Minding To Business
For starters, I do not own the right to the picture of the Amityville house. I just find it full of amazement. Caribou, ME, is a real town; Seven Rock, ME, is not. It is a figment of the author's imagination. All characters and happenings are fictitious, and any resemblance of such characters and happenings in real life are coincidental. Also, this is part of what I am considering a very LARGE project. Since I find that typing this at home causes me to submit quicker than slower, I will try to do more writing by hand so that I can produce greater chunks of submission (10 - 15,000 words or more) at a time, which means once a week or so. I promise excellence. Thank you.
"Mr. A, I believe the answer to your so-called "problems" exist in my briefcase. Yes, a look inside would you care to have?" invited the rookie vulpine.
With an eager nod, the young, newlywed Dalmatian agreed. Why not? Being married was tougher than Mom and Pop had said it would have been. Sure, son, the girl of your dreams will be more than happy to cook your scrambled eggs and sausages at five every morning. Coffee at four. Laundry whenever. A good domestic wife, that's what has kept the gears running smooth all these centuries, and will still, without fail. Ha, thought Jackson. She won't even give head without a goddamned argument. Fucking bitch. That's what she is, a fucking, goddamned bitch.
Now, on this fog-thick, Caribou, Maine early morning, where the deep silence echoed the fact that Samantha Andersen's, who was once Samantha Curttail's, own large snores were diminished due to her being gone to Cedar Point High School where she preceded affairs as Assistant English teacher. The year was 1969, had said Samantha_, and women's choices to enrich our society have never been as important as now_.
Again, the odd-white colored four and a half foot tall fox waved one small paw in front of Jackson, ready to continue. "Mr. Andersen?"
"How do you know my name? I haven't introduced myself."
The small fox laughed sharp and shrugged his shoulders in a really-who-cares attitude gesture. "Mere formalities, Mr. Andersen. . .Mr. Jackson Andersen. Some personal history, really, should keep things rolling, I believe."
"Personal. . .?"
"Born in Seven Rock, Maine, March 11, 1949, to Russ Avery Andersen and Cecilia Kelly Andersen, at Seven Rock Woods Hospital. A day that rained heavy, I believe, yes, and. . ."
All of a sudden, a strange feeling appeared to pass from the fox to Jackson, a sick-to-my-stomach, forgetful bad feeling that always precedes a sick fit. Mr. Andersen thought he might explode, or implode, and needed to rest.
"Mr. Jackson Andersen, are you okay?"
"What. . .? What's happening? Who are you?"
At the end of his question, Anthony pulled a very small gold key from his upper right silver pinstriped vest pocket, small enough to appear to maybe disappear in one's own fur and cause a spout of blood to erupt and make a rather soiled mess on an unblemished day. The key he did use to unlock the front door of 7 Hill Boulevard, and guided a roiling Mr. Andersen inside.
"Please, Jackson, Mr. Andersen, sir. Sit well, please, on your favorite plush recliner while I gather some iced tea from the refrigerator. One cube, or two?"
"Uh. . .two?"
Then, with the sure ease of a seasoned host, Mr. Anthony Laup Manor raised his paw, and with an intelligible manner, the heavy oak front door shut gentle, and the lock clicked without a second of hesitation.
"Two it shall be, sir."
Before Jackson could utter a thank you, the ivory fox stood with both foot paws set together, a clear, open-mouthed smile with a bit of tongue hanging loose to the left side of him, holding two large glasses of iced tea, both with two cubes of ice, beads of condensation dropping onto the midnight blue rug.
"My wife hates a mess on the rug."
"Oh?"
"It displeases her."
"Take your glass, Mr. Andersen."
Jackson took his glass, and sipped.
"Have you ever masturbated on this rug, Mr. Andersen?"
Mr. Andersen choked and spat his iced tea. "Excuse me!"
"A bit forward, eh? I'm sure a generous helping of semen would displease your wife very much, would it not, Mr. Jackson Andersen. I believe Mrs. Samantha Andersen would have a 'bitch' fit, to say the least."
Both men laughed at this. Yes, she would, considered Jackson. A 'bitch' fit, indeed!
"She is nothing but a bitch, Mr., uh. . ."
"Oh, my apologies, sir. I am Mr. Anthony Laup Manor, businessman of the House of the Rising Son."
The well-chiseled Dalmatian, who had to place his half-filled iced tea on a coaster, chuckled. "Laup Manor? House of the Rising Son? What is this?"
A reflection of fire starting deep in Mr. Manor's gray eyes clammed Jackson's lips. "What do you find funny?"
A hollow scream half escaped Jackson's mouth, at the sight of the weird scene. "N. . .nothing, I guess?"
"That's right, Mr. Jackson Andersen. Nothing is funny about me if you are interested in seeking my services."
"But you. . .but you sought me," stammered the now shaking and confused young dog.
"Sir! Mere formalities, once again. Such small wastes of our own time. Now, the briefcase, and the small golden key, which Anthony Laup Manor had used to unlock the Andersen's home was now used to vacate the materials of his cherry leather portable.
Upon the opening of the briefcase, the fog outside began to press inwards the windows in the house, so that nothing except for it could be seen surrounding the customer and supplicant. Of course, what Mr. Jackson Andersen saw leave that briefcase. . .well, that kept the interests of the pressing fog to an oblivious minimum.
"Mr. Manor, is that what I think it is?" asked Mr. Jackson Andersen in numb surprise.
"Are you out. . .or in, Mr. Jackson Andersen?" suggested the endless grinning fox, now with small yet thick spools of foam finding exit from both corners of his muzzle onto the midnight blue rug.
"My wife hates a mess. . ."
". . .but this should take care of things, no, Mr. Andersen?
"Are you. . .?"
". . .in," finished the very willing canine with an eagerness often reserved for more erotic activities. Well, well, this would be wonderful. Just wonderful.
"Name your price, Mr. Anthony Laup Manor."
Outside, the fog darkened, continuing to pressen the house. The art of business was being taken care of, as usual.