Fake News

After Simenon...

Roger apparently thought that just because he was my wife Maris's brother he could ask her for anything. And I don't just mean money he'd never pay back.

For instance. If Roger was around on weekends, and he always seemed to be around on weekends, and if Maris was in the kitchen chopping vegetables or preparing the steak marinade, he'd stand behind her—up close behind her—and massage her shoulders. And if Maris was still in her string bikini top, all the better. Far worse, as soon as I left the room for any reason, such as to throw the steaks on the grill, I would look back and invariably discover that Roger's hands had circled around to the front and that he was feeling his sister up. It didn't help much that Maris tossed her head back and laughed, as if it were all normal fun and games.

I tell you, nothing made me leak into the pantyliner stuck to the front of my briefs like the sight of brother pleasuring his older sister like that. Well almost nothing.

As he kneaded those beautiful, still-youthful C-cups Roger would lean further forward and kiss Maris's nape or nibble her earlobe and whisper sweet nothings. Like: "Why do you stick with that Dickless Wonder husband of yours?"

"Cause I love him and he needs me?"

"That's not a reason, sis. I'm talking about a woman's needs. Sex. And a man's for that matter."

"There's more things in life than sex, Roger."

"Like what?" grinning, baring his mouthful of crooked, nicotine-stained teeth.

"Lots of things. The secret is not to think about it."

"Not think about it? I bet you're thinkin' about right now. I bet your pussy's wet. Here, let me—"

"Stop it!" slapping her brother's descending hand. But giggling all the while. "And you know I don't like that word."

"Which word?"

"You know which word."

"No I don't. Say it, sis."

"Yes you do. Let go. You're like an octopus!"

"Say 'pussy'. Go on, sis, say it," Roger cackling into the mic.

"If you don't let go I'm gonna call John."

"Call him, I don't care. What's he gonna do, shoot me? Oops, ain't allowed to carry a gun no more is he?"

"You're being cruel. You'd be surprised."

Hands still in place, and full of his sister's buoyant flesh, Roger shifts his weight. "I'll ask it again, sis. What kind of cop, a detective no less with ten years on the force, shoots his own dick off?"

"It was an accident. Accidents happen."

"I mean it would've been one thing if the guy he'd been chasing had shot it off..."

"Let go of me. He's coming back. Let go!"

"He'd be a hero right now. A tragic story..."

A whisper: "Shut up, he's back!"

You can't hear any of this, of course, from out on the lanai. But you can listen to it later, after Roger's gone and Maris is in bed, Maris and her vibrator, through earbuds, via your laptop, where the audio file recorded by the bug you placed on the side of the dishwasher door, black on black plastic, has been downloaded.

The fuck!

The big shock came some months ago, when the wayward Roger returned home from god knows where, Tennessee or some place, and the bedroom bug had revealed, frustratingly, nothing except Maris's solitary nighttime moans to that point...the big shock coming when the previous day's download suddenly came to life with a duo of moans and cries and happy sex-talk.

"It's been so long, baby! I never should've left. I missed you so much! Think about you night and day. How long's it been, sis? Eleven years? Twelve?"

Maris's reply: garbled; unintelligible.

You always thought Maris, when she finally gave in and shacked up with some guy, a guy with all his requisite attachments, it would be with one of the nice gentlemen from the Presbyterian church she regularly attended. You less so. The ones, including the pastor, who were always complimenting her on how nice she looked; how pretty she looked that day. Nodding and saying this all the while you stood right beside her, mute. Holding her shaken hand an extra second or two. You look so nice today translating, in a coarser vocabulary, as: Damn you look hot, baby! Damn I'd like to get some of that!

So, yes, given this relatively wholesome fantasy, the will of God, that sort of thing, it came as quite a shock to you when the bedroom bug revealed her (presumably) first paramour to be...her miscreant redneck brother Roger. Just returned from the heartland.

And what was all that talk about eleven, twelve years ago? Twelve years ago you and Maris had been dating. Eleven years ago you were engaged. Had she been banging her younger brother the whole time she was telling you she wanted to wait—save it—until your wedding night? What was up with that? No wonder your pretty fiancé had been so dismissive of her—and your—sexual needs those long two-plus years. She was getting it at home anytime she needed it. From her own piece-of-shit brother!

What did not come as a shock months ago was when Maris led you to the kitchen table like a hand-held child and sat you down and gently broke the news to you.

