Duplex

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Amateur

*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. No, I don’t want an editor. If this fact bothers you that much, kindly stop reading now.

Yes, it jumps around too much. Yes there’s too many people to keep track of. 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 am a horrible writer, barely literate.

For everyone else, I hope you enjoy this little tale.

*****

Harold Melancon decided to sell the large, overbearing home when his wife suddenly announced that she wanted a divorce. They were coming up on their thirty eighth anniversary, he had just retired from his job, and then she announced she no longer ‘felt that spark’ and wanted a divorce.

Shirley Melancon apparently ‘felt that spark’ with Sam, a thirty eight year old Investment Broker. “Doesn’t matter,” Parker Johnson told Harold when Harold said Shirley had never worked a day in her life, and therefore had never contributed dime one to the purchase of and upkeep of their home. “She still gets half.”

Shirley tried for spousal support but Parker Johnson pointed out that Shirley was already cohabitating with Sam; let Sam support her. Judge Steven Hill decreed that Mrs. Melancon would have to make do with one half of the proceeds from the sale of their home and one half of Harold’s 4O1K plan.

Because Harold Melancon had also worked for Pilot Petroleum Exploration and Development Incorporated for forty one years, he would be collecting Social Security. Shirley, having filed for divorce before Harold began to collect this monthly entitlement, would not be receiving any portion of this.

Shirley’s boyfriend’s smirk as they left the courthouse pissed Harold off. Because he still did one hundred pushups and 100 sit-ups every morning, because he ran/jogged/walked twenty miles every morning on his treadmill, Harold knew he could pound the chubby little bastard’s face in.

Looking at the chinless pasty faced man with the obvious comb over with his doughy body, Harold wondered how Shirley could ‘find that spark’ with the man. He got into his serviceable sedan, a 1991 model. In his rear view mirror, he saw Sam and Shirley getting into a brand new Mercedes-Benz.

“Aw cher, that answer that,” Harold thought, then called the office of Carmen Davis.

The real estate broker met Harold and Shirley out at the modest DeGarde home; Sam wisely did not come within reach of Harold Melancon. Carmen made a list of suggested upgrades, then got down to dollars and cents.

And six months after her little announcement, Harold gave Shirley a check for her half of the sale of their home, minus half the cost of upgrades. She did complain about that and Harold told her to take him to court. He also gave her half of the 4O1K.

“Might want put all that where he can’t get it,” Harold said, indicating Sam with a nod of his head.

“We getting married next month, yeah,” Shirley announced in a haughty tone of voice. “So, ain’t none your business what we doing with my money.

“Okay,” Harold shrugged, again resisting the urge to punch the smirking Sam in his toad-like face.

Harold had enough money to purchase another home, had enough money to move to Florida, buy a motor home and tour the country. Instead, he decided to rent one side of a duplex in Bender, Louisiana. His monthly Social Security check would pay the rent, the utilities, his groceries, and any frivolous expenditure he might want, within reason.

“Man, cutting that grass fifty years now, let someone else do it, huh?” he smiled and signed a one year lease for the two bedroom, two bathroom unit.

James Taylor had been his investment counselor when Harold was with PPEDI, so Harold gave the man carte Blanc to continue managing his portfolio. James arranged to send Harold a monthly statement; again, Harold saw that he could afford a few luxuries that Shirley had denied him over the years.

A subscription to Parasols Magazine was his first indulgence. His second was a meal at the Dead End bar, a place Shirley strictly forbade Harold from going into. He even went into the Hurricane Room with a sweet faced strawberry blonde and blew a load in his boxers while she gave him a lap dance.

But, he decided, that was nearly three hundred dollars he would not be spending again.

“Oo-wee! That a lot of money yeah!” he thought as he drove to his new home.

Harold also decided he would try a new hairstyle. He shaved his balding head completely smooth. He also grew a goatee and mustache. Shirley saw him one day in Super One Foods grocery store and told him he looked ridiculous.

“I think it’s kind of cute,” a young African-American girl said as she pushed her cart past the two combatants.

His new mattress was firm. Shirley had insisted on a soft mattress and over time, Harold had developed a crick in his back from the soft mattress. Since investing in this mattress, he had bedava bahis lost his crick. He even noticed that his legs felt better.

