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The Harem on the Hill (Part XCIV)
🕑 Added 2024-02-10 00:17:58 +0000 UTC
Spying on Helen Macintosh isn’t as easy as you remember. The hustle and bustle of the city made for good camouflage, but Helen’s property sits on a lonely dirt road miles from civilization. With no way to silence the grind of gravel or hide the giant dust cloud following your SUV, there’s little chance of sneaking up on anyone.
Still, you try to drive casually.
Helen is home—her Ford pickup sits at the end of a long driveway—but there’s no sign of activity. You continue past the sprawling homestead until it’s out of view and then take a right turn into an unfenced field. The tracks serpentining the jumble of grass, weeds, and uncultivated barley have faded since you last followed them, but you’re able to navigate their circuitous path to the small pond that marks their end.
You park beside the watering hole, taking care to give its muddy ring a wide berth. (Nothing would draw more unwanted attention than needing a tow truck.) Too bad you didn't bring your fishing pole. Not to fish, of course—the murky mud pit is so tiny you’d be hard-pressed to find water with a cast if you did—but to provide a better excuse for trespassing than unauthorized surveillance.
After exiting the vehicle, you hoof through the growth toward a large elm tree you had previously used for cover. It was close enough to Helen’s property to provide a clear view but off the road enough to obscure the views of passersby.
Not that you encountered many. The only person who passed by with regularity was Juan, the part-time ranch hand who tended to Helen’s horses. The reason you knew his name was because Helen would always scream it. “JUAN! Be sure to leave water in the trough!” “JUAN! Don’t forget to moisturize the reins!” “JUAN! Make sure you brush the horses after you wash them!”
“Run, JUAN, run!” you wanted to yell back.
Despite Helen’s relentless verbal assaults, Juan dutifully arrived for work every Wednesday and Saturday at noon.
You check your Movado. 11:45.
Slumping into the brush with your back against the elm’s thick trunk, you close your eyes. They open to the sound of Juan’s beat-up Chevy bouncing into the drive.
12:15.
He’s late.
“You’re late!” Helen’s shrill shriek pierced the silence and likely would’ve pierced your eardrums had you been any closer. How someone so pretty and petite could have such an ugly and oversized voice is beyond your comprehension.
Creeping to your feet, you peek through the bark at the bitch. She’s 5’2” of denim-clad fury. Juan wasn’t merely late; he also forgot to lock a gate or something; however, you’re too busy scanning for evidence of Tina’s handiwork to pay much attention.
Unfortunately, there was none. Helen answering the door was, in itself, an indication nothing was amiss with the priss, and there was no sign of fat on her figure. Her Wranglers hadn’t become stranglers and the midriff-baring button-down knotted above her belly showed no spillage.
Tina hadn’t gotten her bear claws (or any other pastries) into Helen. It didn’t make sense. Helen was the perfect candidate for the bloated barista’s brand of frontier justice.
That’s when you spy the cats winding around Helen’s bowed legs and your forehead hits the tree. Of course! Tina’s allergies almost certainly eliminated the country cunt from consideration. She would’ve swelled up faster than she did on your feeding machine.
However, the unexpected happens before you can scurry back to your SUV. Juan lifts a shovel used for shoveling horse shit and, apparently tired of the horseshit Helen was shoveling, strikes her in the face.
Helen staggers backward through the threshold, sending cats in every direction. As Juan follows her inside, your mind races—
What do you do?
