Authors: Camden McInnis
Copyright 2014 by- All rights reserved: Books 4 A Better Life
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Table Of Contents
Prologue: Assholes Always Get What They Deserve
Carl Jones wasn't exactly what you would call a happy man. Miserable, angry, hateful, these were the words that best described his overall demeanor, and he was typically only happy when he was able to be miserable, angry and hateful.
At one time in his life, he used to pretend to be happy. Back in the day when he still owned Sleepy Creek General Store—This was, of course, long before the store was turned into a Gas & Go, and the General Store served as the only place within 20 miles that sold groceries—and he had to pretend to be friendly and nice so that people would keep coming back and paying for his ridiculously over priced items. When you own your own business, the only way you kept yourself in business was if folks that you were a good fella. But secretly, every time someone walked through the front door of the shop, he'd curse under his breath and wish nothing but ill will on whoever came in, and yet as soon as they came to the register with their purchases, he would paint on a smile and make the customer think that he was happy to see them.
But after he sold the store in the early 2000’s—after nearly losing the business a half dozen times because of Wal*Mart the other chain stores that were built within 5 miles of town center—he stopped pretending to give two shits about people and went full grump. In the process of his transformation, Carl managed to alienate virtually every person he'd ever known and drive away three wives (Carl loved getting laid, and even though he was the king of grumpy old men, he could turn on the charm when it came to women. Unfortunately, because of his religious upbringing, he felt compelled to marry any woman he stuck his prick into. He'd stay charming for around a year--or get horny for a piece of strange, whichever came first--and then unleash all of his rancor until the woman would wake up every morning and go to bed every night with tears in their eyes. The one good thing about this was that he'd make his wives so miserable that they would do anything to get out of the marriage, including not suing him for half of his money.
He'd spent the day in Riverside finalizing his latest divorce and helping his newly ex-wife move into her new apartment. Normally, he'd just kick his wives to the curb and flip them the bird after the final papers were drawn up and signed. But his third wife, Deena, was a seriously hot piece of ass who was 20 years his junior and who he hoped would throw him a goodbye lay for helping her lug all of her crap into her new place. And sure enough, that was exactly what happened, twice. Yeah, old Deena was a good girl, but she was a seriously annoying bitch. She was one of those gals who was constantly happy and upbeat about life, and he couldn't stand that about her. Although, she stuck it out the longest of any of his wives—a record breaking 5 years—because of her sunny disposition and because she believed she could actually change Carl. She, of course, lost that battle like a Frenchman, crying and running away with her tail between her legs. He sure was going to miss screwing her, though.
He'd pulled into his carport just after 9 pm, stepped out of the truck with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth, and he stretched his back with a pop and crackle as if he driven hundreds of miles instead of the 30 back from Riverside. As he swiveled his neck, he noticed for the first time that the carport lights weren't on. In fact, nothing was on. Not the front and back porch lights, not the motion lights he had set up around in the side yard, not even the little night light he usually kept lit in his guest bathroom and that he could always see from the carport. At first he thought maybe the valley was blacked out, but then he remembered seeing lights on at his closest neighbors house a couple of miles down the road. Most likely a fuse had blown, which was a crock of shit considering that he'd given the flashlight he normally kept in the truck to Deena because she didn't own one and he had 9 or 10 of them lying around the house.
Carl headed to the front door with the keys jingling in his hand, but he stopped short when he started to slide the key in. Like most assholes, Carl believed in being well armed and was always strapped. Today he'd worn his nickel plated .38. It was a bull of a gun and wasn't much good for anything other than show because of how tight the trigger was. But, man, when he did pull the trigger, it was probably the loudest gun he owned. Not that he really needed to wear a gun into the neighborhood that Deena had moved into. But, you know, it was better to be safe than sorry. He unholstered his piece and held it loose in his left hand as he finished opening the front door and gingerly stepped inside. It wasn't that he thought anyone had broken in while he was gone, but he'd read more than a few accounts of people who'd come home and the power had been out only to find a gaggle of niggers--Yeah, no one should be at all surprised that Carl's just as big of a racists as he is an asshole--waiting in the dark to beat and rape the shit out of the homeowners.