He also purchased a new LCD television and gaming system and sound system from Miller’s Electronics and they sent two very polite, very professional young men to install everything. Harold found out he was terrible at video games, but had so much fun discovering how bad he was, he thoroughly enjoyed himself.

The only blight on Harold Melancon’s happiness was the two young men that lived in the other half of the duplex.

Both were handsome young men of twenty one years of age. Jonathon Savoie was five foot eight, with dark brown hair that he wore long, usually tied back in a ponytail. He had deep brown eyes, one heavy eyebrow that went over both eyes, a strong nose, and lips that seemed to be curled in a perpetual sneer.

Richard Arnaud had light brown hair, was also five foot eight, but was rather slender, almost feminine in his features.

His first Friday night in the duplex, Harold was jolted awake at ten thirty by heavy booming music blaring from next door. Their doors were right next to each other so Harold leaned out of his front door and hammered on their front door.

But their music was so loud that they did not hear him.

“TAB Properties,” than answering service intoned.

“Hear that? Hear that? Man, how I’m supposed sleep that going on right there?” Harold yelled into his brand new IPhone.

For that, one of the boys placed a burning bag of excrement on Harold’s door stoop and knocked.

Harold opened the door, saw the burning bag and simply poured his beer onto the bag, dousing the flame.

Early one morning, after a night of excessive drinking, Jonathon and Richard tried to open their door. Both were too drunk to get the key into the locks. Both were too drunk to notice that they were trying to get into 412B Cindy Street instead of their own unit, 412A Cindy Street.

Harold was roused by the noise of someone fumbling with his front door. Being sleepy, and irritated, he jerked his door open.

“Move, old man, got to shit,” Jonathon slurred and tried to force his way into what he thought was his own unit.

Harold’s punch landed squarely into Jonathon’s forehead, toppling the young man backward. The young man no longer had to shit; he emptied both bowels and bladder as he lay on the concrete pad, unconscious.

Richard was too stunned to move. He stood, open-mouthed, and stared at the naked Harold before Harold finally slammed the door and locked it again.

The next day, feeling slightly more charitable toward his neighbors, after all, he too had been young, Harold went out and bought a large holly bush. He put it into a large terra cotta urn, filled it with potting soil and mulch, and placed the plant in between their two doors.

“See? This way? Know what side you supposed be on,” he explained to the two hung over, surly young men. “Run into this? You gone too far.”

“Think I might have a concussion,” Jonathon complained bitterly.

“Then you take you to the hospital and get it checked out yeah,” Harold said.

Harold also purchased a video system and had Miller’s Electronics mount the system underneath the overhang of the building. Jonathon’s claim that he might have a concussion did worry Harold. If a similar incident ever came up, he wanted to be able to show that he had been acting in self-defense.

The system did not have sound, but there was no sound necessary as Harold watched the two giggling neighbors urinating into the terra cotta urn. Parker Johnson watched the video, shook his head and advised Harold to take the two hooligans to small claims court.

“Melancon versus Savoie-Arnaud,” the bailiff called out.

Judge Marie Robichaux listened to Harold as he explained why he had purchased the bush, why he had placed it between the two doors, and why he had purchased the camera. Then she watched the video.

“Answer?” she barked at the two young men.

Jonathon mumbled some foolishness until Judge Robichaux silenced him.

“Do you have the receipt for the plant, Mr. Melancon?” she asked.

“Yeah, as you can see, that big urn there? That cost…” Harold said.

“Mr. Melancon, I can read; I went to law school,” Judge Robichaux said, slightly amused with the man.

“Judgement for the plaintiff, one hundred and forty six dollars. I am also awarding the plaintiff one thousand dollars punitive damages,” Judge Robichaux ruled. “Mr. Savoie, Mr. Arnaud, the next time you two need to urinate? Might I suggest you do it inside?”

Harold replaced the damaged holly bush with another one, this one in a cast iron urn. Again, his camera caught sight of someone in full coat and ski mask as they took bolt cutters and chopped down the holly bush at the roots.

“Melancon versus Savoie, please step forward,” the bailiff intoned.

“We meet again,” Judge Marie Robichaux quipped.

Jonathon and Richard smirked; Jonathon bedava bonus had been wearing a heavy coat and a ski mask; there was no way the old man would be able to identify him as the perpetrator.

