All in the Family

by Taft Sowder

  He poured the coffee, without half looking at the cup. The murky liquid spilled slightly onto the countertop, it ran around the edge of his cup, pooled and then ran to the edge and dripped down onto the floor. Herman did not notice.

  The scent of burning toast filled the air as the toaster popped again. This time, the bread came up a charred, blackened, nearly deformed ghost of its former self. Without looking, Herman grabbed the toast and tossed it onto a small glass plate. He then sat the plate on the table and moved with his cup in one hand and paper in the other to his chair.

  He lifted the toast to his lips, still without looking down, and bit down through the crunchy charred bread. The taste of burned bread annoyed his taste buds. He spat the chewed mass of bread onto the plate, taking a drink of coffee to wash away the flavor. The coffee tasted much too strong and thick.

  He dumped the coffee into the sink, it splashed against the bottom of the wash basin, wet coffee grounds clumping and spreading around the bottom. Irritated, he dropped the glass into the sink. All the years of making coffee never once had he messed it up; never once had he added too much coffee grounds, never once had he burned his toast. This was just not his day.

  Then he heard it, the sound he had been dreading since the night before, the doorbell. He abandoned his current task, dried his hands and went to answer the door.

  He stood before the door, not wanting to answer, not wanting to open the door and see his brother standing there. Herman stood before the door, staring, nerves causing his ulcer to flare. He felt it burn and knew that what was coming could not be in his favor.

  “Hello, Herman,” his brother said.

  “Hello, Bob,” Herman said, meeting his gaze and then casually looking away.

  His brother held up a hand. “Please, this is strictly a business visit, today, call me Frank.”

  “Okay, Frank,” Herman said. Herman would have rolled his eyes if he was that kind of man. His brother’s birth name was Francis Robert, but Herman had always called him Bob. He did not see why this should change now. “Would you like to come in?”

  Frank stepped inside and removed his hat. His slicked back, black hair lay against his skull. He shook it free and let it fall; he had the look more of an old time gangster than a real businessman, but people believed him and trusted him with their money and that’s all that mattered. Truly what was there not to trust? He had built a million dollar business from other people’s garbage. An absolute pleasure to be around, he could be quite the charmer, but shrewd and cruel when it came to the dollar. His magnetic personality would appeal to even the most secluded recluse, and then he would take their life’s savings fund for his own.

  Herman could never really stand to be around Frank, though he was always a family favorite; Herman always secretly despised his brother. It was a quiet hate, he never even shared his feelings with his own wife, but lately it was becoming harder to hide the secret sibling rivalry.

  “What kind of business is it that you have come here with?”

  Frank glanced around casually at the house, his eyes absorbing the warmth of the home, or the lack thereof. He stroked his chin a moment as if in deep thought, and then he spoke.

  “As you may well know, our parents left us a great deal of money. Father always wanted us to go into business together and make something of ourselves, but you chose to continue along the beaten path of both Dad and Grandpa before him. I, however, took the path less traveled. I invested my money. My money made me money. You see how that works?” Frank waited for Herman to answer, he gave no reply. “Anyway, I’ll quit beating the old horse and get to the point. I’m here to inform you that you are being bought out.”

  “Bought out?” Herman’s expression turned to one of confusion.

  “Yes, bought out; a take-over. I’m buying the mortuary, and I’m going to give it a complete makeover. You can’t really suggest that you make good money doing that. If another funeral home comes into town, you’ll be done for. You’ll never be able to compete with their rates, and let’s just face facts, the building is shit.”

  Herman stood, mouth agape, speechless. He took several steps back and sat down in his chair, nearly tripping over the matching ottoman.

  “How could you do this?” He finally asked.

  “How do I do a lot of things? Money talks, bro. You know this, as well as I do.” Frank moved toward the sofa and made himself at home.

  “Yeah, life is good.” Frank’s voice floated, so light and airy now.

  Herman sat, emotions going haywire, his mind racing, innumerable thoughts firing at once. How will my family survive now? What will I do for work? Then his thoughts turned sour. Who does this bastard think he is? Why should he get to choose who makes it and who doesn’t?

  “My goodness, Herman, I’ve been here all of ten minutes and you have yet to offer me something to drink.”

  How about some Jim Jones Kool-Aid? “Would you care for something to drink?” Herman asked as politely as he could muster.

  “No thanks.” Frank smirked and looked smug.

  That tore into Herman even more. The arrogance of his brother; he acted as if he could walk all over anyone.

  “Would you care to give me a tour?”

  “A tour for what? You’ve seen my house before.”

  “I’d like to at least see the place I’m about to buy.” Frank continued to smile.

  * * * *

  It was lunchtime, now, at Wellington Middle School. Bobby sat at his usual lunch table, alone. Tommy would be making his trip to the table soon, but first, he had to make his usual rounds. Tommy always rounded the lunchroom, begging for leftovers, any food that someone was going to leave behind.

