The wife and my death squad..!

IT was a small argument we’d had the night before, but the wife wasn’t looking at me as she read the papers this morning. From the corner of my eye I watched her chuckle then snigger and say, “You should be careful when you write! Otherwise, wham! Wham! Wham! And you’ll be gone!” “Whoa! Whoa!” I said incredulously, “What brought this along?”
She sniggered again and left the room, leaving the paper she had been reading half open. I scuttled over and looked at what had brought out her outburst, then stared fearfully at the headline, “Sri Lanka’s Field Marshall Fonseka had testified that ‘Death Squads’ had targeted journalists!’
I looked furtively out of my window. Was that a branch of a tree or a rifle pointing at me? I walked hastily to my laptop and scanned my previous columns. Had I written anything against the rich, the famous or the powerful? I’d written a few on Trump, and that was scary. I pulled out my phone and shakily called the Whitehouse, “Sir, I’m sorry!” I said, “Please don’t shoot me!”
“Do you have a beard?” “Yes!” I said shakily, “I do!” “Just hold on, till our satellite tracks you!” I slammed down the phone and looked fearfully into the sky. I didn’t know how American death squads operated but I’d seen a video showing how the SEALS killed Osama, and ran to the gate and locked it. The lock was Chinese and I speculated that by the time the US soldiers figured how to open a Chinese lock, I could jump out of the window and be away.
Life had suddenly turned topsy-turvy. I stared at my previous columns, I’d written a severe one on Modi, and I decided I’d ring him and apologize, “Sir,” I said into the phone, “Please forgive me!” “We will conduct a surgical strike on you!” said the now famous voice.
“No! No! Leave me alone!” I wept as I put down the phone. The wife came back to my room. “Something the matter?” “I think I went too far!” I said weakly. “Yes,” she said, “You did. Maybe it’s time for an apology!” “I’m sorry!” I said, “I should not have said harsh words to you last night!” Apology accepted!” said the wife, looking pleased as punch. “Now what’s next?” “Death squads!” I whispered. “I’m scared!” “I’ll handle it!” she said, “Now that you’ve apologized, just go and write!”
I went gratefully to my laptop and stared at the blank screen, then heard my wife’s voice speaking quietly into her phone from the other room, I tiptoed to the door, “It was a bit difficult,” she giggled, “Trying to imitate Trump, then Modi, but it was worth the effort!”
I frowned, then smiled, then guffawed, opened my windows and looked happily at the bright blue sky, it was good to be alive, a journalist, and not have a death squad waiting to mow me down..!