“Okay, I see someone cutting the bush,” Judge Robichaux agreed. “But how do you know it’s Mr. Savoie? This could have been me for all you know.”

“Because the second camera I got shows Mr. Savoie going to his car,” Harold said.

Jonathon thought he would be ill when Harold produced a second video that showed him, still in heavy coat and ski mask, going from bush to car. Jonathon then pulled the ski mask off; he was sweating profusely in the itchy head covering, and opening his car’s trunk.

“Bet we go look in his car, we find all that there yeah,” Harold concluded.

“Mr. Savoie, you must really like Mr. Melancon,” Judge Robichaux said.

“He’s all right,” Jonathon sneered, shrugging his shoulders.

“No, no, you must really like him, because you keep giving him your money,” Judge Robichaux said. “Judgement for the plaintiff, two thousand dollars. And Mr. Savoie? The next bush? Better be the healthiest plant in that neighborhood because the next time I see you in here? It’ll be five thousand dollars. Got it?”

Being that Jonathon and Richard were both young and dumb and attractive, there was no shortage of young and dumb and beautiful women traipsing in and out of their unit. None seemed to last longer than a week or two, though.

Some of the young women were fodder for Harold’s stroke sessions, along with his Parasols magazines. Either Jonathon or Richard had pointed out the cameras that Harold had mounted and a few of the young women actually smiled, waved and flashed their young, beautiful breasts at the cameras. One Asian-American girl actually lifted the hem of her far too short skirt, flashed her bald pussy, then turned and wiggled her nearly flat backside to Harold’s cameras.

Harold kept that short vignette, saved it on his U-Drive and watched it over and over. He had a slight fetish, loving the sight of hairless pussies. Shirley would never shave her pubic mound, throwing up all the normal excuses. It would itch, it would grow back coarser, thicker. It would be difficult. And he was a disgusting old fool anyway.

Harold wondered how she was getting along now. He had been with Shirley for nearly two thirds of his life, and though he didn’t like her, he did still love her.

Shirley had sent him an invitation to her wedding. The invitation was sent out of spite, Harold was sure of that. He hoped she did take his advice, did insist on a pre-nuptial agreement.

Sam had waddled into the condominium that they shared, muttering obscenities. Shirley asked him what was wrong and he said he was too angry to talk about it. Shirley would not leave it alone and finally, Sam spat that his lawyer was insisting that he get her to sign a pre-nuptial agreement.

“I mean, what an insult!” Sam said in his curiously high-pitched voice. “I told him, I said we’re going to be married forever and what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine,”

“Then what’s the big deal?” Shirley asked. “We sign it, put it away and it never come up again.”

“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that; it’s just too demeaning,” Sam insisted.

So, there was no pre-nuptial agreement, on his side or on Shirley’s side. They wed in a civil ceremony, in Judge Jesse Johnson’s court, then went to Niagara Falls for their honeymoon.

One evening, a few weeks after their marriage, Sam came into the condo, bubbling with excitement. Shirley asked him about his day at work and Sam told her about a new corporation, an organic entity that would be recycling hazardous materials. The company would be rendering toxic materials safe for the environment and the process was done through cultured bacteria.

“It’s going for sixty a share, but I’m telling you, when the EPA approves it, those shares will be worth thousands each,” Sam said.

“And ain’t no one else looking at them?” Shirley asked.

“Oh, those idiots?” Sam scoffed as they sat down to eat.

Shirley kissed Sam good-bye the next morning, then logged onto her old computer. There was absolutely nothing on the corporation Sam had talked about. She then looked up another investment he’d talked her into putting fifty thousand dollars into.

“My two hundred thousand, your fifty thousand, a quarter of a million dollars, that gets us twenty five hundred shares,” Sam had said excitedly.

There was no listing, no information on that corporation either. Shirley then typed in Sam’s full name and was horrified at what popped up.

The attorney that had represented her in the divorce had been a friend of Sam’s. Shirley feared that if she called him, he would alert Sam, so she looked up the listing for Harold’s attorney.

“Johnson, Johnson and Lambert, how may I direct your call?” the sweet young receptionist answered.

Parker Johnson listened to the woman’s sob story and advised deneme bonusu her to call the police. She did so, gave them the make and model, as well as plate numbers for his Mercedes-Benz. Then she sat and felt like a foolish old woman.

