Writings » Apartment 4D

Apartment 4D

By Buttermilk Baby at 2007-10-16 | Ridiculous!, Romance | Printable version

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            "I told you, no.  I just found him like that.  Why does he smell so bad, is he like, decomposing," Lips questioned, "Because I know that they start to decompose after time, and well..." The officer cut him off mid-sentence.

            "No sir, he's not decomposing. Your neighbor, Mr. Barton has already told us that Mr. Sansom was helping unclog his toilet just before passing."

            "Ugh. Again?" Lips could see Miggy down the hall and yelled to him over the Policeman's shoulder, "Steaks?"  Miggy could hear him and once again bowed his head in defeat.  He'd taken much grief over the "healthy" cuts he threw down about twice a week.  Seeing as it wreaked hell on the building's plumbing.

            The officer spoke up, "Well, thanks for your cooperation.  We'll be in touch if there's anything else."  He gave Lips a polite and stone-faced nod and was on his way.

            Lips Macmillan was already three hours late for work on account of Grim Sansom, and that was the third time this week.  He was going to lose his job, along with his wife or at least he suspected.  He'd grown nervous over the last few weeks that his wife was having an affair, but he had no way to prove it.  He had even gone far enough as to stake out the apartment via broom closet, across from Miggy's place.  Spending hours in the tiny crypt, with the wafting breeze from Miggy's bathroom seeping in through the ceiling vent, had got him nothing but violently ill.  And that went little in way as evidence of adultery.  He thought about just waiting around once more to be sure, but decided if he was going to lose his wife, he might as well keep his job.  He went back in to kiss his wife goodbye, a ritual that had long since lost all love and became more about spite.

            With her "dearest," Lips, on his way to work, and the police a memory, Jessica Macmillan began her daily routine.  It went like clockwork traditionally, but with Sansom going belly-up outside her front door, or more accurately belly-down, drooling on the moldy hardwood, her schedule had been a little distressed.  She opened the window and Douglas Richmond from 9D climbed in from the fire escape.  He'd been waiting outside for nearly an hour in the cool of a November morning and had almost given up patience.

            "I'm so sorry Dougy, but my neighbor, Grim Sansom, died right outside my door last night," she pleaded as she half begged for mercy, half unbuttoned his shirt.

            "That Fat-Shit from next door?"

            "Yeah, and the police were questioning, so my husband just left now," she finished as she pulled it off his back, leaning in for a kiss.

            "It's cool babe, you've got ways of making it up to me," he announced, which put the smile back on her face.  Then he followed up the assurance with a kiss.  She was down to her bra and panties, which had seen better days.  The same four pairs going through the laundry again and again, for what had to be a span every bit as close to ten years as a decade could be.  And while she was down in the laundry room, stuffing them into the dryer along with a cascade of Lips' socks, she first laid eyes on him.  They'd been continuing their love affair ever since, but she could never seem to regain that passion from their first time on the dryer with eight quarters inserted in it.

            He dropped her onto the bed and followed suit.  They grappled with their tongues, buried in the sheets and comforters that had long lost their white brilliance they had when they were given as a gift, for a wedding twelve years prior.  Running his hands down her sides he could feel it, she wasn't as well kept as she used to be, years with Lips had really drained the life out of her.  There was a fine coating of bristly stubble up and down her legs, and the wrinkles had begun to form.  Nothing solid, no real "structural damage," but the metaphorical corners were beginning to crumble and some extra creases had begun to take shape.  She was a thirty-something housewife who once was a full blown fox, with almost glowing auburn hair that framed her beautiful face.  Now the same rusty locks were like tattered chains, pulling her down.  But don't be fooled, "Dougy" Richmond was no Romeo either.

            His face was like a brick wall, square and rough, and graffiti all over it.  In this case the graffiti was his infinitesimally small eyes, broken nose, and canyon he called a mouth.  Douglas Richmond was tall, strong, but in no way lean.  He had a gut, and it rarely stayed hidden beneath a 2X t-shirt.  But Jessie saw all the things in him her husband wasn't; burly, unkempt and unclean, decisive, and burly, burly as hell.  So much in fact, they should name a paper towel after him.  This drove her wild, and it wouldn't matter if half a meatball sub was littering his shirt, that'd just put her in the mood even more so.

            His pants were lost to the pages of history, along with her underwear.  He was falling into her atop the queen sized mattress, and it was anything but a steamy love scene from a movie.  This shit was raw, like two animals in heat.  Grunting and sweating, and you'd give your right arm to be anywhere but within a hundred foot radius in any direction.  If you were party to such actions, you'd be worried for the furniture, your sanitation, your soul...

            The rustle of keys froze the two mid thrust.  Her face was wide with silent, sweaty terror.  Dougy didn't return the look, he just shrugged and kept on pumping.  "What the hell are you doing? You gotta hide, or get outta here, something," she frantically demanded.  She looked around the room for some kind of saving grace.  The coffee table, the dresser, an ugly lamp her niece made for her, nothing useful.  "Dammit," she thought, as she knew she had to get her lover out of there.

            The seconds seemed to last minutes, while her one man fumbled with the front door, and her other fumbled with her reproductive organs.  "Stop doing me already and get the hell out of here!" she choked out, but it was too late.  Lips stood in the doorway, shocked, even though he had suspected it for the better part of a month.  It was one thing to suspect, and it was another thing to see another man "throwing your wife a bone."

            "Lips, I can explain," she stammered.

            "Yeah Lips, she can," Dougy called out, still thrusting like some kind of wild bear, "She's getting drilled by another guy."  Lips searched for the words, his knees began to shake so he held the doorframe for stability.  He began to cry, just like he did twenty minutes ago when his boss finally fired him and sent him home.

            The sobs turned to frustration, and the frustration, anger.  He marched towards the devious duo with clenched fists.  None of this had stopped Dougy from giving it to Lips' wife.  Lips pulled his arm back and dealt Dougy a mighty blow, to the shoulder, a sweat-laced shoulder that sent Lips' fist ricocheting off.  It was harmless, nothing deadlier than a high-five.  Regardless, it was the starting pistol Dougy needed.  He withdrew his member from Lips' wife and introduced Lips' face to Lips' wall.  With his hand on the back of Lips' neck he slammed the small man's equally small head into the drywall rendering him unconscious.  Lips fell to the apartment floor, bleeding from his left eyebrow, with a soon-to-be swollen lip he bit on contact.  The only thing worse than being knocked out is being knocked out by a naked man who continues to bang your wife while you're unconscious.

            Douglas Richmond climbed back on top of Jessica Macmillan; who was consequently hotter for him than ever.  The two continued their tryst well into the afternoon; even after Lips regained consciousness, left the apartment without a word, and continued to obtain a firearm.         

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