The weakness of the flesh
Several hours of clearing up at Uncle Albert's house brought me no real reward. It was arduous, unpleasant work on such a sultry day, and I felt terribly invasive going through the old boy's things. The reflection that now they really belonged to me made me feel slightly less uncomfortable about it, but it did not make the work any easier.
I decided to tackle one room at a time. So I started on a pile of old magazines at one end of the front room and took it from there. Most of them were porn – the old goat had apparently kept every dirty book he had ever bought, even desperately tame stuff (by modern standards) from forty years ago. I dreaded that I might accidentally throw away some vital clue about FUCK so I checked everything thoroughly before discarding it, and this made progress slow. I carefully kept all scientific periodicals whether or not they appeared to be relevant to Uncle Albert's work; some of the astronomical stuff he had probably bought merely out of interest, but you never knew.
I also powered up his home computer and spent a frustrating half hour trying to find the password. Knowing the man, I felt sure it would be some crude sexual obscenity and I tried plenty, but without success.
Finally I called it a day and went home, feeling hot, sweaty, dusty and fed up.
It was a fairly typical home evening, differing from the night before only in that instead of letting Wendy pounce on me the instant I got home I insisted on having a shower first, and the food this time was Chinese. I noted that I was already beginning to accept these comforts as no more than my due, and I felt I should miss them when FUCK wore off.
I was also beginning to take for granted the sex on going to bed, in the middle of the night, and before getting up, and again I was not disappointed. As I watched Wendy leave for work the next morning I reflected fondly how loved and pampered I felt. This complacent mood was somewhat disturbed when the sound of Kylie sneaking home as usual reminded me that FUCK could cut both ways: it could give me the happiest marriage imaginable, or it might land me in gaol for some terrible sex crime.
So I got on with things, calling in to pay the undertaker and visiting Uncle Albert's bank. Mr Lucas had contacted them as promised so they were expecting me and we discussed the procedures for the formal release of his funds. There was less than fifteen thousand pounds, a remarkably meagre return on a lifetime of brilliant scientific achievement. It was further confirmation that Uncle Albert's motivation in life had not been financial.
I commented as much to the bank manager, who had an apologetic air as if thinking I might blame him for the lack of riches. "Yes," he replied. "Maybe your uncle was a seeker after truth."
"Maybe he was a seeker after pussy," I wanted to say, but I kept this thought to myself. The events of the last few days made it clear to me that it had been Uncle Albert's driving passion to complete the project he called FUCK and unleash himself on the unsuspecting "young ladies" of London, only for a casual accident to cut him down when on the brink of success. For him, it was an incredible tragedy; but for London's young womanhood, I could not but reflect, a lucky escape. The mind boggled at the thought of what this decrepit old lecher might have done armed with the animal potency FUCK conferred allied with its apparent power to induce a dramatic sexual response in at least some women. The law would, I presumed, somehow have caught up with him before long, but he would have enjoyed himself in the meantime. And now, this gift or curse had fallen on me.
Home again, I saw Kylie enjoying another sunny day lounging in the garden. My cock, well engorged now since I had not come for at least three hours, urged me to take a closer look but I was very firm with myself. I went straight to the bedroom and wanked copiously. This reduced to a manageable level my fascination with Kylie's massive charms and allowed me to get on with business; I needed to make a couple of calls, then I could resume the unpleasant but necessary task of clearing Uncle Albert's house.
I also checked the answering machine. There were three messages, all from a cellphone number that I did not recognise.
"Hello, Mr Walker? This is Connie. Connie Amoah from work. Can you ring me back please?"
Half an hour later: "Oh, you're still not there." She sounded crushed, then pulled herself together. "Mr Walker, it's Connie from work. I'm sorry to trouble you at home but I need to talk to you quite urgently. Can you ring me on my mobile please? 'Bye."
