How My Wife Should Have Written Her Story, 'Unforeseen Events'
By Anthony, The Funny Husband of jmolly
Beta'd, sort of co-written, and approved by jmolly, who thinks her husband's take on Charlie is hilarious, by the way, even if she doesn't think Charlie would have squicky thoughts about Edward like that.
Yeah, after 16 months on here, I'm reminiscing about this story that started it all. Just so you know, I plan to break UE into chapters, the way I originally intended to post it. So don't get excited if you see alerts on it, if you've read it before. I'm just dividing it up.
Come on! You know you've always wanted to know what my husband thinks of my writing.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original plot elements are the property of Jess Molly. The authors are in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is merely coincidental.
July 17, 2005:
It was such a long day at the station, looking in and around the Greater Forks area for the animal killer. All I wanted was a Vitamin R and to put up my feet, and get my rocks off to some porn before Bella got home with the Cullen kid.
As I pulled in the driveway, I noticed Edward's car down the road a little ways. I had hoped they would still be at the movies, because having interviewed Leah Clearwater all day, I had a raging hard-on, goddammit. With some luck, maybe I could sneak in, get upstairs, without them hearing me, and take care of business.
Slowly walking up the front steps, I was glad to hear the TV on. That meant they were probably cuddled up on the couch, possibly even asleep. I opened the well-oiled door silently, and tip-toed in.
To my surprise, no bodies were evident anywhere on the main floor.
My cop ears detected a bump and a giggle issuing from upstairs. Son of a bitch. Single Father Protection Mode ensued, and I reached for my holster, undoing the gun's snap, seeing red.
I actually prayed that somebody had broken into my house, and the kids weren't home, but out in Edward's car fogging up the windows necking, because God help Edward Cullen if he was in my daughter's bedroom before the wedding. If that dirty bastard was trying out the model before buying the car, somebody, as Russell Peters often said, was gonna get hurt real bad.
Gun braced in front of me, I tactically manoeuvred up the staircase, as if after a penetrator, uh, I mean perpetrator. The only light coming from any of the rooms was from my sweet baby girl's bedroom.
Fuck, I thought, I can see the headlines now: Father Walks in on Daughter Being Fucked by Famous Surgeon's Son! Capped His Brains All Over Bedroom Wall!
Once I got to the open door, I instinctively reacted as though a rape were taking place. That dirty Cullen pig was doing God Knows What with his hands to my little girl's Hands Off Until Married Area. I stormed up behind him, narrowly avoiding falling on discarded clothes and shoes, damn him, and placed the barrel of my gun against his left temple.
Bella scooted backward on the bed with a scream, almost falling off the edge, as Edward's fingers made a wet slurping 'pop' similar to the opening of a beer can, and a sweet honeysuckle and honey-glazed chicken odour (just like the smell of Cora's cooking at The Diner) fell in the air like dog shit at Christmas dinner. Incidentally, I got way TMI about my daughter's chest, and a flash of winking beaver. Oh fuck me! No father should ever have to put up with that shit.
Bella was screaming something about 'not shooting' the disrespectful, untrustworthy fucker. I noticed, as Bella continued her begging rant, that Edward's gun was fully cocked and ready to fire. Based on the wetness dripping from the tented point of his full crown, it had already been fired at least once.
For a second, coming home after being so horny all day, part of me appreciated the porn-star-worthy form of my almost son-in-law more than it should have. Flashing thoughts of cuffing the pretty boy, stripping him down, and exposing his big hard cock as I fucked him up the ass with a gun to his head, prior to beating him to death with my billy stick, admittedly crossed my mind.
Bella must have sensed the look and read my mind, as she pleaded with me not to go crazy and hurt her almost-husband.
Suddenly, my outlandish fantasy evaporated as I noticed my gun grow freezing cold in my hand. I came to my senses. Edward was pleading, with his hands in the air, for me not to blow his fucking head off. How the fuck did he expect me to not shoot him? I could see my daughter's goddamn box juice running down the back of his hand and arm, held up in surrender, a mere foot from my face.
Fucker had to die. Now.
