Veronica Kent knew that things weren't right
when she found a severed hand in recycling bin one night.
Bloody fingers on old magazines were an unexpected fright.
Veronica Kent knew that things weren't right.
She confronted her husband (who hadn't been the same
since he had a full face transplant and changed his name.)
He said that he'd found it, an excuse somewhat lame.
So she thought she'd sneak around; play him at his own game.
He often left his Thumbscrews untidily on the floor.
There was blood on his shirts that he couldn't account for.
His favourite y-fronts concealed a grappling hook and claw.
She'd washed his pants a thousand times and never seen those before!
She found a suitcase filled with cash, in small denominations
and a drawer filled with blueprints and sinister machinations.
His browser history was full of research on the United Nations
(which wasn't a pop group, as he'd claimed, but an international organisation.)
All this weird paraphernalia made Veronica stop and think:
there was the filthy AK-47 lying in the sink,
and photos on the notice board with people crossed out in red ink.
There was a realisation to be had here, and Veronica was on the brink.
Now she put two and two together, it was as clear as day,
Harry didn't work in the factory on Mount Pleasant Way.
Those trips to Washington DC were more than holidays
and whenever he said he'd “get a Chinese”, he never returned with a takeaway.
So those vials of smallpox in the fridge by the chicken
were not a culinary ingredient to make cake mix thicken!
But what really caused Veronica's heart rate to quicken
was the package they received, in the post, that was ticking!