In the absence of anything approaching moral fortitude Ursula Boxing arrived at her vocation.
Want someone putting in a box?
Call Ursula Boxing.
Her slow-witted, affable husband Jim manned the phone. As far as he was aware they ran a haulage company (though strangely he’d never seen any trucks).
‘My darling,’ he announced, ‘you’ve a job at a boxing gym! Isn’t that precious!’
‘Yes dear,’ she sighed, sizing him up for future packaging.
The decoded message was clear. Woman. 52. One between the eyes – no fuss.
The place was boarded up. As she entered the door slammed shut behind her and she heard rivets being driven into concrete.
Ursula Boxing was now Ursula Boxed.
Written for: Friday Fictioneers