Chapter 1
I was a bit aggravated when the doorbell rang, especially since I had been minding my own business and nursing the hangover from hell. Normally, I knew my limit and didn't bother downing one Jack and Coke after another. It was yet another attempt at a relationship to crash and burn when the person, yet again, learned that I wasn't into monogamy. I've had plenty of those happen to me of late, and it was very discouraging, but at least I didn't waste my time or theirs with false promises of fidelity that I refuse to make.
Quite frankly, I thought of society's rules as a bunch of bullshit, anyway, and wanted nothing more to do with them, which was a huge part of why I didn't date in the conventional sense as much as in the past. Whenever I did, though, I managed to go through dates very fast, rejecting each of them after the first date ninety percent of the time. I eliminated the risk of being tied down into conventional relationships, to be sure, but it was a serious attrition rate that was only mitigated by the infrequency of such occasions in terms of both emotional and financial damage.
Anyway, I had far too much Jack and Coke (on an empty stomach, no less) the night before and I definitely felt the consequences of it now. So, it was with considerable annoyance that I answered the doorbell in my boxers, only to find no one there. It must have been a prank, I decided, which irritated me even more by then. I was in no mood to mess around with such things and if I caught whoever did it, I would tear them a new asshole, I told myself. I was grouchy and horny besides (when wasn't I horny, I laughed to myself, tired of the usual crap).
That was when I looked down at the front porch bench and saw it: the package. It was nothing that one would expect the brown guys to deliver, but hey, why not, right? I hadn't ordered anything to be delivered to me, no parcels or anything like that, but I was naturally curious, especially since it had my name on it. I was so curious, in fact, that I didn't wait to bring it inside before opening it, which was most unlike me. I didn't even read the return address, which was also unusual for me.
I simply opened the parcel, and there it was: what appeared to be a very kitschy, Trekkie-style, old-fashioned phaser/laser type of ray gun. I chuckled as I looked at it and examined the "controls" as well as the barrel and grip. It was cute, but clearly someone's idea of a gag gift, right? Whose idea of a prank was this? Well, at least it got me laughing, so they did me a favor, I thought. That was a neat way to lighten my mood, I decided. I would have to check the return address and find a way to thank whoever it was for this free "ray gun," wouldn't I?
That was the moment that I saw Chrissy Fairfax, the seemingly happy, often bubbly, perhaps a bit too syrupy Christian housewife next door. (You know the type ... plaster smile for public appearance, but resting bitch face and cattiness otherwise.) She could be a bit annoying at times, such as when she friended on a social media site. That was less of an issue than when bombarded me with prayer and money request memes that were all about the J guy (that's Jesus for you fortunates who had lived in blissful ignorance).
Well, there was that and her female pastor (not that I objected to the idea of female clergy as such, just to the idea of clergy in general and to the hypocrisy of cherry-picking biblical verses such as many Christians did about Paul's writing on female ministers), whose videotaped sermons she often tagged me in for some odd reason. This wasn't even counting multiple invitations to her church (well-meaning to be sure, but no ... just not going there), the occasional "gift" of Chick tracts (though I must confess that I got a good laugh out of many of those), and a New Testament in the New International Version (so, that's more modern English for those two thousand year old lies, of course).
I also thought it hilarious that the Chick tracts denounced the very version of Christian holy writ that Jon (that was her husband's name) and Chrissy handed to me as being an evil plot by the Vatican (for those unfamiliar with the late Jack Chick and his tracts, to him, everything came down to a nefarious Catholic-Marxist-Islamic plot for global hegemony at the behest of Satan). Apparently, Chrissy and her hubby missed that part of their tracts or cherry-picked that bit of questionable literature (smut was fine, but no missionary tracts for me other than for pure amusement ... I had literary standards, thank you very much).
"Hello, neighbor. How are you this fine Saturday morning? God is in His Heaven and all's right with the world, wouldn't you say?" Chrissy chirped a bit too much for my liking, "and what is that, a toy laser gun?" she asked me from the hedge between our houses (there wasn't a fence in that part of the boundary, just a hedge).
"Chrissy, I swear, you're the female Ned Flanders at times, you know," I chuckled now, adding, "and no, it's a real ray gun, can't ya tell? The aliens, the little gray guys, they dropped it on my front porch to help them take over the planet. I agreed because, frankly, your god's just a bit out of shape and practice, not quite up to snuff anymore. I figure that new management's in order," I taunted her a bit, goading her to see what she really thought of me (nothing good, I was confident).
"Ned who? Anyway, you don't need to blaspheme or be nasty, you know. I'm trying to be friendly here and you have to get all ... vicious or whatever. Maybe if you turned to Christ instead of Jack Daniels, you'd be a happier person, you know. Just a thought, Dan. It beats going to Hell, you know," Chrissy started humming some stupid hymn, much to my annoyance.
"Jack Daniels and Jim Beam are there when I need them. Jesus, on the other hand ... I gave myself to him, but he never calls," I joked, trying to lighten the mood and failing badly due to the tough room.
