THE TRIPLE WINNER CLUB

A Fictional Short Saga of Secrecy

By izzy ess of craziness

On the fourth Thursday of each and every month, the dinner and meeting of the Wetland Chapter of TRIPLE WINNER CLUB was held at the posh Royal Reynolds Hotel, in Wetland, Ontario, Canada.  During the evening, there were open lines to other Chapters who were meeting at approximately the same time, in other cities in North America.  It was strictly private.  To be present, you must be a Triple Widow, or better and have been sworn to secrecy.  No reporters or photographers were ever allowed.  Careful checking was essential.  All the ladies stripped off all their clothes, as a kind of kindred ritual, but also as a re-assurance that no was carrying weapons or recording devices.  All of the cooking and serving, seating and greeting was done by the CLUB members themselves.  The staff of the hotel was tipped, generously, and discharged before anyone could overhear or discern what was being discussed.  Officially, the TWC was started in 1938, but unofficially, such secret meetings were going on long before then.  I’m taking a chance in secretly writing this on my home computer, as I have been sworn to secrecy many times since my third husband died.  I am one of the poorer members of the TWC and I’m writing this in the hopes of selling it to a newspaper or magazine.  Most of the other members of the CLUB were very wealthy, owned at least one large house and drove at least one large black car, unless they had hired a chauffeur.

The fare for the evening was a seven course meal featuring lobster and filet mignon.  Each course had its own wine or liqueur.  I found it humourous because the ladies who were serving and clearing dishes were all naked and had hanging, swinging breasts.  The motion of their breasts would have made a ballet very interesting, had there been ballet music.  Four of the ladies, who weren’t serving and clearing plates, were in a quartette of musicians on a small stage playing old show tunes from Show Boat, Oklahoma, Guys and Dolls and Carousel.  The banjo player was particularly good and the pianist was excellent.  The saxophonist and fiddler were out of tune and not in time.  They created their own ballet with flapping breasts and flopping derrieres.  The food was delicious and the liqueurs were intoxicating.  I felt guilty for my plans to expose the Club and its discussions of techniques for offing wealthy, elderly husbands, who had been enticed into marriages without prenuptial agreements.  No one had every been accused or suspected of murder and mayhem.  One had induced her hard of hearing spouse into the front grill of a giant tractor-trailer while another had induced her almost blind spouse into falling into an elevator shaft.  Yet another boasted of undetectable poisons and others were proud of staged suicides.  The techniques for killing wealthy men were very creative and effective.  Fairly common were bathtub drownings.  Not a few had arranged deaths in private swimming pools.  My memories were straining to hold onto details of the stories overheard and discussions that ensued.

I’ve picked this Blog to print my story.  My fear of retribution has me in disguise and moving to another town.  Sincerely, dizzyisobel@blogger.com

THE END

© izzy sommers, md

Welland, Canada