She was sixty three, almost sixty four years old; why would a thirty eight year old man be interested in her? Harold Melancon had been a good man, even if he had been a little boring, a little predictable. She had thrown that away for a foolish little fling.

A few hours after her call to the DeGarde Police Department, there was a knock at the door of the condo. Shirley burst into tears when the Association President informed her that Sam had not paid his dues to the Condominium Association, nor had he paid the lease in nearly four months.

“I mean, Ma’am? Can give y’all what? About another week come up with it, but…” the man said apologetically.

Harold was indulging in his favorite pastime, watching the disc he’d made, the collage of pare breasts the neighbors’ girlfriends had flashed him when Shirley called. He listened, fighting hard against laughing. Then finally asked her what she wanted from him.

“I’m sorry me,” she sobbed. “Maybe we give us another chance?”

“Got me two words for you yeah,” Harold said. “Good. And bye.”

The sound of a car door slamming hard got his attention and he switched over to live feed. A young woman stormed up to the door of 412A and started pounding on the door with her fists.

“Richard Michael Arnaud, you answer this door yeah!” she screamed.

Harold opened his eyes wide. The young woman wasn’t very beautiful, having a plain looking face, a slightly large nose, and light acne scarring on her cheeks. Her hair was a ‘dirty blonde’ color, more streaks of brown than blonde and her large eyes were a dull brown color. But her chest was spectacular. It looked like she had two halves of a basketball under that tank top she was wearing. Her waist looked narrow, her hips also looked narrow, but given the size of her breasts, almost anything would appear narrow in comparison.

“Hey, hey, don’t need all that no,” Harold barked, jerking open his door.

The young woman ignored him, just continued to hammer on the door and scream for Richard to open the door.

“He ain’t even here, look. You see his car?” Harold said.

Whitney looked around, saw that neither Jonathon’s car, nor Richard’s car were there. She realized, she’d been pounding on the door for no good reason.

Then Harold’s eyes opened even wider. He recognized the girl from his March issue of Parasols Magazine. He quickly ran and fished the magazine out of his magazine holder.

“Hey, you Britney!” he said, bringing the magazine to the door.

“It’s Whitney,” she snapped.

The photograph showed Whitney, or Britney as the article identified her, heavily made up to minimize the large nose, to conceal the acne scars and an equally large breasted red head in lesbian action.

“Oh, God, that one,” Whitney groaned, seeing the magazine.

“You autograph it?” Harold asked, his excitement palpable.

Whitney actually smiled at the old man. When she smiled it did make her slightly more attractive.

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “Got October’s? I’ll sign that one too.”

“October? No, no, earliest one I got is December last year,” Harold admitted.

“Oh, then you don’t got July’s neither, huh?” Whitney said.

“You been in all them?” Harold asked, positively giddy with the thought.

“Wait here, I be back,” Whitney said and stomped back to her car.

“Hey, wait, what about this one?” Harold called out but she drove away.

He closed his door and sat in his chair. The fourth photograph in the nine photographic layout showed Britney/Whitney and Tara, as the article named the red headed girl in a sixty nine position. Tara’s left hand was pulling on Britney/Whitney’s right buttock, exposing Britney/Whitney’s thicket of dark brown pubic hair, light pink pussy lips and light brown anus for the camera. Harold liked the photograph; he also had an anal fetish. And it made Britney/Whitney seem a little on the trashy side, having pubic hair much darker than the hair on her head.

A slamming car door drew Harold’s attention from his perusal of the magazine. Harold looked at the live feed and saw Jonathon approaching. As he always did, Jonathon spat at the holly bush that separated the two doors. Then he unlocked his unit and entered.

“Go ahead, you just keep watering that bush yeah,” Harold laughed.

A few moments later, another car door slamming alerted him and he saw Richard approaching the door to 412A. At the door stoop, Richard paused long enough to salute the camera with a one finger salute.

“Same to you,” Harold laughed and started reading the words underneath Britney/Whitney’s pictorial series.

A third car door slamming brought him out of reading about Tara’s confession that she’d always had a thing for ‘Britney’ and was so glad that ‘Britney’ also felt the same attraction.

A moment later, Whitney came into view. She still wore the same tank top and cut off shorts. It did appear she might have applied a little makeup, brushed her tousled mop of dirty blonde hair. In her hand, she carried a plastic grocery bag.

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