Jack Durkin let out a groan as his wife, Lydia, dropped a bowl of corn flakes in front of him.

“Aw, woman,” he moaned. “You trying to kill me? Corn flakes? This makes twenty-three days straight now.”

“You don’t like it? Get a job that pays money.”

“Get a job that pays money,” he said, mimicking her. “I got a job, you old hag-”

“Don’t you dare call me that!”

“Well,” he said, sniffing, “don’t you make fun of my job then. I spend every day saving this world, and don’t you forget it!”

She laughed at that. “Saving the world? You old fool, you spend all your time pulling out weeds from a field nobody cares about.”

“Pulling out weeds?” he exclaimed with indignation. “Hell you say! I spend every goddamn day from winter thaw to first frost saving this worthless planet. Those ain’t no weeds I’m pulling. They’re Aukowies, as you damn well know! Weeds, huh? Do weeds scream every time you kill one of them?”

Lydia Durkin stopped scrubbing the previous night’s dishes to roll her eyes. Half under her breath she muttered that he was nothing but an old fool.

“Old fool, am I? We’ll see. Maybe I forget to pull one of them evil little suckers out, let it grow nice and big and hungry.” Being as quiet as he could, he pushed himself away from the table and tiptoed over to her on his bare feet. Then, once within striking distance, he jabbed his fingers hard into her ribs, tickling her. “Nothing but one of them Aukowies eating you up,” he laughed.

“Stop it! Stop it!” she screamed, jerking away and striking out with an elbow, catching him flush in his stomach. He stopped, and he stopped laughing, too.

“It’s not funny,” she said. “It’s not funny us living like this. Because you have to spend every day walking up and down a field pulling weeds-”