The day after we got our marriage license, I saw a trending post on a local subreddit. The poster, bragging with a photo of a marriage certificate, wrote: [Free gym membership acquired.] When users asked what he meant, he proudly shared his "wisdom": [A marriage license is basically a free gym pass.] [Use the wife as a punching bag. Workout while you discipline. The more you hit her, the clingier she gets.] [You hit her, and her only request is 'please stop hitting me.' You don't hit her, and she has a million demands.] [My biggest wish is to have a wife who won't die no matter how hard I hit her. Bonus points if she makes good sounds when hit.] I was intrigued by his confidence. He gave off the vibe of someone who was begging for a beating. I created a burner account and DM'd him: [Bro, what kind of 'hit sounds' are good? Can you give us a demo?] He replied instantly: [Sure. I'm planning to practice on my new nurse wife tonight. I'll record it for the boys!] After confirming the poster was my new husband, Mark, I had an epiphany. I crushed the thermos in my hand, cracked my knuckles, and got ready to go home for a "workout." Chapter 1 In a short time, the post had accumulated 14,000 upvotes. It was hard to imagine so many people supporting such filth. There were even comments agreeing with him. [Agreed. Getting yelled at by the boss all day, nothing beats going home and smacking the wife around. Way better than boxing.] [Some women need to be taught a lesson. If you don't hit them for a day, they think they run the place. They need to know who's boss.] On my phone screen. The user "Master Wife Tamer" seemed to find his people and kept spewing nonsense. [Check out my taming tool. It's a swing I customized for my wife.] [She doesn't know it can be detached. I'll tie her hands, hang her up, and she becomes the perfect punching bag.] [I calculated the rope length perfectly. Her toes will just barely touch the ground. It's going to be great.] I stared at the photo, my blood running cold. The swing in the photo was identical to the one in Mark's and my new apartment. The comments kept piling up. They even discussed the feasibility of beating a wife on the balcony. [OP, if you beat her on the balcony, won't the neighbors hear and call the cops?] The poster replied smugly. [Way ahead of you. I installed blackout curtains and double-pane soundproof glass.] [Close the doors and windows, draw the curtains, and no matter how much she screams, no one outside will hear a thing.] I couldn't believe I married such a thing. When I snapped back to reality, the thermos in my hand was crushed. After a brief moment of shock, I suddenly found it funny. I was born with abnormal strength and a touch of sociopathy. In elementary school, I crushed the testicles of a groper on the bus with one hand. It terrified the teachers and the police, and even made the local news. After that, my mom taught me that girls should be quiet and gentle. So I learned to camouflage. I went to nursing school and became a gentle nurse. "A marriage license is a free gym pass," huh? "The more you hit her, the clingier she gets," huh? Great. I don't have to pretend anymore! I rolled my wrist, joints cracking lightly. Mark, since you want to play the taming game. I'll play with you. Chapter 2 Immediately, I registered a male burner account named "Angry Little Man." I used a meme as my profile picture. I messaged him: [Damn, bro! Honestly, my wife needs a lesson too, but I've been too scared to do it.] [Bro, can you teach me? I want to take back control of my house!] To show sincerity, I sent him a $200 digital red envelope and a fist-bump emoji. The fish took the bait. Mark took me for a fanboy and started sharing his "taming plan" without reservation. [Bro, the first time is crucial. You have to beat her into submission once and for all, and you need a 'legitimate' reason.] [I'm inviting my boys over for drinks in a couple of days.] [We're going to throw sunflower seed shells, fruit peels, and cigarette butts all over the floor. Make a huge mess.] [When my friends leave, that woman will see the mess and definitely get angry.] [As long as she dares to complain, that's disrespecting her man.] [Then, using the alcohol as an excuse, I'll slap her silly and force her to clean it up.] Reading the text, I could almost see Mark's smug face. Suppressing my