The Absurdity of Assumptions

Author's Note: This story is my story, I wrote it, stealing is lame. If you don't like it, don't read it (this means you). I chose to submit this whole story at once, since my only complaints to some of the better stories, is that I have to wait for the next chapter(s). The sex is at the end if you don't like the plot.

This story has been re-submitted for more edits, so all feedback may have been justified at the time. Thanks for the voting and responses.

*

"So you got it?!?" Yule was fidgeting. His realtor had come through, hopefully, finally, for only five percent of the property value as his commission, plus closing costs.

"Yes I did Mr. Chinski, it's has everything you requested, but there is a catch," the realtor replied on the other side of the phone. Yule hated the phone, and he hated it more now.

"What do you mean a catch?" Yule replied, knowing there always was. If this greedy prick realtor didn't spit it out directly, Yule was going to be very angry, directly.

"Well, Mr. Chinski, the property has the wrap around porch, privacy fence, pool, and landscaping. It even has the old Forties style bomb shelter, and the wooden shingle sidin-" the realtor wasn't given a chance to finish.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THE CATCH, ASSHOLE," Yule wasn't a talker, though he had patience when he needed it. He had been waiting on this guy for four months, after the promise that it would only take a month at most. Then there were the properties that in no way resembled what he wanted. Yule was beginning to think he would have to drive across all of America and look at each house himself, with no other realtor willing to take the job.

"It has neighbors, Mr. Chinski," the realtor replied sheepishly, having been thrown off his sales pitch. He would have been verbally angry at his customer, had he not wanted his money. After four months of trying to sell him high dollar properties, then realizing he was not biting, he had decided to actually look for what Yule had requested. For the life of him, the realtor could not understand why a wealthy man like this would want a classic single family home with only one and a half baths.

"How close?" Yule replied while thinking "It'd better be over fifty feet you little weasel."

"One-hundred feet on either side, it's in a small, well spaced, older development, wrapped by the rural setting you requested. I believe, sir, that the property is to your liking." The realtor's fingers were crossed.

"How rural, Bronx rural, or cow farm rural?"

"It's over a two hour drive to the nearest chain store, and all of the local stores are still privately owned. The townships population is just over six-thousand, and it covers a very large area."

"Send me pictures, and all other pertinent information, I'll call you if it is to my liking. Anything else I should know?" Yule had his hopes raised. "Just get me out of this fucking city," he thought to himself.

"No, sir. I'll have the information sent to your assistant, thank you. We here at the office really do appreciate y-" the phone clicked. Yule had hung up on the realtor, not bothering to listen to the chit-chat at the end of the phone call. The realtor thought it was ignorant. Yule thought the realtor was a bullshit artist.

***

Jillian and Denise were unrelated twins from separate parents. The only real separation from each other, other than appearance, came in the form of sweet old Mrs. Davies's house. It was directly between their respective parents's homes. The two girls grew up together in this little shit, no where town, and they loved it there. Their graduating high school class had 28 students, less than four hundred kids in the whole system, which covered a huge area. It was nice to live in a place where the majority of the world's problems seemed distant.

They were both only children. Jillian was the tall, skinny, wild, tomboyish blonde with intelligent sensibilities; Denise the model-esque, but oddly reserved brunette. They were not lesbians, not by a sight, save the few teenage experiments that many indulge.

Denise was married by twenty, but divorced by twenty-five, since her no good, philandering husband couldn't keep it in his pants. If it had not been for Jillian, her father, and sweet old Mrs. Davies, she would have never been able to raise her two children, and support her family. Steven and little Jill were the light of all three women's lives.

By the time Jillian and Denise had turned thirty, they stilled lived in their childhood homes. Jillian's parents gave her the house when they moved to Florida, along with the local hardware store. Clark's Hardware had been a staple of the area for three generations, and she had worked there her whole life. She worked in the managerial position these days, as the place practically ran itself, thanks to Mr. Norton and her prudent planning. Her parents were proud of the woman she had become, short of the lack of babies and a husband. She kept trying to explain to them how she was still young, and they kept trying to tell her: they were not.

