Oliver Walcztloh was told that suburban bliss was the greatest thing a man could hope for in the modern age. That was hard to believe when he had triplets and an ex-wife on a feminist kick. Soccer, ballet, gymnastics, home, dinner, bed, repeat. No help from the ex-missus, she was determined to make him do it all himself and shell out half his monthly wages for alimony.

"Wicked Bitch of the West," he muttered to himself.

There was a jackass on the road, as usual. Some idiot in a semi truck that wouldn't let him get over no matter how many times he honked or flashed his lights. Oliver took another look in his rear view mirror...yup, a long line of traffic was forming behind him.

Oliver wished there was some way he could reach out to the cars behind him and telepathically assure them that he wasn't the problem.

His phone started playing the Wicked Bitch's theme song and his heart sank. He looked at the screen on his dashboard, pressing the green button only to find that nothing happened. He stabbed it repeatedly, fury rising with each jab of his finger until the display finally followed his command.

"Really, Oliver?"

"Sharon," he began through gritted teeth, "it's not me, it's this fucking car your brother sold me. The screen's defective or some shit."

"I don't have time for this," she snapped. Sighing as if she was the victim, she continued, "Why haven't you picked up Lacey from Soccer yet?"

He was late, sure, but if she was that angry about it, she could always go and get Lacey herself. Oliver thought about reaching through the screen and--he pushed the thought out of his mind.

"There's an asshole on the road," he curtly responded.

"So you're on your way, good to know. Five-thirty means five thirty, Oliver! I have no clue why this is so hard for you to comprehend. I manage to do it and-"

"And you're back in school, working a full time job, and dealing with early-onset menopause," he continued. "I've heard the speech before, Phenomenal Woman."

"Yes, and you're an unemployed former athlete coasting by on League settlements and ad royalties," she shouted. "There's no excuse for your perpetual tardiness!"

Oliver pressed the red button.

"I heard a tapping...ARE YOU TRYING TO HANG UP ON ME?!"

He pressed harder until her screeching finally died.

Finally free of the Wicked Bitch's cacophonous voice, Oliver said "fuck it" and turned his blinker on. Carefully mindful of the next lane, he swung his car to the side then floored the gas pedal. He raced past the semi, then re-entered the original lane. It felt nice to have at least one victory that day.

Going no less than twenty over the limit the whole way, it didn't take Oliver long to get to the park. He briefly considered not pulling his car between the two, blue lines reserved for the 'handicapped', but soon chased those thoughts away and took the spot anyway. He glanceda t his watch as he killed the car's engine; the idiot in the semi made him 20 minutes late.

Oliver got out of the car and looked around him. The parking lot was empty save one or two other cars. He could see the soccer field in the distance. Though covered in shadows cast by the trees in the twilight, he could tell that it had long been abandoned. There wasn't even a single orange, soccer cone to be seen in the green beyond. 

Frantically, he reached into his pocket, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw a text from Lacey. She'd gotten a ride with her friend, Sam, and his parents. Oliver's feelings were mixed. Sam's dad was a balless beta that clearly sided with his ex-wife in the divorce, but Sam's mom was trying to stay neutral in the entire process. He hoped that meant she'd convinced her husband not to rat him out to his ex.

Oliver shook his head as he re-entered his car. As many people do when unaware that they're in a horror story, he neglected to check the back seat...

Continued in CH 7.3