disgust, I typed: [What about after? What if she makes a scene?] [Scene? Bro, you don't understand women.] Mark replied: [After the beating, you act like you snapped out of it. Kneel in front of her and slap yourself.] [Say you love her so much, but you just lose control when you drink. Cry and beg for forgiveness.] [Then, a few days later, find an excuse to hit her again.] [Rinse and repeat. A slap and a sweet date. Slowly, you erode her boundaries until she gets used to being hit.] [Ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome and Pavlov?] [Don't be afraid she'll run away.] [Beating a wife is like training a dog. The more you hit her, the more she can't leave you.] [My dad beat my mom her whole life. Not only did she stay, but she served him hand and foot.] I took a deep breath, trying to calm the rage in my chest. He spoke of gaslighting like it was a science. Turns out he learned it from his parents. I questioned: [Will this really work? What about the police...] [Don't worry.] He was confident. [Haven't you seen the news? In domestic abuse cases, the police rarely do anything until it's too late.] [As long as you don't cripple or kill her, it's a 'domestic dispute.' Cops just mediate.] [Besides, I know where to hit. At most, it'll be classified as a minor injury.] [I just love hearing women scream when they get hit.] [My biggest wish is to have a wife who won't die, preferably one who makes good sounds.] Reading this, I couldn't hold back a curse. I almost crushed my phone. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to calm down. [Bro, I learned a lot! But I'm curious, what counts as a 'good' hit sound? Can you give us a demo first?] Then, I sent him another $200. Mark replied quickly. [Deal! My boys are coming over tonight to celebrate my wedding. I'll record it for you guys!] Putting down the phone, my eyes went cold. Mark, I hope your bones are as hard as your talk. Chapter 3 At 5 PM, Mark texted me. [Wifey, a few of my buddies are coming over tonight.] [They're jealous I have such a pretty, virtuous wife who can cook. They insisted on seeing you.] [Buy some groceries on your way back, lots of meat. Show them your skills.] [It might get a bit loud. You know I care about face, so please bear with it. Hubby will make it up to you later.] He sent a $520 red envelope and a "cute cat heart" sticker. I looked at the screen and sneered. Make it up to me? With a belt or a fist? I replied with a cute cat emoji: [Okay, Hubby.] After work, I went straight to the wholesale market and bought the cheapest pre-made meals. Braised pork, sweet and sour ribs, spicy chicken... All heat-and-eat junk. Since you want to act, I'll play along. Back home, I dumped the food onto plates and microwaved them. Soon, the house smelled of MSG and grease. Around 8 PM, the doorbell rang. Mark walked in with four or five men. They looked like thugs—the kind of friends I usually avoided. As soon as they saw me, Mark's buddy, Blackie, whistled. "Yo, this is Mark's new wife? Looking fresh!" "Smells good. What did you make, sister-in-law?" Blackie actually lifted a lock of my hair and sniffed it. "Let me guess... sweet and sour ribs, braised pork... did I get it right?" Holding back vomit, I stepped back. Mark, walking in last, slapped the back of Blackie's head. "Watch how you talk to your sister-in-law." "Wifey, don't mind him. He's just like that, no bad intentions." They walked in without taking off their shoes, stomping mud onto the carpet. I wiped my hands on my apron and brought out the food. "Come in, food's ready. Sit anywhere." Mark looked shocked that I was being so accommodating. He winked at the others, signaling them to provoke me further. "Eight dishes in one afternoon? Mark is lucky, marrying such a capable nurse!" "Nurse sister, come drink with us." I didn't get angry. I smiled and seated them. Once the food was served, I retreated to the kitchen. "It's a guys' night, I shouldn't intrude." Mark found it incredible. I used to complain about how sexist his friends were. Now, I was playing the perfect traditional wife. He came into the kitchen. "Wifey, come eat with us. Have a drink." "Are you mad about their jokes?" I waved him off. "You guys eat. I'll grab a bite in here." Once the door closed, I pulled out the seafood feast I packed from a five-star hotel. Who eats pre-made slop when you can have