*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: Yes, I need an Editor and no, I do not want an Editor.
Yes, there's too many people to keep track of, yes it jumps around too much, yes it's too long, yes it's too short, yes it's in the wrong category, yes this is stupid shit and yes, I suck.
For those of you that have not hit the backspace key, I hope you enjoy this little tale.
*.*.*
"When is your cousin supposed to get here?" Darryl Richards yelled at his wife. "Everyone's here but him."
Carla Richards stuck her head out of the kitchen, smiled in greeting to Darryl's four buddies, and shrugged her shoulders.
"Told him you guys started at seven; is it seven yet?" the twenty three year old beauty said. "Now, interrupt me one more time and you guys can kiss my Swedish meatballs goodbye, hear?"
"Shut up, Richards," Fred said.
"Yeah, shut your pie hole," Ronald said, smiling at Carla.
She giggled as Darryl's buddies chided her fifty four year old husband and returned to the kitchen.
Just as Darryl was about to yell again, the doorbell gave an anemic 'ding' and Carla bustled out of the kitchen to answer the door.
"'Bout time," Darryl grumbled.
"Thought you were going to fix that sad ass doorbell," Brian said.
Carla smiled at Reynold Reynolds and ushered him into the living room of the large home.
The five men regarded the short fat man. Four of them nodded politely as he took the sixth chair and set his briefcase down.
"Gentlemen, and you too Wayne," Carla said, which brought on raucous laughter from the four friends of Darryl's, and a scowl from Darryl. "This is my cousin, Reynold Reynolds. You guys, he's from Louisiana, and so if you need me to translate what he's saying, just let me know, all right?"
"I'm from Louisiana," Darryl reminded his wife.
"Remember that; you and me had a good long talk about that at the wedding reception," Reynold said.
"Yeah?" Darryl asked, not remembering the man.
"Of course, you probably don't recognize me," Reynold said. "I was about fifty pounds heavier then."
"You?" Fred asked, eyeing the rotund man.
"Oh yeah, was three forty; I'm down to two eighty six now," the man agreed.
"Damn, how'd you do it?" Brian asked, rubbing his protruding belly. "Been trying get rid of this for what?"
"A lifetime?" Fred suggested.
"Reynold, I'd like you to meet my rectum," Brian said, pointing to Fred.
"Good to meet you," Reynold smiled.
"So, what you do, Reynold?" Wayne asked.
"Private investigator," Reynold said and smiled as Carla brought out some snacks.
"No kidding?" Wayne asked, eyes wide.
"Hey, uh, we going talk, or we going play?" Darryl asked.
"Start dealing, Richards," Brian said.
"Seven card stud," Darryl said to the new man.
"Excellent," Reynold agreed. "Hope y'all don't take this ass whipping personal."
"Jacks or better to open," Darryl continued as he rapidly dealt out the cards.
"So how long you been a private investigator?" Wayne pressed.
"Was in collections," Reynold said, looking at his cards and pursing his lips in disgust. "Then, home boy put two slugs into me and I was actually crippled for almost a whole year. Went from two ten to almost four hundred pounds."
"No kidding? What happened to the guy shot you?" Fred asked as he threw a five dollar bill into the pot.
"Him? Doing twenty in Mumphrey," Reynold shrugged. "But, figured out, I was real good at tracking down those sneaky little bastards, why not get paid for that? Let someone else get shot."
"Richards, you deal for shit, you hear?" Brian said, throwing a five into the pot.
"I'm out; got a nothing hand," Reynold said.
"Anyone need anything?" Carla asked.
"Yeah, less talking and more action," Darryl snapped.
"Ooh, someone's grumpy," Carla said easily. "Must have a crap hand."
"So, what's the most interesting case you ever worked on?" Fred asked Reynold.
"Don't know about most interesting, but most rewarding was this guy thought for sure his wife was cheating on him," Reynold smiled at the memory. "I mean, he'd walk into the room and she'd stop talking to whoever it was on the phone. Found out ten dollars here, twenty dollars there was beginning to disappear from his wallet, a couple of thousand from their household account."
They could hear Carla walking around overhead.
"So, what was it?" Ronald asked as he raised the pot ten dollars.
"Guy had always wanted a Gibson E. S. one seventy five," Reynold said. "It's some kind of guitar or something. Costs a butt load of money. Anyway, his fiftieth birthday was coming up and his wife had actually found a vintage one in near mint condition and was saving up to buy it for him. Then, she had to keep it hidden at her brother's house. He just about had a heart attack when he comes down for breakfast and there it is, sitting in his chair, big red bow around the neck of it."
Fred dealt the next hand and Reynold was able to throw a five, then three more fives into the pot. He shrugged in good nature when he lost that hand to Darryl.
