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A House in the Hills	By : TENEBRE Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 11510 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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2

Charlie watched Cody, his deputy, talk up the waittress at the end of the counter. Cody's fair lean features grinned up stupidly at the thin blonde. She reminded Charles of his last wife, the one he left after he caught her cheating. The last four years of Charlie's life was something out of a Spanish soap opera. He'd divorced his wife, and in midst of his sister dying been handed custody of his neice. His brother-in-law, in the meantime, was prohibited from ever seeing her. His sis, Charlie supposed, thought who was better to protect lil' Jules from her own family better than a cop?

Charlie looked across the counter, five plates, five customers. Steak and eggs, biscuits and gravy, eggs and hash, various variations and combinations of the same five elements back in forth. Charlie looked down at his own plate. Coffee and a grapefruit. He was thin himself, but not because of his metabolism. He wasn't tall and he didn't get any exercise out of the local gym. Still, local women did fashion his handsome and far more polished in his good looks than most of the hill folk. On the other side of the river there was another town with a whole other set of standards but then that was there and this was here. New Town was the dead end sign at the end of road leading from his marriage. Liberating himself from high-income houses and his stewardess wife Charlie only wanted something a little slower something a little smaller, a little more humble for himself.

New Town had its share of character defects, almost every one endorsing every stereotype about people from the South imaginable. But those defects were more irritating than actually dangerous. He wasn't likely to get himself killed anytime soon unless it was by a gator or some collision on Highway 36. He hadn't seen his in-law since the parole hearing and assumed Paul already knew too little about himself to track him or Jules down. Sure, it wasn't Paul that killed his sister but he damn sure tried.

Charlie hoped Cind would live long enough to allow her fights with Paul to make her into a stronger person. But she died not long after the pregnancy of some sort of uterine infection. How something so small could become so important, even under the circumstances of delivering Jules, was a mystery to him. Neglect on the part o the admitting physician may have been to blame, neglect on the part of the diagnosticians who didn't see the problem until it was already too late. The infection spreading like cancer, orders for biopsies and antibiotics replaced with the surgical excision of not just tissues but whole organs. Cind would never be able to have another child. The infection was attacked like ovarian cancer, up until the end when far too of her anatomy had been compromised. She wouldn't live long and she didn't.

The experience may have jaded Charlie against the idea of seeking out a long term relationship or even an emotional connection to the fairer sex. Still he had little if any interest in anything purely physical either. The circumstances hadn't made a complete brute out of him yet.

Speaking of brutes, Charlie watched Lionel, the shop foreman, take a stool at the end of the counter. The waitress carried his gaze across the room, back into the kitchen with her. Lionel was old enough to be the girl's dad. New Town wasn't a coal town or some otherwise slave it one singular industry, none the less, it was the men of those industries that ruled the town with their influence, not their employees, despite their numbers, and certainly not the law itself. Influence was all about who and not what you had at your side. Charlie's .38 was of little use next to a union or the local redneck rat pack.

Charlie fiddled with a bill fold, lifted his plate and slid a five dollar bill beneath it. His stomach groaned as he shifted off the stool and headed toward the door. Behind him he could hear the waitress struggling in the arms of the sixty-ish shop foreman. As much as he hated his old life he hated this town even more.

The sound of wood cracking shoved Bart from the lattice of the hammock onto the ground as he stumbled awake. It was a loud popping sound, the sound of something being pulverized by dull metal. Bart was stomach down on the ground now and looked up, Homer brought an old axe down onto a rectangle of wood. The wood divided and Bart’s eyes moved to his dad checking again that it was indeed his father.

“Dad?” Bart shoved him with his hands to a kneeling position.

Homer turned and didn’t say anything, he only acknowledged Bart back with a glance, he already looked exhausted.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

Homer looked down at the wood that was almost gouged into two pieces. The small appendage, which conjoined the two pieces of wood, left it level over the chopping block.

“Well, we have a fireplace…” Homer said.

“We do…” the open ended phrase drifted between the two of them before Homer realized Bart wanted something a bit more substantial than that.

“I thought …we might as well get some use out of it.”
Bart looked around, “Its not even cold.”
“It is at night.”
Bart crawled back into the hammock, and Homer went back to the wood. The whole thing struck Bart as so unlike anything he’d seen his father do that he felt like he’d stumbled upon someone else’s dad. Someone else’s life. Someone else’s home.
He pulled his shirt up over his head, hoping it would muffle the sound of the impact of metal against wood. It didn’t but he slipped back into sleep anyway. Through the fabric of his shirt he could see the skin of the lake water bouncing the sun’s light back at him, the shape of the tip of a much larger oval. Someone, dancing across the skin of that oval was the silhouette of his sister, playing in the water. It was hot already, and getting hotter. Bart could feel perspiration he’d shifted from his midriff along his shirt back up to this chin and the base of this neck. The moisture growing stale against his skin.