Denise had moved back in with her father, at his request, after her divorce, shortly after her mother had died. She loved her dad, and she knew her children needed a male role model. Recently though, her father had taken to many of the lonely widows in town, and she only saw him on weekends. She was glad he was back out dating, though Denise had recently learned of his apartment in town, next to the local VFW. Thinking of a man in his sixties with a bachelor pad always made her giggle.

He would come home on Saturday morning and cook breakfast for his grandchildren, and daughter, and 'adopted' daughter Jillian, who always seemed to show up. He knew Jillian had the hots for him when she was younger, probably still did, but he would never do that to his baby, either of them, or one of his best friends daughters. Besides, he knew how much hot, lonely, mature or widowed tail existed around the small town; in fact he knew it more than most. He still owned the home, but Denise paid her fair share, since she worked at the local drug store five nights a week, dreaming of owning it. He also knew Jillian helped with money when she could, they were 'family' despite the unshared heritage.

After breakfast, every Saturday, he would maintain all three properties for the respective season, returning on Sunday to cook again and finish the leftover chores. He had a good retired life, his military and police pensions supporting him well.

Then, out of the blue, sweet old Mrs. Davies had died. It came as a shock to the perfect little world the pair of beautiful women had built. Denise had known Mrs. Davies longer than her own mother. Both women would miss her sweet smile and motherly instincts. She had never had children of her own, and when she died, her brother took her home and put it up for sale. Mrs. Davies's brother was greedy, and mean, and the house was strangely priced out of the range of any local buyer. He didn't even bother to pay for maintenance, and sold everything of value she had possessed. If it had not been for Denise's father, the property would have been an eyesore.

Mr. Rodgers (yeah, yeah), Denise's father, had made the joke that only a fool would buy that home for that price. He still maintained the yard and the pool, since Mrs. Davies had died just before spring. It was a beautiful home, and he figured he would keep it that way. Jillian, and Denise, and her kids, had been using the pool in that yard for most of their respective lives, they continued to do so, figuring they would stop if someone requested it of them. There was a gate on either side of Mrs. Davies yard, and only the driveways separated the three front yards.

In June of that year, Four months after Mrs. Davies death, the 'For Sale' sign suddenly disappeared.

***

James Rodgers pulled his perfectly running, clean, and antique pick-up into the driveway of his daughter's home, behind her shabby, well worn, but well running, family sedan. It was really his home, but he had not lived here since he picked up that sweet apartment in town. His thoughts drifted to his rendezvous with Mrs. Harris, Jeanine, last night.

His life was good, he knew it, and he stepped out of the truck for his normal Sunday routine, silently thanking himself for finishing all of the yard work for three houses yesterday, it wasn't difficult. He laughed to himself, "Easier than jumping out of an airplane."

He walked into the house, using his key, and smiled at the sound of his grandbabies singing to a cartoon.

"Pop-pop!!!!" they screamed in unison, and it made his heart leap when they ran to him for a hug. They were good kids, neither quite eight years old yet, and both as smart as elephants.

"Hey guys," James replied, hugging them back, "ready for some pancakes?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, strawberries, racecars, blueberries, bananas, syrup, unicorns!" All of the words came in varied unison between the children, causing James to smile and pat them on their heads, leaving them to return to their cartoon. While moving towards the kitchen to whip up some batter, he paused on the way, and smiled at the picture of his wife on the wall, he still missed her. "Hey, baby," he said as he touched the frame of the photo and continued on.

About ten minutes into his routine, and half a cup of coffee later, his daughter came into the kitchen to give him a hand. He looked at her, his gorgeous daughter, and thought about how great she was. Smart, hardworking, a loving mother, "Too bad she has a thing for bad boys," he mused to himself.

"Hey sweetheart," he said casually as he separated the batter into multiple bowls.

"Hey daddy," she returned as she picked up the cutting board full of multiple fruits and dropped different ones into each bowl behind her father. They had done this many times.

"So did you notice the sign is gone? I can't believe someone paid that much for that place." James was genuinely surprised.

"Well a soda-pop isn't twenty-five cents anymore, either, daddy" she was smiling, making fun of him. She had a beautiful smile, and her mother's wit.

