Chapter 1-
My name is Brandon Slim and guess I can be introduced as the one time friendly neighbor of Paul and Paulette Morris. I am a wealthy engineer and an architect by profession. And I happened to have turned forty just the u'dder day.
I became wealthy and successful, don't let the Chicago in me fool you! Born and raised here, I was a tough young South Sider who fought his way up that ol' totem pole so I could have something to brag about someday. Only a handful of us ach'ally managed to bust out of the neighborhood.
For many a year I lived in total peace and harmony in my pretty house, which I happened to have designed myself. It can be found in the suburb of La Grange in the fine state of Illinois, the Land of Lincoln.
I lived in that house with my precious wife Eny, a former fashion model. And with our adopted daughter, Emilia. Honest to Gaad, we had peace.
That is, until I discovered that the Christian samaritan down the street, my best friend Paul, the devout Protestant, was putting his dick in my lovely thirty (at the time) year old wife Eny. It's pronounced E-h-n-a-i by the way; and she's thirty-two currently.
That's right, my friends! Better yet still, he had 'da nerve to have the affair with my precious wife in a threesome with his own wife! He's a married man. Married to a young lady named Paulette Sanz-Morris. They're a cute couple known among all 'dere friends here as "the Pauls."
Paul Morris, my forty-four year old neighbor down the street is a famous larger than life country/folkie vocalist known within the industry for his hunky musculature and thick country accent. To the outside world, Paul is a strapping, all-American Texas gentleman and a born charmer who settled down in Illinois.
To me, he's a complete hypocrite. I guess this can be expected from a man like that, but that doesn't mean it was any less devastating for me.
As a young man in East Texas, the child-like innocence of Paul's singing voice was often compared to the singing of a robin. He is said to have sung beautifully for his church choir once.
Eventually, Paul began sneaking away from home with the help of his two younger bru'dders Toby and Jackson to busk at local pubs. His bru'dders often joined him on stage lending Paul some back-up vocals, tenor banjo and a little accordion. They got noticed by a talent agent looking for authentic folkie and country acts with potential.
His angelic voice soon got his whole family out of poverty in Texas because Paul made it inta' the country scene in Nashville and everybody got to move.
Unbeknownst to people around him though Paul set his sights on becoming a helicopter pilot for the Marine Corps moving cargo and going on search and rescue missions like his father had once done.
Shockingly, after tending to family matters, Paul ended up quittin' music to lend his support to the most controversial war in modern history...that thing called Operation Iraqi Freedom.
He wanted a military career no matter what. It is rumored that Paul lost someone close to him in that hotly debated war; a mysterious lady-friend he met in the military. The accident happened during the combat operation which was fated to end his service in the military...the bloody battle of Fallujah.
But despite Paul's military career ending on such a disappointing sour note, it met with an honorable discharge that soon got him back into making music. He started gettin' noticed by the industry again after reintegrating into society. Paul's voice had not only matured but had gotten' deeper and seemed to be twangy as ever.
His solo career continued to blossom beautifully in Nashville until an opportunistic silver-tongued manager recruited Paul into his Chicago label with a promise of more mainstream fame and fortune.
Lucky for him, Paul's war-fatigued hard edge allowed for the composition of some amazing lyrics for a new record. Most of the songs were written with Paul holding a harmonica whilst sitting alone on a special short wooden bench from his childhood.
Paul and I bonded shortly after he relocated to La Grange. We both used the same dentist at the time. It was very difficult not to like him. He was so friggin' modest, interesting and friendly. We were also both bachelors hoping to meet the right lady at the time. But now back to my falling out with him...
Since news travels fast, it was a'chally more humiliating to be cuckolded by someone well known like that. By a fake friend, you know? My own wife had slept with my best friend.
At least I can say it now. Accepting it was painful to say 'da least. It was some true to life pain! But I kept a stiff upper lip and made lemonade out of lemons. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?
I swallowed my pride and decided to attempt to take the high-road of forgiveness. Honest to Gaad! No good to live life as a petty child and scold 'da heavens over your misfortunes in life. I had to overcome a very difficult and dark time in my life and it wasn't the first time I did that. It came to pass as time heals all wounds.
Cried over many a shoulder. Got drunk with many a nice bartender, or stranger, because my two best friends had back-stabbed me.
Went to church more than usual to talk to my priest. Went to plenty of local Bears and Bulls games and gambled away money on some of them. Somethin' I never used to do! Anything to escape and get my mind off of things. I saw lots of plays and read tons of books.
Also made less money than ever. My career was goin' through a humiliating dry spell because I didn't have the energy to keep my investors happy anymore. Many of them walked away from me. It was no fun. I gave up for a little while.
Owed various people a ton of money.
Slowly. I paid off all my friggin' debts and found new investors. Slowly. I dug myself out of that deep hole. Time led me to think about her so much...my other half. Every day as things carried onward for us both. I realized I still loved my wife after all. We had been married for ten years.
She was a friggin' runway model of Icelandic parentage for God's sake! Not just any ordinary young girl working at Starbucks. But just to give you an idea of what my wife Eny looks like and the loss I had to deal with:
If Linda Evangelista and Cara Delevingne's genes just happened to be genetically highjacked, hacked, spliced and synthesized using the latest IVF technology to create this perfectly holy specimen fated to be the future of the waifish catwalk model.
....a creature with splendid champagne blonde locks, chiseled hollow cheeks, intense piercing eyes of the scarcest turquoise, the narrowest waist you'd ever seen, tear-drop shaped little breasts, a heavenly labia that surrounds you in bliss and light once you adjust to her Icelandic stems, and finally, a lanky, sweet "A" shaped caboose that the fashion industry spoiled rotten.
....from her master-tailor father on down...This creation would surely be named Enysiobhán Chloë Vilhjalmsson, or Eny for short.
Now, of course, Eny was just a retired cat-walk model selling real estate in our little town. And not so spoiled, except by me.