  Tommy waddled toward the table, his tray full of food, stacked like Jenga, his daily balancing act. One day he could make a professional restaurant server. He sat down and removed two plastic wrapped snack cakes from his pockets. To add it all up; he had two entrées, Salisbury steak with onion gravy, a double serving of mashed potatoes with gravy, a single mound of stuffing, three milk cartons–one chocolate and his two snack cakes.

  Bobby shook his head.

  Tommy stopped. “What?”

  Bobby swallowed his food. “Nothing.”

  Tommy sat down and began immediately shoveling food into his salivating mouth. His mouth sloshed and made slopping sounds. It would gross out anyone else, but Bobby had grown accustomed to the weird eating habits of his friend, hearing it and seeing it. It was nothing new to him.

  Bobby, too, ate quickly, but without the sound effects. He then opened his folder and pulled out a horror comic book. His mother always disagreed, but his father felt that no harm could come from reading a book.

  When the bell rang, Tommy was still gobbling food, wolfing it down as if he may never eat again.

  On the way back to the classroom, Bobby had inadvertently run into Robert.

  “Well, well, well,” Robert started, “if it isn’t the fag. Where’s your chubby lover at?”

  Bobby tried to ignore the boy and walk around him, but another one of Robert’s thugs stepped in, blocking the way. The taller boy shook his head, Bobby stepped back.

  “I’m just going to class.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to go to class.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  Robert smiled a sneering smile. “I want some naked pictures of that hot sister of yours.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Tommy,” Bobby muttered under his breath.

  “What was that, fag?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  Just then, a teacher walked by and Robert patted Bobby on the shoulder, then drew him close and whispered in his ear. “I heard you boy.”

  As they were walking away, Robert called back, “I might just have to talk to that fat friend of you
rs.”

  Chapter Two

  She looked at the lacy undergarments the hangers held, lightly fingering the fabric of each one. This was her favorite store, but then again any store that sold lingerie was her favorite store. Loretta Adams loved lingerie. This was no secret to her husband and a few other husbands in town.

  She seductively ran her long slender fingers over the blue fabric of another piece; her long, sharp nails gently caressing the fabric, her eyes playing games with the man across the room. He saw her, his eyes played games back. She loved flirting in public.

  The man stood pretending to admire a slinky number himself, but he continually looked up to catch her gaze. Apparently he was single, at least for the moment.

  Catching his gaze again, she shifted her eyes to the rear of the store. He glanced that way. A door stood closed at the back. A big red sign read: Over 18 Only.

  Loretta stepped through the door quickly and quietly, the woman at the counter barely paying her any attention.

  Behind the door, it was a pervert’s paradise. Dildos lined the far wall; black, blue, skin tone, all different colors, sizes and shapes. Along the wall beside the counter, lubricants and bottles of all sorts stood and hung from the wall. She glided across the room to the dildo display.

  She admired an oversized double headed dong, wanting to touch it when the man walked through the door catching her attention. She heard the door close, then a citrus sweet smell wafted her way; she inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent. He smelled delicious, sweet, and she liked it.

  She turned, and he stood right behind her, his dark, well styled hair looked soft, his blue eyes undressed her. She glanced over, the woman at the counter still turned toward the front of the store and reading a Hustler paid them no attention.

  “Looks awful big, you think you could handle that alone?” he asked, looking down at the package in her hands.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” she replied, a bold, brazen move.

  The man inched closer, even his breath smelled sweet. Lust in his eyes, he pressed closer. Her breasts touched his chest now, her erect nipples straining against the silky fabric of her dress.

  He motioned with a nod of his head toward another door. This door read: Adult Theater. Behind this door, one could view an assortment of pay-per-view adult flicks. They had movies for the pervert in everyone. Above all, every viewing room was private.

  She looked back at him and deep into his eyes, caught like a doe in the intense beam of oncoming headlights. She suddenly felt a tingle between her legs and then felt the moistness. She could nearly achieve orgasm by just looking at him. The past three months without sexual gratification from her husband only spurred her on.

  She took his hand and led him delicately toward the door. The mere touch of her soft skin on his caused an immediate reaction. He could feel his penis stiffen slightly, beginning to push hard against his cotton briefs.

  Behind the door, the hallway was dark. She led him, still by the hand, down the hallway to the last door, apparently the only unoccupied room. As she had walked by each door, the sounds of primal pleasure quietly whispered through the space where the door met the floor. Each room held a different sound. At the room next to theirs, the sounds were louder. Perhaps someone had the same idea.

  Inside the room, a large projector screen showed ads for different pornographic movies, even an ad for the store; it showed their large inventory of sex toys and flashed on the screen in bright, bold letters: Special Order. Loretta chuckled at that, special order, if we don’t have the right dildo for you, we can always order it.

  Her male acquaintance closed the door quietly and pushed the lock button. He then put a five dollar bill into the machine and scrolled through page after page of pictures of porn scenes. As if his choice would matter. Loretta placed her hand on his and pushed the button.

  “Let’s make our own,” she said with a mischievous smile. He smiled in return.

