Peachy Life

PEACHY LIFE

Michael Henry

If I tell you my story you have to promise not to tell anyone else,
except maybe that special friend you keep around for juicy tales like
these.

The tale starts in a small town like most other small towns, except
this small town harbors escaped prisoners, authentic criminals, for
payments made out to the Mayor. (The locals call them pioneers because
of their smell from hiding in the woods so long.) The pioneers are
white and therefore can afford to pay the towns Mayor - Mayor Quincy
Hatch the money. The mayor finds a quiet hole in the courthouse
basement where the dust keeps to a minimum and if nothing is available
in the courthouse, the mayor is more than happy to put those poor
violent souls up for a few nights in his house. What a nice gentleman
this town has for a mayor.

The trick is how everyone fools themselves by saying how truly divine
this burnt down town is for housing outcasts like Randy Sherman, who
performed a brain transplant on two girls he swooned at some party. His
decision to remove the brains and to switch them is as much a mystery
now as it was at the beginning of the hell he created.
Our tale is about to change at this juncture. Major Hatch has recently
discovered some disturbing news about his lovely wife, Hale, and the
news involves a sick and heterosexual icicle murderer named John. John
picked away at the eyes of his aunt and uncle for over a year with
icicles that stay frozen in the ton size freezer at the bottom of the
steps going down to the basement. While John maintained his flair for
insanity by working steadily doing dishes at the local drive - in
diner, he had a silent and loud affair with Hale for over a year.

They both loved being around each other especially at night when they
could get close and snuggle. His lips pressing against her body, her
lips were what made the house hot on cool evenings. Mayor Hatch steamed
at the idea of this John standing in the bathroom, watching Hale's feet
wiggle after sex. Mayor Hatch steamed at the image of his beloved wife
jumbling in their bed beside a man who had something called a "life -
sentence" dangling over his head like an angel. Hale and John ran
untamed in his mind. The Mayor couldn't read the paper without the
names John or Hale popping out in bold print. The situation was boiling
in the Mayors body.

The soreness spreads over the body and blankets the conscience. The
result of torture is red pus bumps. Red puss bumps slopping down his
neck. Red pus bumps growing on the stomach and chest. Something
dangerous must happen and happen now!

How long can the Mayor hold his breath? (Not much longer) At dinner, he
hides his eyes so she can't see what he saw: pictures of Hale clutching
Jon's penis as though she were a baby again, smiling without a worry.
He knew her smile would wear off; she would run back begging for
forgiveness into his arms. None of this mattered. Hatch adjusted to the
idea of his wife suffering, and he eventually welcomed the idea.
It was time to end the affair.
Mayor Hatch called up an old friend, Jessie Cunningham. Cunningham was
found in a plain white field with the severed hands of his victims,
three school children, whom he found playing hide and seek in a falling
down church; he felt no remorse for his crime, good for him.

Cunningham is the perfect man to pull this stunt off, Hatch thinks.
Hatch is so on the premise of murder and hiring a former tattoo artist
to re - invent Mrs. Hatch.

Hatch could not feel any better about his life than the night his
wife's liver is tossed onto Main Street. Hiring Cunningham turns out to
be the best thing Mayor Hatch did, except for that time when he
harbored his first fugitive for enough money to buy Hale a set pearl
earrings that belonged to a Queen.

The trivia is: "who was the first fugitive?" - Earl Robins. Earl raped
his daughter and then removed the slimy insides of her stomach.

Yes, the racking over of the guilt remained stable until that loser
Jessie Cunningham buckles under the FBI. For months, agents tailed
Cunningham. He had a new shadow, and the shadow turned out to really
piss Cunningham off. When he turned, he caught a pair of mystery men
whispering about the Oat Flakes Cunningham had had for breakfast.

On the night of his mothers' birthday, Cunningham receives a happy
eightieth birthday card from the FBI. "Real cute," he murmurs. "I'll
teach them a lesson in due time."

He teaches harsh lessons so watch out!
Cunningham loved the sensation of dominating man and woman; he loved
the control when all they do is scream and scratch until nothing is
left in his soul. He can put them to rest, after the numbness arrives;
he wants the numbness; it's the rush you wait for.
"That's what my victims are shit sticking to my butt, nothing more."
His knuckles do the speaking. Many felt the serrated bone; none lived
to describe the experience.

There was Margaret Murmur, who in her last brief movements in real time
tried to salvage a prayer amongst all the problems - ah, she was to
late! She felt coldness on the edge of the blade; she went quietly
bleeding out to death.
Margaret is not alone. Stacks, rows, columns of bodies network through
Cunningham's mind: Jerry, Fiona, Hindi, Ashley, Mark, Brian, Becky,
Sarah, and a few more lost over time. They learned pain and death from
Cunningham, and in return, Cunningham learned if he stopped madness, if
he ceased the fervent killings, it would mean nothing. Murder, death
&;#8230; shit prevails in the end. It always did.

Cunningham really swatted the agency across the face; yeah Cunningham
ended his life after chugging the bleach dispersed across the house to
find. He found a hole to jump through and escape life in the thick,
thin blue, tasty bleach - happy days ahead.

There is a furnace in Cunningham's gut, and it died down that day. It
was as though his mother new suicide was coming and so, she planted the
jugs of bleach all over the house for her son to feast on.

Of course Jessie leaves a suicide note telling all the details of his
life. All his juicy details about the events he committed over the
years and it is impossible to exclude the Mayor's murder plot. That
cancer growth found its place in the last words of a stark and barren
hero. Oh, how the Mayor learned to hate the world after the note hit
the public stream. Hatch convinces himself the conviction is a joke. In
time the truth will surface. There is no way for him to pay for the
murder of Hale.

Hale has curves he grapples at dinner, because the smell of spices
drove him to her, pulling him to the gravity in her gut. Quincy Hatch
just took his wife on the kitchen floor. Over the years he lives off
pictures of the dome they built, a mass of two lovers sweating.

Behind a string of bars, the sex act unfolds. The grappling, the
sniffing, and the snatching of her sides is a rip in his side. Behind
bars, there is time to dream.

It ends up the mayor's buddy, Jessie, had mistakenly killed an
additional couple engaging in a love affair at the same Day's Inn Hale
and John frequented. This couple engaged in a normal affair not the one
Hatch knew so well.

"What a life we live" Mayor Hatch would say to Ray Williams, a serial
rapist. "I have to mend the crime with constant guilt." The funniest
best part of the whole damn mess of the murder and of the town is that
the Mayor is absolutely right &;#8230; what a mess we live in.