Carl fumbled inside the house and managed to bark his shins twice on the furniture—Unfortunately, his 9 or 10 flashlights were all either upstairs or in the basement—and he hopped around cussing and wanting to shoot whatever it was he'd run into. He finally made it to the basement door without breaking his neck, and slowly climbed downstairs. Once he was down in the dusty concrete bunker of his basement, he knew exactly where he was at and where his flashlights were at. His fingers traced along the top shelf where he kept his tools until his hand came across the 12-inch long mag-light. The heft the torch was just as comforting as the gun in his hand and he clicked it on, only to have its powerful beam illuminate a someone standing a mere 4 feet in front of him.
"How ya doin' there, partner," said the stranger with an odd draw to his voice. He sounded like he was from Texas but had been raised by Russian emigrants. Carl immediately drew down on him.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Carl shouted. As much as he wished that he was in control of the situation, he was practically shitting his pants. Also, like most gun owners, Carl had never fired on a live target before.
The stranger gave him a cock-eyed smile.
"Well, it was awful bright outside earlier today, and me and my family needed a nice dark place to rest up. We didn't think you'd mind us using your basement. You don't mind, right?"
The stranger took a step towards Carl. He panicked and pulled the .38's trigger. He doubted the police would give him much shit for killing the guy. After all, he was inside Carl's home uninvited. The bullet hit dead center and jerked the stranger back a couple of feet. A flower-like bloom of blood spread across the stranger's chest.
"You've got be fucking kidding me?" The stranger said with a bit of annoyance. "I really liked this shirt, you know! Your ass is going to be paying for a new one."
The stranger started walking towards Carl again and he let off another two rounds. But his bullets didn't find their target because their target was moving far too fast.
Suddenly, the strangers hand was around Carl's throat, clamping down like a vice. He lifted Carl into the air as if he was weightless.
"I'll tell you what," The stranger said with a smile, which exposed two rows of razor-like yellowing teeth. "How's about you just letting me have the house? That seems like a fair trade considering this is my favorite shirt and all."
The stranger pulled Carl's neck to his mouth and bit through his windpipe. Carl's blood pulsed out of him like a geyser, the stranger swallowing every drop.
Just as he was about to pass out, Carl prayed that Hell wasn't a real thing. And if it was, he hoped he wasn't getting sent there for being such an asshole his entire life.
Chapter 1: The Best And Last Day
I think I’m having the dream where I came across Melanie Dupree 2014 Charger broken down on the side of the road, and with my magical fix any car engine powers, I somehow managed to get it started. Once it turned over, she jumped up and down with excitement and threw herself into my arms the minute I stepped out of the driver's seat with a triumphant smile plastered on my face and my hands planted on my hips like a superhero.
“Jimmy … “
Before I know it, Melanie is stripped down to nothing but her sneakers and a lacy black thong, and she’s pushing my head into her double D breasts while simultaneously unzipping my jeans (I have no idea how she’s doing this, maybe she’s sprouted a couple of extra arms? But, you know, it’s a dream. Or maybe it isn’t and along with having the most amazing pair of tits in all of Sleepy Creek, California, she also happens to be a squid girl mutant of some kind?).
My blood is rushing through my veins so hard that I keep hearing this near constant bleating noise. But it’s not bothering me too much because Melanie has pulled my jeans and underwear down around my ankles and is on her knees in front of me with a wicked smile creasing her lips.
“Jimmy! Would you get up and turn off that alarm clock already!”
And, Mom, of course, ruins everything.
I’m not on some lonely road with Melanie Dupree. I didn’t fix her Charger (Like I would ever know how to do that!) and she wasn’t about to give me a blowjob. I’m at where I’m always at, in my room, in bed, with my Mom yelling at me to get up. Of course, my hard-on doesn’t realize that Melanie was nothing but a dream. My hard-on is demanding satisfaction from Melanie’s mouth. But then again, my hard-on is constantly demanding something and has been for the last 5 years of my life, you would think I would’ve learned to ignore it by now?
I bring my hand down hard on the snooze button.
“Alright, alright,” I yell, “I’m up!”
I throw my arm across my face to shelter my eyes from the morning sun and wishing that tomorrow and the beginning of my last summer as a high school student was already here.
I shower (Quickly taking care of my persistent hard-on while I soap and rinse.) and dress and go down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a bowl of Lucky Charms. But instead of only smelling coffee, my nostrils are filled with the thick aroma of bacon grease and pancake batter. I can’t remember the last time Mom made me breakfast on a weekday (Or the weekend for that matter. Mom’s not exactly what you would call a morning person.), but it’s a great surprise. Mom registers my shock the minute I walk into the kitchen.