*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activities are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
*.*
New Year's Eve was a cloudless day, but the pale winter sun did nothing to chase away the bitter cold. The Whitehead building was a sheet metal building with spray foam insulation adhered to the thin sheets of corrugated metal but the cold seeped upward through the bare concrete floor.
Anthony Whitehead, the Chief Operating Officer shivered as he walked across the floor, the loud clanging and whining of various machinery making thinking a near impossibility. He looked around and caught the eye of the floor supervisor, Brent Collier.
Anthony Whitehead was a tall man with whitish blonde hair, square face and deep brown eyes. His shoulders were square, his chest muscled and his waist narrow from his years of laboring as a roughneck on the oil rigs. Even though his father could have paid for his education, Anthony declared that he'd pay his own way in life and his father could be damned.
Now, Anthony spent three early mornings at Arthur Porter's gym to maintain his physique. Arthur Porter had found and trained Garland Louviere, the Cajun superstar that had been poised to become the next boxing heavyweight champion of the world. Garland's last bout was against Xavier Smith, a washed up heavyweight boxer. Overly confident, Garland had climbed into the ring. He did not climb out. Instead, his corpse was strapped into a gurney, covered with a white sheet, and carried out of the ring.
Arthur Porter trained every person as if they might be the next Garland Louviere though.
"Yes sir?" Brent asked.
Anthony tightened his face. Brent Collier had a way of pronouncing 'yes sir' as if he was saying 'your ass, sir.' Brent Collier was the type of person that would smile to your face, then slash all of your tires and pour sugar into your gas tank when you weren't looking.
"Three thirty? Send everyone home, tell them have a Happy new year and we'll see them on the second, okay?" Anthony said.
"Yes sir," Brent said, using his odd inflection again.
"They'll be paid up to five thirty; no one's losing any hours," Anthony clarified. "Soon as last one punches out? Please have the time cards in my door, okay? Thank you."
"Yes sir," Brent said again.
"Smart ass," Anthony said as he walked away from the now smirking supervisor.
"Anthony, your father's dead," had been the beginning of this nightmare.
Anthony Marcus Whitehead had received the phone call at six forty two in the morning. Through a horrific hangover, he had pushed the four or five empty beer cans and knocked over the bong to grab at his buzzing, dancing cell phone.
Cheyenne, his wife had let out a loud curse and rolled over. Anthony also cursed, seeing the wine seeping out of the bong, staining the carpet.
"Anthony, your father's dead," Susan Whitehead, his mother had said.
"'Bout time," had been Anthony's thought.
Marcus had suddenly, abruptly divorced Susan, his wife, to marry a nineteen year old ash-blonde girl, Natasha Iechenbach. Less than two years into his marriage with the young girl, Marcus had suffered a debilitating stroke. He managed, just barely, to hang on for another three years.
"'Bout time," had been Anthony's thought.
"Well, that is, this is, well, Mother, it's not really a surprise, is it?" Anthony had said out loud.
"Fuck! What time is it? Tell them call back," Cheyenne complained loudly.
Anthony delivered a stinging slap to the complaining woman's buttock. When she whirled around to scream at him, Anthony grabbed her face in his right hand and squeezed. Blue eyes blazing furiously, Cheyenne withheld her retort.
Susan continued to give Anthony the information, visitation, funeral. Anthony asked his mother if she'd called the others in their family. Susan agreed that she had not; he'd been the first one she'd called. Anthony said good bye and ended the call.
"My father's dead, all right? My father's dead and you're sitting there making all kind of noise," Anthony screamed at his furious wife.
"Well, I'm sorry, like I fucking knew that?" Cheyenne screamed in reply.
Anthony staggered out of the bed and down the stairs. Snapping on the light of the kitchen, Anthony watched a few hundred cockroaches scurrying. There was a rotted smell that he could not identify.
"Jesus Christ, I cannot believe," Anthony muttered as he resolutely began cleaning the kitchen of their house.
"What you doing?" Cheyenne asked, scratching one of her surgically enhanced breasts.
"What's it look like I'm doing, Cheyenne? I know, you've never seen anyone in your family do this before, but surely you recognize what cleaning up looks like, huh?" Anthony snapped.
"Oh fuck you, Anthony," Cheyenne snarled, pouring herself a glass of wine.
"Wine? Wine? God damn, Cheyenne. Not even seven o'clock yet," Anthony said.
"Hair of the dog, bitch," Cheyenne snapped.
Anthony saw that the kitchen garbage can would not be able to hold all the garbage so marched into the garage and found a lawn&garden bag. Just as he was dragging the bag out the front door, Cheyenne decided she needed a little more of the hair of the dog.