In the distance there was the sound of the car pulling back into the driveway.

Peter had headed down the wrong side of the highway to get to the _____ estate and was now forced to shift the car into reverse and back up the hill toward the house. As beautiful as it may have been and practical to be so close to the lake it was also far from the town center. In a town as small as New Castle the what little sparse civilization that did linger so far from the town center was usually unpoliced and always a particularly dangerous place to be. This was for an entirely different reason that a ghetto might be intimidating, and these hills, even at night were, on the contrary, quite disarming in their spectacular beauty.

Peter had to warn Mr Simpson that, for now, this was only a consultation. He figured the problem was the well pump, the only thing the real estate broker didn’t have renovated. Even keeping that knowledge in mind, there was little he could do over he space of a day. No matter, Mr Simpson told him, we’ll be here all week.

Oh, goodie!

Peter was on the phone at another customer’s house, one that would actually pay. This new customer, on the other hand, would not pay. He’d have to refer to the estate itself and probably not get a check for his services in the mail for another few months.

Turning he stepped out of the car, now that he’d parked beside the tourists’ ugly sedan. He turned, closed the door behind him and headed to the backyard, where he suspected the tourists, as had been the case with prior generations, would always be. In the distance two kids, a boy and a girl, stood waste-deep in the lake, slashing one another. Standing closer to him but out of focus against the light of the sun was, he supposed their father. His back was turned away from Peter as he chucked the two split pieces of a log toward a stack of them.

As Peter stepped closer he offered his hand.

“I’m Peter, your plumber.”

Homer turned and smiled.

Just then the woman of the house appeared out of the back door in a swimsuit, the white material of her top ill- prepared to allow much speculation as to what there was left of her body to watch. Peter had once been told that the point of a dress was to inspire a man to take it off the wearer. Most modern swimsuits left little mystery to a woman to captivate over. Mrs Simpson’s top wasn’t revealing because its tailor had intended it to be, but rather it was clearly fashioned for a lesser top-heavy woman. As the woman turned Peter could make out the intermingling curves of her ass and the narrow concavity of her groin.

In actual time the moment lingered lesser than the length of Peter’s darting glance.

She saw me, Peter thought, did her husband?

Peter shook the man’s hand.

“You said your water wasn’t working…” Peter started.

“Its on and off.”

Peter looked back at the back door, it was closed, screen-less and the windows empty. He hadn’t seen his wife at all.

Peter shook his head and looked down at his shoes, smiling, “I’ll have to check in the house first.”

Aside from being the local handyman, Peter was also a walking talking history lesson, a intermediary between the town and the tourists. The time he didn’t spend in the crawlspace, examining the ancient water pump he spent nourishing his employer’s curiosities. The town itself the area of isolation that their estate and this lake scouted in the outer reaches of the town. The abandoned home at the outer rim of the lake. The abandoned fishing industry that had once fed off the lake and then left behind four or five houses of this same manufacture which a decade later would be turned into tourist townhouses. Tourism was not the economy that fed New Castle and so little mind was paid to these renovations, hence the substandard pump. Many other factions of the house would soon begin to crumble. Undoubtedly the air conditioning next, along with the power. The gas would go lastly, but in all likelihood was the one thing they could count on sticking.

The innards of the pump, upon further investigation, had been almost entirely scrapped. It was by some divine will that the pump had worked at all. Like many other things when abandoned, the parts had been poached off of by the locals.

Exiting out the front, he turned for one last moment, back to Mr. Simpson.

“I’ll order the parts tonight. I’ll be back either late tomorrow or early the next day. I’ll call first, to make sure you’re here.”

He was responded back to by a confused look, “So, what should we do until that time? We need water.”

“Go into town or if you want to cool down I’d suggest use the lake.” Peter turned back to his car, unlocked the door, opened it and stepped inside.

Marge pulled a long white shirt over her bikini top and a pair of cargo shorts over her bottoms. Staring back at herself in the mirror, her face blushing and hair misting, she knew now that along with the electricity so too had gone the air conditioning. It was cooler outside now than inside. This vacation had not gone at all as she’d planned. Turning she looked out through the blinds of the library back out into the front of the house where she saw only one car. Relieved by their new solitude she headed toward the back door again and the reclining lawn chair.

“Marge, you wanna go for a hike?” Homer stood at the outer rim of their yard where the trees became more frequent and level ground more sparse. A unevenly knit web of roots surrounded the oak, maple and pine trees. Beside and just behind him Marge could make out Bart and Lisa.

