The estate sale of the last descendant of the Sureille brothers was mostly for charity. The bidding was justifiably high to the historical and collectors' value of the personal belongings and heirlooms of a dead grand legacy.

Mrs. White had never gone to one before. Her services as a maid had cost her many things over the years, but she had saved the best of the money for herself, not her 'sniveling and worthless' husband. He had inherited a fortune and hoarded it from her, only giving her permission to stop cleaning houses. A job cleaning for bachelors of only a slighter degrade from the man she was chained to by her pride.

And her prize was the last of the 1881 bottles of wine. It was going to be her's and she thought maybe she would share with some friends. Maybe. What friends? She wasn't sure.

When she got home, Mr. White demanded his supper. She reminded him that he had a maid for that job. She then went about setting her prize in its place among her other delicate things. Somehow her demeanor had agitated the nasty creature in Mr. White.

He went about considering a drunken and vengeful plan. After dinner, while Mrs. White bathed, he decided to help himself to her prize bottle of wine.

"It's vinegar." He spat cruelly onto her nice rug. The red glob soaked there, as if a premonition. He felt a chill but shrugged it off, taking another swig before resigning it to the spot he'd found it, recorked.

Just as he finished corking the bottle and wiping away his lips on the back of his white sleeve, he turned. There stood Mrs. White in her white bath towel. She had known something was wrong.

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"You opened my wine! You ruined it!" She claimed.

"It was vinegar anyway. Tastes disgusting." Mr. White argued with his wife.

"It was mine, you have your own things!" Mrs. White growled, feeling her hostility elevating.

"Get out of my way." Mr. White resented his wife's countenance and tried to shove her aside. The towel fell free of her and she staggered naked. "Oh that's a sight!"

"Get off of me!" Mrs. White protested. She had often wanted to protest, and as she did she just let it all out and even rolled over and elbowed him in his jaw.

"You hit me!" He grunted, clawing at her as she scrambled away. He fell flat on the ground as she got up.

"I just wanted one thing!" Mrs. White was deadly serious. She took the bottle up in her hand like a club. When Mr. White was upon her and trying to grope her clumsily, she struck him on his shoulder.

"What? What are you doing?" Mr. White glared in pain. Then the bottle took him across the side of his face and he bit off the tip of his tongue. He spewed some blood onto her nice rug. Then she brought the bottle straight down and it took the side of his temple with the clink of the bottle on bone and a soft crunch, like crackers.

"That's it." Mrs. White grunted. He fell to his knees and she looked at the indentation on his head. Something came over her then, she realized she had injured him horribly, that there was no going back. She struck him again atop his skull and the bottle shattered. She was still holding the neck and the broken bottle had become a knife.

As Mr. White fell back unconscious and she straddled him, breathing heavily. Some crazy instinct led her to reach into his pajamas for it, found his manhood ready and she inserted it into herself. Then, atop her husband like that, she started stabbing the glass into him. Just a little bit at first, but gradually deeper and more excited until she had stabbed him numerous times and broken off the rest of the glass inside him.

Mrs. White got up with blood and fluids running down her. She looked to where the maid stood trembling. Mrs. White said, before laughing madly:

"It's okay: we do this every Sunday."