  She dropped to her knees and unlatched his belt then slowly, teasingly, she unzipped his pants. Scratching her nails lightly over the skin at his waist, she slide his pants down, releasing his still growing member. She took him into her mouth, sucking hard, tasting him with her tongue, then into her throat, and she swallowed.

  He had never had such an experienced woman on him before; he knew she would give him a treat. He nearly had to push her mouth from him. The way she worked her mouth felt like a slippery sheath, and she had him on the brink in minutes.

  He pulled her up and kissed her deep; his tongue probing her mouth, tasting himself and not caring. What a prize he had stumbled upon. She put his hand under her now hiked skirt. No panties. He grew harder, she was beyond wet now. Her own juices flowed down her thighs. He turned her around, and she bent, pulling her skirt to give him a view and to grant easy, unrestrained access.

  She moaned with pleasure to feel him that close behind her, to know what was coming next. She closed her eyes in anticipation. She longed to feel him slide deep inside.

  She welcomed him; he entered her, deep.

  * * * *

  They had nearly concluded the tour of the house, the same house that Frank had seen several times over. Frank had always been the kind of man to rub it in. He could conjure trouble.

  Frank took a step toward the door that led to the basement. “What’s behind this door?” He asked as if he had truly never seen the house before.

  Herman had taken this grief for the last half hour as he took the man, his brother, the bastard, from room to room. Without hesitation, Frank had verbally ripped on every room in the house, from their sense of décor all the way down to the pull-knobs on the kitchen cabinets. After his verbal assault, he then told Herman what he would have done and how soon he may just tear it all down and restart because the terrible job that had been done already could not be undone.

  All the abuse brought Herman’s blood to a boil, his face going a deep, crimson red. How could this asshole stand here and belittle me like this? He thought. If only our parents were still alive, father would never approve of this. He would show Frank a thing or two. He would take the belt to him like their father used to. Herman’s mind raced now almost panicked.

  He looked at the old, chipping white paint on the basement door. Maybe his place was a shit-hole, but it was his shit-hole. He turned the worn, once brass colored handle. The hinges cried as the door swung inward. He held out a hand to motion after you, and Frank looked at him as if he would have no other way. After Frank passed, he made faces and beat the air with his fists, wishing he could use them on the thick skull in front of him.

  Once in the basement, Frank continued his oral degradation. “This place smells absolutely horrid. Don’t you ever clean up, look at all this junk on the floor and the ... dear God, how long have the walls been leaking?”

  “A while,” Herman replied, looking at the far corner where a small pool of stagnant water had collected.

  “Ridiculous, you should have called someone; for your own sake, called me.”

  Herman stared at the back of his head in the dim light. He wanted, badly, to just smack his brother, just one good time, really let him have it.

  “This place smells of rot and decay. Your floor is going to rot out from under you.”

  “What difference does that make? You’re just going to buy it out from under me anyway, turn it into Frank’s Funhouse.” Herman was furious now. A rage had built inside of him the way animosity grows between nations, between brothers. That age old rage like that which had grown between Cain and Abel, the kind of rage that reverts the civil society to that primal instinct, kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. That was the rage that now boiled his blood, made it hot like fire. His veins burned and he felt powerful. His senses heightened, taking in all that the room had to offer, sound, scent and sight.

  Then he saw it. He could use it; his mind
worked up the images. On the workbench, it glinted in the light even through all the dirt and grime. It called to him.

  The short-handled, eight pound sledge.

  * * * *

  The man behind her pumped harder and harder, forcing heavy breaths and moans from her. Well, she more forced the moans herself, but it seemed to satisfy him. Sweat poured profusely from them now; the temperature in the room had risen several degrees.

  The images on the screen did nothing for her, but he kept turning his head to watch them and then back to her ass as he fondled it, groping and squeezing her soft, milky flesh in his palms. In the distance, the sounds of the other couple achieving orgasm broke through the thin paneling that divided rooms.

  “Are you close?” He panted, nearly breathless. That was when she realized that all of this was about to be for naught, and that he would come and leave her still in need. She plunged her hand below, shoving her skirt out of the way.

  “Hold out a minute, baby,” she said and then moaned as her fingers found her button.

  * * * *

  Herman had the sledge in hand now; he silently flipped it from side to side, admiring its worth. Though dingy, it still seemed to sparkle. He remembered the day he purchased it. He needed it to drive some stakes into the ground in the backyard as yard edging. It had been used for many things since then, even on Ralph, the old cocker spaniel that had to be put down. Herman owned no gun; he held to the belief that guns were for cowards.

  His brother continued his spiel, but Herman had lost interest. Now he had found something that might alleviate his suffering, bring to an end this bitter rivalry between brothers, and fulfill this hatred that he held for his twin. Had it really come to this, to murder? How could it be? He knew, that yes, it had come to this. One could only take so much abuse before one snaps. Herman had been walking that tightrope for years.

  He took another look at his brother; perhaps another peek would ease his mind and calm his nerves. His gaunt frame, his slick, black hair; and his annoying voice, still spilling abusive technical terms for what exactly was wrong with the house; no, that would not save him. This must happen.