“The Bedtime Surprise”
Harold and Mabel Jenkins had been married for nearly sixty years, and in all that time, they’d shared everything — a tiny yellow house on Maple Drive, an old orange tabby cat named Whiskers, a love of crossword puzzles, and, of course, a bed that had seen more stories than a library shelf. At eighty-three and eighty-one, respectively, they’d developed a bedtime routine so predictable that even the cuckoo clock seemed to adjust itself around it.
Every night, precisely at 8:30 p.m., Mabel would turn off the television, usually in the middle of a true-crime show, sigh dramatically, and declare, “Time for bed, Harold. My bones can’t handle any more mystery tonight.”
And Harold, who’d already been dozing off in his recliner, would reply without opening his eyes, “You’re the only mystery I’ve ever needed, dear,” before slowly levering himself up with a groan that echoed through the living room like an old wooden door.
They’d shuffle down the hallway, Harold’s slippers whispering against the carpet, Mabel’s floral nightgown swishing rhythmically. Whiskers would follow behind, tail twitching, as though he were the evening’s official chaperone.
That particular night seemed no different — until Harold, half asleep and half mischievous, decided to make things interesting.
The Setup
They had just crawled into bed. Mabel was tucking the blanket around her shoulders, mumbling about how Harold had once again stolen all the warmth. The room was dim except for the faint glow of the bedside lamp and the soft hum of the heater.
Harold turned over, pulling the blanket higher. A sly smile crept across his face. Something primal stirred within him — not romance, not nostalgia — but the simple, childish delight of a well-timed prank. And so, with no warning at all, he let out a thunderous, unapologetic fart that vibrated the mattress and startled Whiskers clean off the bed.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Mabel froze. Then, very slowly, she turned her head to glare at him. “Harold Jenkins,” she said, her voice dangerously calm, “was that you?”
Harold tried to keep a straight face, but his shoulders began to shake. “It must’ve been the cat,” he said, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter.
Whiskers, offended, peeked up from the floor, his tail flicking as if to say, Don’t drag me into this.
The Retaliation
Mabel sighed dramatically and rolled away from him, muttering about “men and their digestive systems.” But deep down, a spark of mischief ignited in her as well. Sixty years of marriage had taught her that revenge, like soup, was best served warm — or in this case, odorless but effective.
The next evening, Mabel cooked Harold’s favorite dinner: baked beans with cornbread and a side of cabbage salad. Harold was delighted, happily digging in, completely unaware that he was consuming ammunition for the next round of their domestic warfare.
Later that night, as Harold settled into bed and drifted toward sleep, Mabel pretended to read her magazine. She waited. Ten minutes passed. The house grew quiet, the rhythmic tick of the clock filling the room. Then, softly, stealthily, she returned fire.
Harold’s eyes shot open. “Mabel!” he gasped, fanning the air. “Good heavens, woman, what did you eat?”
She looked at him over her reading glasses. “Justice,” she replied sweetly.
Escalation
What began as harmless fun quickly became an undeclared war. Over the next week, the Jenkins bedroom became ground zero for a series of escalating pranks.
Harold filled Mabel’s hot-water bottle with air freshener one night, causing her to yelp as a puff of lavender mist hit her face. The next night, Mabel switched his denture adhesive with whipped cream. Harold woke up mid-snore to find his teeth floating in a sweet foam.
By Thursday, Whiskers had begun sleeping in the hallway for his own safety.
Neighbors noticed strange noises coming from the Jenkins’ house — bursts of laughter, occasional shouts of “You started it!” and once, the unmistakable sound of a whoopee cushion. Mrs. Dempsey from next door even called to ask if they were “having plumbing issues,” to which Mabel replied, “Yes — of a personal nature.”
The Truce
One evening, after a particularly explosive round of “bedroom artillery,” both parties surrendered. The air was thick — metaphorically and otherwise. Mabel waved a hand in front of her face and said, “Harold, we’re too old for this nonsense.”
Harold chuckled. “Maybe. But it’s the most fun we’ve had in years.”
She smiled despite herself. “You realize this is how our grandkids will remember us? The couple who nearly gassed each other to death in their sleep?”
“Better that than the couple who stopped laughing,” Harold said softly.
There was a long pause. Mabel reached over and squeezed his hand. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I know,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d be sleeping in the garage.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she replied, though her tone was warm now, the sharp edges softened by affection.
The Twist
Just as peace settled back into the Jenkins household, fate intervened.
Two nights later, Mabel awoke to an awful sound — a low rumble followed by a muffled boom. She sat up, heart racing. “Harold! Are you okay?”
No answer.
She turned on the lamp. Harold was sitting up, blinking sleepily, clutching his stomach. “I think… I think the beans are fighting back,” he groaned.
“Oh, good grief,” Mabel muttered. “Serves you right.”
But as she got out of bed to fetch some medicine, she accidentally stepped on Whiskers’ tail. The cat screeched, leapt onto the dresser, and knocked over Harold’s glass of water — right onto the alarm clock, which began sparking furiously.
In a matter of seconds, chaos erupted. Harold tried to unplug the clock, Mabel slipped on the wet carpet, and Whiskers darted under the bed like a furry missile. The commotion was so loud that Mrs. Dempsey called the police again.
When the officers arrived, they found the elderly couple sitting on the floor, drenched but laughing uncontrollably. The officer blinked. “Is everything all right here?”
“Oh, perfectly fine,” Mabel said between giggles. “Just another night in paradise.”
Harold raised his hand weakly. “Do you, uh… happen to have any antacids in that fancy belt of yours?”
Epilogue
The next morning, Mabel made oatmeal instead of beans. Harold read the newspaper aloud, shaking his head at the latest headlines. “World’s gone crazy,” he said.
“Maybe,” Mabel replied, pouring him coffee. “But at least we still make each other laugh.”
Whiskers meowed from his perch, clearly unimpressed.
That night, as they climbed into bed, Harold reached over and squeezed Mabel’s hand. “No more wars?”
“No more wars,” she agreed. Then, after a beat, she added, “But if you ever blame the cat again…”
He chuckled. “Duly noted, General Jenkins.”
And as the light clicked off, the house settled into silence — broken only by the faint purr of Whiskers and, a few seconds later, the unmistakable sound of Harold’s final bedtime salute.