So many changes had occurred, so many new and unlikely sides of her husband that she recognized him less and less. And though he was trying desperately to make this change for her she found the lengths to which he was going all the more unsettling. She’d married him thirteen years before and was grateful for how predictable he’d come. As disarming as an unpredictable person could be there was more safety in familiarity. She’d never known Homer as an athlete or romantic or optimist. Maybe she’d fallen in love with all of his character defects after all, but for that very reason she preferred he’d never replace them. She was afraid by the end of this vacation she’d be making love to a whole other man. A stranger that despite the fact he shared the name and body with the man she’d married she would never totally know him again. Progress, under the wrong circumstances was an ugly thing and for now she wanted little to do with it.

Homer was dressed like the man on the bags of Brauny Paper Towels, all he was missing was an axe slung over his shoulder.

Marge’s brow quivered, “I think I’ll stay here. Take a nap.”

Homer looked down at her and then the car. He remembered Peter mentioning a trail leading down from the rest stop to the town center. He looked back at his wife, reclining in her shirt and shorts. Then back to the house, the windows on both sides of the lake unlit, empty. Residing on the outskirts, miles from any neighbors, he contemplated the vantage point of the house on this hill like a kingdom behind forty foot stone walls.

“I think we’ll drive for a bit, instead.”

Marge had dozed off.

Marge awoke and tilted her head, looking down and saw the dark unlit windows of their house’s mirror image, across the lake. Like a microwave the shorts and shirt had focused the sun’s rays on the exposed length of her legs, salvaged inches of her midriff and the skin around her neck, crawling up into her face. So too had the heat itself become concentrated, particularly beneath the material of her shorts and shirt she could feel what was left behind as perspiration glazed her skin and webbed the material of her clothing to her skin beneath it. Marge looked around, and seeing no one lifted the shirt above her head. Still tired and reluctant to stand up from the chair she left the shorts on. As her eyelids grew heavier again she slowly scouted the view from her chair. But like so many hot nights the vexing heat outside kept her from totally dozing off. She tried desperately to distract herself from the heat or from her own immobility but her mind festered with this one lingering image, her body cooking beneath her clothing. As little clothing that remained by the time she’d peeled her shorts off she still squirmed beneath the momentary ounces as if they weighed her down into a hot pool where she would drown. Sooner or later she’d pass out and never wake up.

This is ridiculous. Her tight tanned curves crawled with vexing pools, rivers and waterfalls of perspiration. In this heat they stuck to her and suckled to her like honey over her pores and orifices. She tried to sit up, her bare feel pressing against the scant greenery of the unkempt grass. Her legs now wide apart her groin crudely parted and pointed at the lonely house across the lake from them. The swollen pulp of her pussy yawning beneath her bikini bottom. She looked down and could see the little impression that this mouth left. She forgot how horny heat could make her. How inappropriate that this happen again when she was alone. How long before her fingers were beneath her bottom and she was pumping at her insides again?

Reaching behind her back she placed her fingers at the strings behind her neck, the elegant poetry of the intermingling threads like some tattooed calligraphy just above her back. Along with the influence of her anxiety, so too did her fingers linger at the twin ends of string. Then, along with a balling of her fists, her fingers went back and retrieved he ends of the string and pulled. The strings fell beside her upper arms and she slipped the cups from the front of her breasts. The large pale ovals gleamed in their, how would Marge describe them, obscene proportion. Jutting out from the otherwise lean line of Marge’s body the newly exposed pink nipples perking to the air. Marge draped her arms above her and slowly went back to sleep.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were Mr. Simpson.” Peter said. The difference in this man’s appearance from his new customer was so slight it was incredibly unsettling.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the man.” Earl said.

Down on his luck, Earl was here to get away from his brother and sister-in-law, he found the whole lonely bachelor tag-along thing a bit too self-aware and all together loathsome. His brother and his brother’s wife had been together long enough to pollute the world with four more kids. And while Beth, his brother’s wife wasn’t unattractive he had no intention of risking losing his brother just so he could have a piece of her. He did desperately need to get his rocks off though.

His eyes crawled across the diner and stopped on a waitress being pawed at by a much older man, his thick heavy hands traveling the circumference of her tits beneath the fabric of her blouse. He was astounded to notice a wedding ring on her finger but not his as her hands darted to his elbows in hopes of dislodging him from beneath her shirt. She succeeded, turned and slapped him. Once his hands emerged they weren’t weighed down by any ring. He gave a laugh and she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Earl decided maybe this was the wrong place to start in this town. Another waitress appeared, just opposite him behind the counter, he gave the short brunette and her small tits a look. She smiled and his eyes went from her chest to her face.

“No thanks.” he said and turned back to the door.

Stepping outside he saw car pull in across the street and a man with his mirror image stepped out of the driver’s seat.

Mr Simpson, he thought and watched a family emerge from the car, minus a wife.

Huh, I wonder where Mrs. Simpson is? he thought to himself.
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A House in the Hills