My Cardboard Balcony

A Nitwit Stole Gold Teeth by Belinda Roddie A nitwit stole gold teeth from a brass box that my dear wife kept on an old nightstand. He found a way to break through seven locks and stuff all twelve molars into his hand, balling it up into a fist. He slid across the slick linoleum, searching for a container with a matching lid to hide his new precious metals within. My dear wife marched down the stairs with her old sword cane, the snake head nearly hissing at the stumbling oaf. Sure enough, all the gold dropped from his hand, and, like a frightened cat, he scurried off. He had done the trick well, but my love with a sword was Nitwit Hell.

As the montage unfurled across the large movie screen, I found myself struck with a sense of ennui. This was not the film I imagined would be produced from my brain hemorrhage of a novel. The stream of blurred scenes, complete with cheesy song from the newest band braze, seemed far too succulent and exaggerated for my liking. But my wife was there, watching, and she was even getting teary-eyed. "Need a tissue?" I asked snidely under my breath. "Nope," she said. "Just a less stupid movie."