"What news?"

"Roger."

"He's leaving?"

"No. He's made me—us—a proposition. An offer."

"What kind of proposition?"

Maris looked down. Into her lap. She was dressed conservatively. A button-down blouse, no cleavage; a dark skirt whose pleats came down nearly to her knees. Somewhat incongruously, her feet were bare. Tomboy at heart. You, John, loved her for this.

The first time you proposed it Maris said she'd never had it before, anal sex. She didn't seem to enjoy it all that much at first, but after a while she got used to it. By the end, at the time of your accident, she claimed she actually preferred it that way. Not all the time but occasionally. Like Indian food.

Maris looked up. "Roger's offer is that in return for free room and board, along with a small stipend..."

"Stipend?"

Maris nodded. "Allowance."

"How old is your brother again? Ten?"

"He's 31, John."

"And he wants an allowance."

"Not much. One-fifty a week? It's negotiable."

John laughed. "That's good to know."

"In return for that...for that, he does work around the house, mows the lawn, fixes things, washes our cars...He's good with his hands. He worked as a handyman up north."

John said, "You told me at one point he specialized in doing odd jobs for old ladies who lived alone. He'd change their light bulbs for them? In the nude?"

"He did more than change their lightbulbs, John."

"I'm sure he did. But the operative word here is...in the nude."

"He's not a bad man, John, my brother. He's been, like, scared straight for six years now. No criminal record..."

"That you know of."

"He's clean, John. But here's the main part of his offer..."

Muttered, arms folding: "I can't wait for this..."

"In return for the aforementioned..."

"You sound like a lawyer, honey."

"In return for what I just laid out...is that better? And because of your...our...situation here."

"What situation is that?"

"Our marriage situation. In the bedroom. He—"

"What about the bedroom?"

"Me, John. Me. My needs. My unfulfilled needs..."

"Rub it in why don't you."

"I'm just stating facts, John. You know if I was a Catholic, the Pope would decree...he would declare our marriage null and void? A woman has a right to have her biological needs fulfilled."

"The Pope himself?"

"It's not funny, John. It's been over a year now."

"Not quite."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I guess it's a good thing we're not Catholic, huh?"

"Keep laughing it off, John. Keep making jokes about it. But it's not a joke to me. I'm desperate."

"I thought we were talking about your asshole brother."

"I resent that. He's not an asshole. He's trying to make a new start."

"By mooching off us?"

"It's not mooching if he does his share in return for us doing ours."

"As in money."

"He's offering to...this is difficult, John..."

Maris brought hands to either side of her head and combed back her lush, honey-blonde hair. The hair one of the deacons at the church would have sunk his fingers into as he came forward, his cock in your wife, and begun humping her. Kissing her. I love you, Maris. Marry me. God will understand. Have my baby...

Maris blurted: "Roger's offering to service me, service me—"

"Service?"

"Sexually," she nodded. "On a regular, as-needed basis. It makes sense, Roger. I mean John. Think about it."

"Believe me, I—"

"Be quiet for one minute please," holding a hand up, a stop sign. "Listen. As Roger points out—he's thought a lot about this—if he becomes my sex partner then...there are no strings, no complications. It's not like I'm gonna fall in love with him and run away with him and marry him. And divorce you, darling. For one thing it's illegal. It's incest. Not that I don't love my brother...

"For another..."

Maris looked off sharply to her right, as if at the refrigerator and all its ticky-tack magnets and grocery lists and doctors' appointments and Percotin prescriptions and whatnot. She looked back.

"I guess that's about it."

"It?"

"One more thing."

"Let me guess."

"Roger wants me to get my tubes tied."

"What!" half-rising out of his captain's chair. The one with the curving arms. Maris passed an ambiguous sigh.

"He knows I'm off the pill, he says he refuses to wear condoms and...besides, he says it's the safest way."

"What is he a fucking gynecologist now?"

"Calm down, John," hand waving him back into his chair. "I know this is a shock..."

"Shock? What about the child we were gonna have, Maris? We talked about it just a few months ago! Before he arrived. I still have my balls. I still produce semen. We were gonna—"

"It's not permanent, John. I can get them untied when the time comes."

"And when will that be?"

Maris shot her husband a look. "After I've had a good twelve, thirteen months of a man's—a real man...his cock in me every night. Not every night...," she added with a half-shrug.

