Help, My Wife Is Trying to Have Me Murdered - a fictional story by David Charles Kramer

 Harold hummed a jaunty tune, taxiing his rickety Cessna down the runway. His wife's nagging about his "flying obsession" was a distant memory compared to the freedom of the open sky. Little did he know, back home, Mildred was finalizing a far more permanent solution to her "grounded husband" problem.

"Yes, Mr. Bigglesworth," Mildred cooed into the phone, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "The, uh, target is currently airborne. But he should be back for dinner."

Harold, blissfully unaware of his "dinner" plans, landed with a flourish. Stepping out, a glint of gold caught his eye – Mildred, on the phone, with a man in a suspiciously black suit lurking by the curb. He caught the tail end of her conversation, "...and make sure it looks like an accident. Those darn lucky charms go straight to me."

Harold's jaw dropped. Lucky charms? Mildred wanted him dead for his gold plane-shaped cufflinks and aviator-winged tie clip, both inherited from his beloved grandpa? Fury, mixed with a dash of hurt, propelled him into action.

He sprinted to his plane, snatched the gold charms, and took off before Mildred could screech a single "Harold!"

Meanwhile, Mr. Bigglesworth (whose real name was probably Steve), fumed into his phone. "He flew off! And took the lucky charms with him!"

Across the line, a gruff voice chuckled. "Lucky charms, huh? Well, Steve-o, sounds like the price just went up."

Suddenly, Harold wasn't just dodging a disgruntled wife, but a growing army of hitmen, all lured by the legend of the "lucky pilot with the golden wings." He became a viral sensation, news reports painting him as a thrill-seeking millionaire (which he most definitely wasn't).

Harold weaved his little Cessna through a cat-and-mouse game across the country, fueled by stale peanuts and sheer terror. He landed in a remote Irish village, a place his grandpa had always spoken fondly of. There, amidst rolling green hills and locals who wouldn't bat an eye at a man dodging assassins for gold cufflinks, Harold found peace.

Mildred, meanwhile, was stuck with a hefty bill from "Mr. Bigglesworth" and a lifetime supply of instant noodles. Harold, on the other hand, sipped his Guinness, the golden charms gleaming on his worn leather jacket. He missed his wife (a little), but the freedom of the open sky and the charm of a good pint were a far better fit. Maybe one day, he'd write a tell-all book: "My Wife Tried to Kill Me for My Grandpa's Cufflinks: A Pilot's Tale." Until then, he'd fly his little plane over emerald fields, forever a lucky charm himself.