He told them about a few other cases he'd worked on.
"Cheating? God, I hate, that's hate with a capital H cheaters. Love bringing them down," Reynold admitted. "See, my wife? Thought forsaking all others was a crock of shit."
A tear came to his eye as he remembered Cheryl, his wife. It had been nearly seventeen years, but the forty year old private investigator still felt the pain of finding out his loving wife wasn't that loving.
He had seen her a few months ago. Now, at thirty six, Cheryl still looked good, despite the few extra pounds the booze and the three children had put on her short frame. She'd cut her long blonde hair to just above her shoulders and the hairstyle flattered her sweet round face.
Then she'd seen Reynold and her pretty face twisted into a hateful mask.
"Jasmine keeps asking about you," she screamed at him.
"D.N.A. don't lie, Cheryl," Reynold said, sunglasses hiding his watery eyes. "Don't matter how many times you say it; kid ain't mine."
Reynold nibbled on one of the pimento stuffed celery sticks Carla had brought out for the poker players.
"So, what brings you all the way up here from Louisiana?" Ronald asked as Fred shuffled the deck. "I mean, our poker night's not that great, huh?"
"Huh? Oh, well, I can't give too much detail; it's still an on-going investigation," Reynold said as he put a five dollar bill into the pot. "How about I call them X, Y, and Z, huh?"
"Okay," Brian agreed.
"Anyway, Miss X has got this friend, Miss Y," Reynold said and saw Wayne's bid of ten dollars.
"Ten and I raise you ten," Darryl said.
Overhead, Carla's feet could be heard as she marched back and forth with purpose.
"And Miss Y says to Miss X, 'your husband Mr. Z just asked me for a fuck,'" Reynold said and saw Darryl's raise but did not raise his own ante.
"I'm out," Wayne said.
Fred and Brian agreed; they were out too. Ronald matched the current ante.
"Anyway, I'm up here on a court case, little college student from Louisiana? She's going to Harvester's? Anyway, Got caught up with some professor or teacher or something, studies go out the window, she's failing big time fucking around with this married man and..."
"Hey, hey, enough with the language, huh?" Wayne asked, face twisted in disdain.
"Huh? Oh, damn, I'm sorry," Reynold said and nodded as he won that hand. "It's just, man! I really hate cheaters, know? Anyway, little girl's sleeping with this married man and I'm trying keep her from losing her scholarship and then I get a call from Miss X about Mr. Z not keeping his pencil in his pants and I'm already up here, so..."
Wayne dealt the next hand.
"Anyway, not only is Mr. Z fu... Trying to have sex with Miss Y, he's also doing the wives of uh, Mr. A, B, and C," Reynold said and threw his five into the pot.
"I'm out," Fred said.
A's Wife.
"Only thing make that fucking ugly face cute is to shove a big fat cock in it," Corrine's father said.
Grabbing a handful of the girl's drab brown hair, the man dragged the girl over to his recliner and forced her face down into his lap.
Corrine nearly gagged; the smell of her father's sweat and urine was overwhelming. But she opened her mouth and took his three and a half inches into her mouth.
"See? Looking better already," the man chuckled.
Corrine's mother did nothing to stop her father.
"Just be grateful he's not planting his seed into your womb," was all her mother would say whenever Corrine complained about the abuse.
"God damn, ain't even got fucking tits," Corrine's father complained as he roughly grabbed the eighteen year old girl's small breasts.
Because of all the beer he'd already consumed, Hank soon lost his erection and slapped Corrine for not being able to suck cock right. Two more beers, he punched Corrine's mother in her face, grabbed some money out of the woman's already quite slim purse and left the house.
At school the next day, A walked over to where Corrine sat
"Hey uh, hi Corinne, A stammered.
"Hey," Corinne agreed, looking up at the pimple faced young man.
Despite his mass of pimples, A had a sweet smile and warm brown eyes
He wasn't particularly athletic, but he was the manager of the football and basketball team, so A routinely hung out with the jocks and cheerleaders and had even dated a few of the cheerleaders. Corrine had heard the talk; A was a true gentleman.
So, she regarded him, wondering what he was doing, talking with her. She wasn't pretty, or popular, or smart. She was a nobody.
A asked Corrine if she'd like to go to Benny's Burger Bar and to a movie that Friday night.
"See, there's a thousand ways you can fix your burger," he nervously said.
"Yeah, sure," the girl shrugged.
Corrine was genuinely surprised when A walked up to the door, instead of sitting in his car and blowing the horn. Corrine was also surprised when A talked politely to her parents, talked about his plans to go to Harvester's College.
"I'm, I want to be a teacher," he admitted. "I mean, no one remembers who won the World Series five years ago, right?"