Upon his return from the curb, Anthony started brewing a pot of coffee. A check of the refrigerator showed him several cartons and boxes from various restaurants, but nothing that would serve as breakfast. Another lawn and garden garbage bag was filled from refrigerator and freezer. A tightly coiled sales flyer from the Courtyard Mall served as temporary bug zapper.
After drinking a mug of bitter coffee, coffee that tasted somehow scorched, Anthony entered their living room.
The living room revealed that seeds had popped, had scorched holes into their three thousand dollar couch. The carpet had likewise endured burns, spills, stains that would not come out. The mahogany coffee table and matching end tables had numerous circles where cans of beer had been placed, no coaster underneath to protect the expensive furniture. There were a few gouge marks; Anthony could not identify the source of those odd marks.
The entire time Anthony sweated and strained, cleaning the house, his head pounded without mercy. He wanted a drink, he wanted a can or four of beer. He wanted to crack the seal on the fifth of gin he could see perched on the mahogany bookcase.
"What you want for lunch?" Cheyenne asked, coming from the kitchen, yet another glass of wine in hand.
"Going cook?" Anthony asked.
"Yeah, right. You drunk?" Cheyenne hooted. "Fixing call Hop Kim's have it ready for pick-up."
"Yeah, um, thing of hot and sour soup, and uh, twice cooked pork," Anthony decided, looking around the living room and not knowing where to start.
"Okay, he said it'll be ready in twenty minutes," Cheyenne said.
"Taking your car?" Anthony asked as he decided to try some furniture polish and a paper towel on the coffee table.
"Uh?" Cheyenne said, holding up her glass of wine.
"Shit, Cheyenne, kind of busy, never mind. Never fucking mind," Anthony said, seeing that the furniture polish was having no effect on the surface of the table.
After lunch, Cheyenne put more than half of her food into the now nearly empty refrigerator. Anthony ran the vacuum cleaner over the carpet in their living room. Cheyenne had switched from wine to vodka and watched Anthony, an amused look on her face.
"Shit!" Anthony finally spat and quit trying.
He decided to clean himself up and staggered up the stairs. As he walked, he noticed how filthy the steps looked, apparently it had been a while since they had been swept and mopped.
The light fixture in the bathroom flickered, then lighted the bathroom with a harsh glare. The fixture over the mirror had at one time possessed three frosted globes. Now, only one light bulb had the frosted globe, softening the illumination. The other two bulbs were unprotected, unfiltered, and the light seared his tired eyes.
His face was puffy, with bags under his brown eyes. His face was covered by a dense growth of light brown whiskers. His blonde hair was shaggy, unkempt.
"Now what you doing? Looking at how gorgeous you are?" Cheyenne mocked, finding Anthony's actions amusing.
Anthony looked at his wife's reflection in the mirror. He knew why he had started dating the brash, loud nineteen year old. Her breasts were monumental; they'd been an eighteenth birthday present from her 'Uncle' Danny, her mother's boyfriend. Her blonde hair was from a bottle; Anthony had actually found the dark roots a bit of a turn-on.
And best of all, Cheyenne had angered Marcus Whitehead. Cheyenne Allison Fricke disgusted Marcus Whitehead. A pregnancy scare had enraged Marcus Whitehead to the point that Marcus had actually threatened the bleached blonde's life.
Susan did not like Cheyenne either, but she tried gentle persuasion, rather than threats. The most Susan had managed to do was have Anthony agree to a prenuptial agreement.
Cheyenne had balked at signing the document. But Anthony, on the verge of graduating with a Master's in Engineering, knowing his monthly salary with the parish government of St. Ann Parish was more money than Cheyenne, Cheyenne's mother, and Cheyenne's 'Uncle' of the day would make in a year, held fast.
"Put your John Hancock on the dotted line, Ms. Fricke, or you can keep the engagement ring as a parting gift," Anthony had calmly stated.
Snarling a string of curse words, Cheyenne did scrawl her signature on the indicated line. Shooting murderous glares at Anthony's attorney, Cheyenne initialed each page of the seven page document, then scrawled her signature on the last page.
"Well, uh, what about her stuff, huh?" 'Uncle Tommy' had asked.
"Okay, I'll play along," Anthony had looked at the bloated man. "What stuff? What stuff is she bringing into this marriage? The marriage ends? For any reason? She can keep her boobs. She can keep her tattoos. What else she got?"
Now, fourteen years after their wedding, Anthony wondered what had possessed him to marry Cheyenne Allison Fricke. He looked at the filthy mirror in the harsh glare of the bathroom light and wondered why he'd allowed himself to be persuaded to purchase the monstrosity of a home. And he wondered how and when he had deteriorated into the puffy, unkempt man he saw in the filthy mirror.
