Red said "That woman must love me not to put me in jail."
"I don't think that's it Red."
"What?"
"Just keep your eyes open."
Two weeks later, Red was sitting in his duplex and had fallen asleep courtesy of whatever it was he was drinking too much of. He had a habit of setting a large ashtray on his belly when he sat and drank so the cigarette would fall from his mouth and into the tray when he passed out.
Around 10 pm he was out like a light. Loretta removed the ashtray and soaked his big belly with lighter fluid and put a match to him.
Minutes later the young patrol officer picked up a call from radio: "Unit 172, Reds' on fire and a runnin' down the road." (Small town police radio was not too swift back then.)
Sure enough, Red had awakened to an impressive size fire sitting on his belly and out the door he went. He got about fifty feet or so, running in a drunken stupor, before he smacked into a phone pole and down he went. The fire didn't last but a few seconds but was enough to leave him a hole in his shirt and some second-degree reminders that his woman was not one to let something go.
Red didn't see the need to go to the hospital for the burns or the bump on his head. He retreated back to the duplex while we charged Loretta with some city charges just to get her out of the house for the night. The next day she was back home. Red was back in his chair with no fear of further retaliation. The score had been evened. Life went on.