lobster? But since I didn't go out, he couldn't pick a fight. Soon, Mark knocked again. "Wifey, I dropped my chopsticks. Get me a new pair." I opened the door with chopsticks and saw the living room was a disaster zone. Sunflower seed shells, peanut skins, and cigarette ash covered the floor. Blackie threw a chicken bone on the carpet and stomped on it. "Oops, sorry sister-in-law, slipped." He grinned at me, eyes full of provocation. They all knew the plan. They were trying to trigger me. If I showed even a hint of displeasure, Mark would explode. Unfortunately for them, I disappointed. Not only was I not mad, I smiled brighter. Mark was cleaning this up later anyway. The messier, the better. "No problem, have fun. The carpet needed washing anyway." Blackie froze. He didn't expect that reaction. Mark's face stiffened. His prepared script was useless. For the next two hours, I played the perfect wife. Pouring tea, cutting fruit, handing out napkins. No matter how much they trashed the place—someone even poured beer on the sofa—I kept smiling. "It's fine, we can use a slipcover." "Oh, we were going to replace that rug anyway." My performance was flawless. Mark couldn't find an excuse to rage. Even his scumbag friends felt a little bad. "Mark, your wife is amazing! Such a good temper!" "Yeah, I'd give ten years of my life for a wife like this!" When they left, they patted Mark's shoulder meaningfully. "Mark, don't go too hard later. Just a little." Mark stood at the door, smiling awkwardly. He wanted to beat me for embarrassing him in front of his friends. But now everyone was praising me. If he hit me, he'd be the asshole without a cause. He closed the door. The room went silent. Looking at the mess and Mark standing awkwardly in the middle of it. I decided to help him out. I claimed a stomachache and went to the bathroom. I messaged him from my burner account. [Bro, how's it going? We're waiting for the show!] I attached a $200 red envelope and a starry-eyed emoji. Mark loved his ego. I knew he wouldn't let his big talk fall flat. Seconds later, he replied. [Wait for it.] Just three words, but I could feel the grit in his teeth. I smirked. Mark, you asked for this. Don't cry too loud later. Chapter 4 I heard smashing from the living room, followed by Mark's intentionally loud cursing. "F*ck! Look at this mess! Annoying!" I flushed the toilet and walked out, pretending to be startled. In the living room, Mark had flipped the dining table. Red oil and soup soaked the carpet. He stood in the middle of the debris, chugging a beer, face flushed. Seeing me, he finally found his target. He pointed at the trash on the floor and roared: "What are you staring at? Can't you see this mess? Clean it up!" He was shouting, spit flying. I stood still, watching his performance. "Are you blind or deaf? I'm talking to you!" Seeing no reaction, Mark got angrier. He undid his belt, advancing on me step by step. "Lynn, why did you smile at Blackie just now?" "I hate cheaters. You were making eyes at him right in front of me. Do you think I'm dead?" I couldn't help but laugh. What a pathetic excuse. Seeing me laugh, he raged harder, smashing a vase with his belt. Crash! "Today I'll show you who's the man of this house!" "Who's in charge!" He raised the belt and lashed it towards my legs. Fast and vicious. No mercy. A normal girl would be screaming in pain. Too bad he met me. Watching the belt whistle towards me, I felt no fear. Only excitement. I sidestepped, my right hand shooting out like lightning, grabbing the belt and yanking back. Snap! The buckle whipped back and hit him in the face. Mark froze, his drunken haze clearing instantly. He touched the welt on his face, then looked at his wrist, caught in my iron grip. He instinctively tried to pull back. Immovable. He used both hands, pulling with all his might, face turning red. I stood like a statue. I stepped closer, smiling. Then, I pulled a rope from behind my back, tied his hands together. With one hand, I lifted him and hooked him onto the swing mount on the balcony ceiling. "Hubby, you've been naughty. I told you not to hang out with those losers. Why don't you listen?" "Also, I'm curious who's in charge of this house." "You can tell me all about it." Then, backhand, I whipped him with his own belt. Workout time.
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