Harold lived in crocodile country, which had proved handy at least twelve times. However, he was well into his thirteenth serious relationship when a serendipitous disaster struck. It happened like this…
Harold owned and ran a crocodile farm. Not only was the crocodile skin good for making fashionable handbags (with genuine animal fur trimmings) but the crocodile meat was served in hamburgers to visitors to the farm, and was a more than popular novelty. The workers on his farm were all women and always from out of town; way way out of town. (Of course, Harold always pretended that coming from out of town was not a requirement). That way a worker could disappear without trace. Qualities they had to possess were ambition and greed. In fact, it was these female employees who had formed the basis of Harold’s twelve (and now thirteen) relationships. Harold was very rich. Every crocodile farmer I know personally is fabulously rich.
The serendipitous disaster previously referenced involved the demise of the thirteenth. Just a few days before Harold had planned to push Number 13 into his favourite blood-thirsty crocodile swamp, the blood-thirsty crocodile died. The other crocodiles were smaller, so Harold had to slaughter and dismember Number 13 himself, and feed the smaller crocodiles in dribs and drabs.
It was while strolling to the smaller crocodile compound with a leg over his shoulder, that he was approached by an employee. “Eek!” she screamed.
And that is how, and why, she became Number 14.