Sat in his white towelling robe, Vincent sat at his opulent breakfast table, poured himself a glass of orange juice, a cup of decaffeinated coffee and lightly buttered a couple of slices of wholemeal, granary toast. He picked up the daily newspaper and chuckled at the cartoons. “Oh, that Garfield!”, he exclaimed, with a wide smile on his face. There was a slight creak as the heavy, wooden door from the hall opened and his wife, Ethel, walked in with a face like thunder. “Good morning, my love!”, smiled Vincent. “Don’t you ‘Good morning, my love!’ me, you bastard!”, snapped Ethel. Vincent’s face dropped. “What’s up, love of my life?” he enquired, with a puzzled expression on his face. “What’s up?” she thundered, “You know what’s up, you son of a bitch!”. Vincent put his toast down and thought hard. He paused for a few seconds while his red-faced wife stood there tapping her fingers against her arm. “No, I’m sorry, I really don’t know”, Vincent replied, “I really don’t know what I could have done. I’m a good Father, I’m teetotal, my only vice is golf and I’m dedicated to clean living and Christianity. You’re going to have to tell me.”
“What a load of horse shit!” shouted Ethel, making Vincent wince with both the volume and profanity. “So you don’t remember coming in blind, stumbling drunk last night with two prostitutes on your arm and cocaine around your nose, having soiled your britches, not having been home for three days?!” A wide smile broke over Vincent’s face. “Oh, is that what this is about? Darling, that wasn’t me, that was my stage persona, Alice Cooper! I’d have thought that, by now, you could tell the difference!” Ethel looked dumbstruck. “What the hell do you mean, Furnier?” she demanded. Vincent smiled, “Ethel, darling, I would never do those kind of things. It was all Alice. When I put the clothes and make-up on, I’m Alice. When I have them off, I’m Vincent. It’s perfectly simple.” Ethel shook her head. “I’m not buying it! Are you insane? You are Alice Cooper, Vince!” Nodding his head vigorously he retorted, “Well of course I am, my love, but we’re two separate entities! You’re talking to Vincent now, but it was Alice who came home last night!”
Ethel sat down and put her head in her hands. “Vince, I want a divorce.” The craggy rocker looked crestfallen. “But I haven’t done anything!”, he pleaded. “You have got to be kidding…” she replied, wearily. “No, it’s all Alice’s fault, divorce him, don’t divorce me!” said Vincent. “No, Vincent, enough is enough. I forgave you for the three week Jack Daniels binge last month which, apparently was Alice, I forgave you for breaking my vase, a priceless family heirloom, because you said it was Alice, I forgave you for never putting the fucking toilet seat down, because Alice was the last one to use it and even forgave you for putting sugar in my coffee when it makes me sick, because – you guessed it – it wasn’t you, it was Alice.”
Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but then slowly closed it, lowering his eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry”, he murmured. “Please give me one more chance?” Ethel shook her head, with conviction. “No, I’m sorry, that’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m getting dressed and I’m going to see my lawyer. I’m divorcing you, Vincent.” With that final, decisive sentence, she flounced out of the room, slamming the door. Vincent sat there for a moment and took a bite out of his toast. Munching slowly, he removed a tube of black eye make-up from his pocket, carefully applied it round his eyes and on the corners of his mouth and then, with coffee in hand, opened the door gently, and crept quietly upstairs grasping a huge meat cleaver…
…but don’t worry. Vincent didn’t hurt her. It was Alice.