Code Orange
They were clamoring for more installments, for more escapades. The Code Orange phenomenon was sweeping the country. He could no longer delay the inevitable. He had to tell his wife.
He dreaded the moment. He knew that she viewed him as an odd, lonely sort, with interior monologues rattling around his head. His Code Orange identity could only confirm her worst fears.
He told her everything. The purchase of the cones ("You hid them in the frunk?"); the online order for stickers ("Seriously? You bought stickers?"); the fending off of the ICEr at the Greenwich SC station ("He could have run you over. You have a wife!! A child!!"); the placement of cones at JFK ("You drove to JFK? The airport??").
He limped away, humiliated. That night, he dreamed that he was shackled to a chair, and before him appeared his wife, mcclary and Elon Musk, all attired in Connecticut State Trooper uniforms. "What was the point?" they asked, and then they threw tiny flags at him, each one embossed with an orange cone decal. "You're flagged!" they yelled, then they joined hands and ran off into the gathering mist.
He woke up, rivers of flop sweat pouring down his face. He found his wife sitting at the foot of the bed.
"Edison, NJ," she said. "That location is always ICEd. We need to act. And soon."
He realized then what he had always realized. That he loved his wife. And that she could probably benefit from therapy