And I was a cop. Normally, a straight cop. Hadn't I just wanted to fuck Leah, like 20 minutes ago? As the pleading continued, and I considered my next move, I still thought the little bastard had a possible future in Gay Porn. If he wasn't married to my daughter, that is. For the first time in my career, I understood all the upstanding citizens that I inadvertently found in compromising positions, often with the same sex. It said, to me, that things really do happen to push folks past their normal limits, and into dangerous fantasy worlds.
It would be stupid to kill him in my house.
I cuffed the bastard, accidentally coming into contact with the wetness on his palm, grabbed the other wrist quickly and wrangled his hands behind his back, fixing them there. Ew. I wiped my own hand on my shirt front, ignoring the continuous pleas of my daughter and her defiler. Maybe I should just shoot myself.
Nah. Wasn't my fault. Besides, if I killed myself, they'd still get married. Of course, I could haunt them, and appear every time they started to get it on.
Nah. Then, I'd have to watch that shit, even in the afterlife.
BUT, if I killed Edward, NO WEDDING.
No daughter for me, ever again, and I might just be tried in a state where they did executions.
I decided to hold off on my decision as to whether to implement my weapon. The gun, not the dick!
Enough things had already been fired off tonight, including my formerly nun-like daughter's buttons.
My half-naked daughter was presently scrambling around on her floor trying to find her tank top. I noticed it was the one that that slut, Alice Cullen, bought for her. In fact, that skirt she had on was from Alice, too, and it would have been more fitting attire for a cheap Seattle streetwalker. Not that I know anything about such people, of course.
I needed to think. Perhaps the doctor, and the whole Cullen clan, were one big, swinging, depraved group of sexual deviants.
I was taken aback by how cold he was. How the hell did my daughter stand being touched by this cold fish? Then again, I seemed to recall some mention of popsicles in my last month's edition of Hustler. At least the cold was causing some shrinkage. I hauled him up by his hair. Oh my god! He's got something wet in that poufy James Dean hair of his. Somebody tell me it's not something that came out of my daughter! I frog-marched him downstairs, avoiding Bella, who was now madder than a wet hen, pulling her Move Out Card. Little slut bitch sounded just like that mother of hers.
Maybe it wasn't the teenage bugger's fault after all. Maybe my not-so-innocent daughter was a big cock tease.
The fucker said, "Bella, go get help."
I'd get him some help. I'd send him to Jacob Black and Sam Uley. They would help him alright.
I stuffed his cowardly ass into the back of the cruiser in his tighty-whities. I noticed they were Calvin Klein's. Wouldn't that make a great commercial: Don't get busted wearing anything else! Maybe I should send those Hollywood people the idea. Kellan Lutz or Robert Pattinson would probably play Edward's part. That would be good. Anne Hathaway could play Bella. Now, who would play me? Uh, maybe Piers Brosnan. Yeah. Bond, James Bond.
Bella wormed her way into the back seat after him. I probably should have put him in the trunk. Or cuffed him to the bumper, and force my tart of a daughter to watch as I dragged his sorry ass all over town. Probably get some of those Not Straight boys from the high school chasing after him like dogs in heat. Eric Yorkie, for instance. Kid's as bent as a coat-hanger.
I sped off into the night, wondering what my Linda Blair exorcism-worthy spawn of Satan child was whispering so urgently in his ear. I couldn't hear them through the protective plexiglass screen, but he didn't seem to be talking back to her. His pupils were huge, fixed on me in the rear view mirror. His eyes looked totally black, like musket balls, and his face was white on rice.
I drove around aimlessly, considering my options.
I could turn on the lights and siren, and parade them up and down the main drag. Nah, then I wouldn't be able to keep open the option of making him disappear.
Or, I could take advantage of the chipper shredder parked one street over, and leave his remains in a dumpster in Seattle.
Or, with all the animal killings, I could slather him up with molasses and leave him in the Olympic Forest for the bears.
Or, I could take him home to Carlisle and Esme, and embarrass the shit out of the little fucker. Watching Carlisle verbally sodomize his favourite son, with my daughter looking on in horrified shame? That's the ticket!
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