John sat toying with a salt shaker. No...pepper. Picking it up, putting it down. Tilting it, tapping it nervously like a chess piece. He made Maris mad by saying, first thing out of his mouth in response: "I don't want that asshole living with us."

Maris's blue eyes went wide. It was her turn to nearly rise out of her (armless) chair, chin doubling in a preview of a not-so-distant middle-aged future. "What! You're shitting me, John. That's your response?

"I've just told me [sic] your [sic] brother is going to be servicing me three times a week...four, six...who knows? And all you've got to say is...I don't want you [sic] living with us? You disgust me, John. I don't even know you anymore!" kitchen table chair scraping back. "You know what?" standing over him, leaning from the waist. "It's just like my brother says. You're sick. Admit it. You're a dickless..."

Even in storming off Maris looked cute, sexy, hot. What a pair of hustling legs!

John shook his head. Smiled, knowingly.

After the storm, a category one but still...Roger came in tracking mud, his clothes, a UT teeshirt and faded jeans, sopping wet. Rain squalls and sweat. He wiped his brow.

"Whee-you, brother! Damn it's humid out there!"

"I bet." John pointed out the windows, his backyard: "You missed a couple of branches, though."

Roger brought his preferred beverage, a 16 oz can of Busch Light, from the fridge. After taking a swig he said: "Aw, I'll get 'em tomorrow." He drank some more.

With Roger it was always tomorrow, the next day. He did everything half-ass except for one: porking his own sister. They'd come to a compromise about the tube-tying. He only fucked her vaginally when it was "safe." That time of month. The rest of the calendar he fucked his sister up the ass. Roger was bigger than his brother-in-law and it took some getting used to. But the recordings John listened to on a daily basis, having planted a third bug in Roger's downstairs bedroom, not that the couple never broke protocol and fucked upstairs, in John's own bed...but the recordings he listened to, while leaking into his pantyliner, indicated Maris was enjoying it. Certainly Roger was.

They played this game. Maris would dress up in tight bluejeans and one of John's button-down dress shirts. And a white pair of his Jockeys. She would play the guy, the other guy. Roger would yank her, his, jeans and underpants down in one thrust and tell him, Maris, on her hands and knees, what a cute little ass he had. Then he would fuck his sister and shoot his load deep up her ever-widening rectum, as she cried for more. Harder!

It was a fact: Roger, though he had pretty good stamina, came sooner when he fucked my wife anally than when he fucked her vaginally. I have proof, the recordings. I've timed it, as my own sperm spilled into my panty, lumpless at the front of course, overwhelming the thin, quilted, figure-8 liner my kindly wife buys for me, in bulk, at Sam's Club.

"Well," Roger said on this fateful day, crushing his empty beer can, "I'm gonna get out of these clothes, take a shower and go and visit my sister. Where is she?"

John lifted his eyes ceilingward. "Upstairs, I think. I think she's giving herself an enema."

"Hot!" contradicting his plans by returning to the fridge for another 16 ouncer. "She always has such a clean ass. Did she used to do that for you, brother? She's told me about the two of you, before. Want a beer?"

"Sometimes. No thanks."

Roger was heading off to his room down the hall, can in hand. "Listen," his brother-in-law said, turning him back. "Question."

"Shoot, bro."

"That old lady in Tennessee. You did some work for her?"

"Huh?"

"One of the old ladies you did work for—in the nude?"

"You're fucked up, dude. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on, Rog. Fess up. You've told your sister this on more than a few occasions. How you used to do work for old ladies in Tennessee, Knoxville? In the nude? Help 'em out? They'd squeeze your ass and whatnot? Sometimes you'd even fuck 'em?"

"You're full of shit, bro. How do you know what I've told your [sic] sister?"

John smiled. "I have my ways."

"You're fucked up, dude. Is it true you wear a diaper, son?"

"I'm a cop, Roger."

"Were a cop."

"Still am, Roger. Why do you think I'm not home all week while you're fucking my sister?"

"Your sister? She's your wife, man."

John ignored the distinction. "What was her name, though? It was an old-fashioned name. Clara? You fucked her up the ass, then something happened, then you dragged her out into a vacant lot next door and buried her, behind the fence.

"You shoulda worn a condom, Roger," John added. The half-full beer can flew at him. It missed—smacking against a kitchen cabinet.

"They got a DNA match," John continued. "They got the tapes..."

"What tapes?"