"Wakka-wakka-wakka," was his reply, one of his favorite lines, as he dropped some batter onto the hot, greasy skillet. "I wonder when they are going to move in?" he questioned as he went about his business.

"I hope it's not today, it's supposed to be a scorcher, and I want to take a dip with the kids later," was her reply as she moved around the kitchen, a minute or so later.

"You could always just ask the people who move in if you can use it. I don't think some big city type will move in to an area like this, this is a friendly neighborhood." He flipped some of the cooked flap-jacks onto a pair of plates and handed them to her.

"We'll see, I don't want to jump to conclusions just yet," she said as she took the pair of plates to the table. "Turn off the TV, breakfast is ready guys!" she called to her children.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, strawberries, racecars, blueberries, bananas, syrup, unicorns!" came all of the words in varied unison between the children as a reply.

***

Jillian was furiously rubbing the vibrator into her drenched pussy.

"Oh God..." she was too horny. She hadn't had a man in 6 months; the mess she was making all over her sheets validated the fact. She had not had a good man since... maybe ever? "Fuuuuuuucck..." she hissed as she came, imagining a young James Rodgers crossed with Brad Pitt, but the size of The Rock plunging into her pussy with a member that defied physics.

This was her morning routine, and as she lay there panting, she wished she had a real man in her bed. When she had calmed down, she got up, threw her sheets into the hamper, and made her way to the shower.

"It's my own fault," she thought as she soaped up her body in the warm spray, idly flicking the nipples on her perky b-cups. "I just want too much," and her mind drifted to men in business suits and professional athletes. She was tired of un-groomed farmers and rednecks that smelled of animals with only aspirations of beer and TV viewing. They only cared about ejaculation, and never went down on her. She was tired of going to the bar and having a drink with Denise as the lecherous old men and horny young men tried to get in their pants. "What ever happened to romance, to a smooth man? Hell, what ever happened to the over achievers," she wondered to herself. It was the one downside to this town, not enough of a population to have a high ratio of great men.

There really was not a man for her, here. She tried to tell her mother just that, but she simply replied, "Well Denise found a man. Your father and I talked it over, darling, and we agreed that you can be one of the lesbians if you want, as long as we get grandbabies first." It was her mother's calm voice that bothered her the most. Jillian knew Denise had her father for support and love. "She can fuck those assholes, knowing that a man will still take care of her, and her kids," she thought, slightly jealous.

"Look how that turned out for her, momma," she spoke aloud, to herself, as she toweled off her flawless body. She loved her friend, but she only seemed to like pretty boys, or assholes, which were available in abundance. Randomly, Jillian began laughing aloud at the though of batting for the other team. "Maybe pinch hitting..." She giggled at the thought of a lesbian couple raising children in this area. Nope, she definitely had a thing for dick, even if it was only available in five minute intervals.

She pulled on her bikini, a sexy yellow number that was really too small, and threw on some shorts and an almost too small t-shirt. She was planning on swimming today, and lazing around, her usual summer weekend routine. Looking out the window, she stared at the spot where the 'For Sale' sign had been in the late Mrs. Davies's yard. "Nah," she thought, "no one would move into a house on a Sunday."

Continuing to stare out her bedroom window, she saw Denise's father, James -- Jim to her -- pull up in his truck. "Daddy was right," she thought, "the way a man treats his vehicle is the way he treats himself." She always had a crush on Denise's dad, not necessarily for his body, now showing its age, but because he was a kind, loving man, without being a sissy suck-up. Plus, when the pair of friends were growing up, he was always in a uniform, Army or police.

"I need coffee," she thought to herself as she stepped out the front door a short time later. Standing on her porch, she took in a deep warm breath of morning air, and then her ears started to hurt.

***

He hadn't slept in thirty-two hours. He was tired. It wasn't the first time he feigned sleep, but hopefully it was his last. He had been driving for almost two days, having sold everything he owned, everywhere, short of his clothes/sundries, the car he was in, and most of his furniture/electronics. He wanted nothing to do with his old life. This would be his third try at a new one.

