The group of woman crowded around sobbing Alice. Her mascara ran and her heels lay shunned. Her only desire was to be swaddled. Blankets. Chocolate. Sugar. Tears. Cuddly iguanas. Understanding.

Weapons.

Her support group clicked on Titanic but no one was really watching. They were plotting.

Alice’s boyfriend Bryant of thirteen months, eighteen days, two hours, and two minutes had just dumped her.

Sweet Alice, air headed Alice, innocent, iguana-loving Alice.

The ringleader, Wren, was mad. Furious, even. She wasn’t alone in the phenomenal rage of this protective friend group.

Any male could sense the tension of revenge from miles away.

How should they do it, they asked themselves. Death by chocolate? Too merciful. Makeup brush suffocation? Meh. Ubiquitous stabbing? That will do.

A plan was produced: surround the house, approach about a fake fundraiser, gag, bind, kidnap. Wren would stay with Alice, comforting and calming her with ideas of homocide, strengthening the desire for bloodshed, crafting an intricate revenge plot.

“Hunt down the traitor, and bring them back to me alive. Quick, easy, leave him helpless,” Wren ordered. Hisses of agreement came from the shadows as they inhumanly set off. Threats swept through like fog. They disappeared into the night, clicking heels and bloodthirsty sprints.

They acted possessed, obsessive and crazy. No man would escape their rasping feminine rage tonight.