"They got your ads on Deanslist, your nude pics, your big cock...advertising your services..."

"You're so fucked up...You're so fucked up, John, your eyes are brown. I'm out of here!"

"Hold on. I still know how to use one of these believe it or not," John said, raising a pistol from his hidden lap. It was a Glock, 9.

"Well, least you don't got a cock to shoot off anymore, asshole. Go ahead, bet you couldn't hit the bawd sign of a broad [sic]. Watch those balls, dude! That's all you got left."

"I'd look out the front window before you go running out there, Rog. Just a suggestion."

"What?"

"Look."

"Jesus what the fuck! What've you done?"

"Not me, Rog. They got it down that you're the last person to see the old lady—Clara was it?—alive. They got your posts on Deanslist. They got the body now. They got the DNA. The sperm. You're fucked, bro."

Roger took a chance. He sprinted past, holding a hand to his left ear. As if that were enough to deflect a 9 mm round. You never fired, however.

It was pointless. By now the house was surrounded—Boca Raton cops; Tennessee state police; and since state lines had been crossed, FBI. The latter handcuffed Roger on the lanai, face-down and squirming, protesting his innocence, and then hauled his sweaty ass away. It all happened so fast.

Your wife, oblivious, comes down the stairs moments later. Frowning.

"What was all that noise about? Did you and Roger have another fight?"

"Everything's fine now. I'll explain later. Where are you going?"

"There were cars in our driveway. Unmarked cars. They looked like cops, John."

"I'll explain."

"Church," Maris replied, latently, frowning. She was dressed for it—conservatively. Half-heel sandals, open toes; black stockings; a tasteful black skirt. A matching blouse, with ruffles, only slightly revealing. A gold cross around her neck, in its hollow.

"It's Saturday," John observed.

"It's a service. Memorial. I won't even ask why you have a gun in your lap. Where's my brother?"

"I'll explain after you get back."

"Explain now."

"Even in black...especially in black, you look sexy, darling."

Maris looked down—at herself. Everything—even her hidden underwear—was matching black. "Thank you."

"Who died?" John asked.

A tabloid, the Post, got hold of the story and broadcasted it, thousands of miles away. The Arial Black headline read:

Cop Who Shot His Own Penis Off

Nails Serial Killer Brother-In-Law

A Boca Raton police detective who accidentally shot his own penis off while attempting to apprehend a criminal last year, captured his brother-in-law yesterday after a reported gun battle in the officers' [sic] gated Florida community. FBI agents on the scene arrested the allege [sic] killer, who is believed to have murdered several elderly women in the Knoxville, Tennessee area over the course of several years.

It is believed the killer, Roger Smart, lured women via his ads on Deanslist, a social media personals site, offering to provide services in the nude in return for compensation. Police suspect Smart is responsible for the deaths of at least four women in the Knoxville area. It is believed he moved to Boca Raton, Florida some six months ago in order to be close to his sister.

The sister, Maria [sic] Faust, née Smart, wife of the hero officer who shot and wounded the subject inside their home, is not believed to be a target of the investigation.

She was at a nearby church, leading a Bible study group, at the time of her brother's arrest, according to her husband.

"He came to live with us a few months ago," officer Faust explained. "It was a family thing. I didn't suspect anything—at first. We knew his checkered past. He and my wife were very close," the hero officer explained. "I respected that, you know?"

The National Inquirer and Wolf News had their own sources. Spun it differently, to say the sensational least:

Hero Cop Discovers the Incest;

Mass-Murderer Brother-In-Law

While His Horrified Wife Watches;

Sister-Brother 'Romance' Revealed;

Officer Honored For His Bravery Under Fire

"I never knew about the incest," Officer Faust confessed, to our reporter. "If there was any. My wife of ten years denies it, uncategorically [sic]. And I believe her. Frankly, I believe my brother-in-law would say anything to attempt to get out of his current...legal predicament. I hope he's innocent but the evidence seems...I must say, pretty convincing. All those poor women," he said, shaking his head. "He'll fry for this."

Asked about his well-publicized self-inflicted injury, from over a year ago, Detective Faust says, "It helps that I have such a wonderful wife. She's so loyal, so understanding..."

"And then for the media to claim...," he added, "she's had some kind of incestuous relationship all these months? With her own brother? She's some kind of accomplice? It's fake news, pure and simple.

"Fake news. Stop it."