Screw It Up

I came home early, too early for my own good. I noticed the lowered MUSTANG GT in my driveway, and instantly my tempered suspicions that my wife was cheating were aroused. Creeping toward the car, I laid on my back and crawled underneath it. Sure enough, neon-lights under the body. If this wasn't a Hoopty, or a Pimp Mobile, I don't know what was.      
     I skated toward the house, my blood boiling. I swear, I hadn't been this mad since I'd been forced to walk from Louisiana to Georgia. My hand slipped to my hip, hoping to find a gun, but I'd left it in my car. Well, no sense going back, I thought grimly, if I caught the fucker cheating with my wife, I'd brain them both with the nightstick I was carrying. I slipped my key into the slot and unlocked the door silently. Moving as silently as a two-hundred-pound man could, I made my way for the bedroom... I got as far as the kitchen. 
      There he was, a huge black man, his pants and boxers down around his ankles, his huge hairy black ass thrusting back and forth, causing the bile to rise in my throat. He was taking her on the kitchen counter. "How long've you been at it?" I asked, my voice sounded very calm, considering how I was just dying to kill the black son-of-a-bitch and the cheating whore wife with him. "Ten minutes? Twenty minutes?" "Five, honky." The porch monkey said, grinning at me, one painfully fake gold tooth almost glitzing in the kitchen's overhead light