." Henry lit a cigarette, he only smoked when he was on vacation, and only his favorite brand, Winston, which he first saw on television as a child while watching the Flintstones characters Fred and Barney smoking them during commercial breaks. "Like I said, no decent jam in the house." "How dare you! I slave over that jam and by golly you're gonna have some on your toast!" She reached for the jam cabinet and pulled down a large jar of strawberry. Now Henry was getting angry. "You're not spreading any of that toxic waste on my toast, bitch!" She spread the peanut butter, then brought the plate with his toast on it over to the table where he sat again. She brought the strawberry jam with her, and then, while he sat watching, she defiantly opened the jam, and took the knife and spread big gobs of thick jam over the layer of peanut butter. "Eat it!" As she strutted way, her back turned to him, her nasty fat ass wiggling in a "fuck you" movement, his fury rose like an exploding volcano and he picked up the jar of jam and hurled it at her, striking her on the back of the head. She fell to the floor with a thud. He knew she was dead when he turned her over. When he fully realized what he'd done, he calmed down, and even though it had been an accident, he began to think it wasn't an unfortunate one. The problem would be disposing of the body. Thankfully he was on vacation and would have a few days to work it out. Perhaps he could bury her in the basement where she could be with her precious homemade jam forever. He went back to the breadbox, pulled out another slice of white bread, put it in the toaster, then lit another Winston.
More Than A Little Vacation