"No more fake people," he mused as he thought of his life since he left the Company at twenty-five. In the six years since, the small web business he created had bloomed into a monster. The first chance he had, he sold it for way too much money. Then he bought another, and sold it, and so on. "Thank god for the Internet," he thought as he began to contemplate his new found freedom and scenic surroundings. He had never gone to college, and he had never taken a vacation, ever. Thirteen plus years of non stop work, violence, business travel, and foreign deployments.

"Maybe I could meet a girl or something," he thought as he absorbed the scenery, and what was left of a wonderful cup of coffee he picked up at that down-home rest stop an hour ago. The only women he'd met in the past few years seemed to want his money, or his status. They all seemed to love the busy, shallow, bustling, hollow, bitter, angry, noisy, big city life. He couldn't talk to them anyway, they wouldn't understand, few did. He wanted love, as cheesy as it sounds.

Yule bumbled through intercourse with one girl while he was still in high school, looking nothing like he did these days. She said she loved him, and then slept with someone else a few days later. He didn't have sex again until after his first deployment. The second girl taught him well, but never asked him a thing about himself. She stopped answering his phone calls before he was deployed again. She called him 'gun shy' and 'moody' as if she could read him like a book, even though their time together consisted of sex and Yule asking her questions. He stopped chasing women after that, immersing himself in military life, and leaving too much to fate.

When he opted out of the violent life, his mind couldn't handle kindness for a long time, definitely missing many chances. Work became his girlfriend as he wrestled with his demons. He'd gone on a few dates, but it always seemed so simple, and shallow, causing him to pick up the "I think he's gay" rep from the women he interacted with. He was relieved to have one less thing to think about. Also, he did not care what they thought, they did not know him, or the things he had done, and there was nothing wrong with saving yourself for something that was worth it.

He knew Colton was right when he said: "To dare to live alone is the rarest courage; since there are many who had rather meet their bitterest enemy in the field, than their own hearts in their closet." Yule had done both, for too long. This relocation was a pre-emptive strike against his inevitable mental breakdown from such circumstances. It also seemed easier and less mechanical than therapy.

"Almost there," he said to himself aloud, but he was overly tired.

He already had the windows down, the air movement keeping him awake, but it was not enough. He was a nerd, car guy, and a tinker'er at heart, so he turned up the stereo in his little German car, which he had installed, to full volume; he was already listening to music that few knew.

This was the first car he ever bought, he'd had it since high school, and it had only gotten better since. His only form of sanity in that city, and on his leaves, was to make his car better. He barely had a chance to drive it, always taking a cab or a limo to his various meetings. The poor thing had been locked up in his garage for the last year, he was glad to drive it again, it made him happy.

"Happy," he thought, "I forgot what it was like," and laughed out loud at the absurdity of it.

As the music blared, and he drove too fast, he noticed the occasional cow lifting its head at the sound. The exhaust was kind of loud, the stereo was kind of louder. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't be so rude, not this early, but he had to stay awake, "No sense in dying when I might finally get the chance to live," and laughed at the thought of falling asleep at the wheel. "ASSHOLE," his brain screamed to him.

The remainder of his belongings wouldn't arrive until Wednesday, with the moving truck, but he had a backpack full of clothes, a sleeping bag, and was told there was a washer/dryer in the house. He'd lived longer on less before, so it didn't seem like a big deal. Everything he could need, he thought, as his mind drifted to the in-ground pool that the house had. "Too bad it needs to be cleaned before I can use it," he said aloud as he glanced over to the map on the passenger's seat.

He made the next left and houses started to appear sparsely. "Perfect," he thought as he made the final turn into the 'development' that turned out to be a simple two-street neighborhood without sidewalks. "Fucking perfect," he said aloud to himself. He should have turned off the stereo, but his sleep fogged mind forgot to do so as he pulled into the driveway of his new home.

He turned off the car in the middle of the Arlo song and stared at the house. "Won't need to get yourself prepared" echoed in his mind as he pondered the mowed lawn and trimmed hedges. It actually looked like someone had cleaned the windows of the house. "Gonna have to thank that realtor," he thought, even though he didn't want to. Yule became momentarily ill at the though of the fat, bald, greasy little man.