Monday Challenge: Create a Story from your First Line [ Edited ]

[Dan_Diego]

Brandi_R invited us to build stories/scences/poems from our first lines in the other thread.

Here's one of mine. Feel free to critique. It comes with warnings.

1. It's almost 2000 words long (6 pages)

2. I'm trying to create suspense.

3. It may be adult themed.

--------------------------------------------

Ten for Ten

    “I’ve broken nine of the Ten Commandments,” Striker said to his neighbor’s wife.

    Marie’s body tensed at the sound of the voice behind her. A hamburger patty fell between the grates and sizzled on the flames below. Smoke wafted into her eyes. She took a deep breath, turned, and said, “I know, Mr. Striker, I witnessed one of them in court.”

    “I did lie to the judge,” he said, “but I was hoping we could get past that.” He unbuttoned the top button on his silk Hawaiian shirt exposing a small tuft of graying chest hair.

    She stepped aside to avoid smoke from the grill. “Why are you here, Mr. Striker?” A month ago, she stood in court and tried to have her neighbor sent to jail.

    He unfolded a piece of paper from his pocked and handed it to her. “Your husband invited me.”

    Marie recognized her husband’s handwriting, crumpled the paper and tossed it on the grill. “You are now uninvited.”

    He watched the paper catch fire and fall between the grates. “Where is your chubby little hubby, Marie?” He reached for his belt loops and hitched his shorts up an inch. “I heard you fighting last night.”

    “You’re a lousy neighbor, Mr. Striker.” She pointed at him with a spatula. “You should mind your own business.”

    “And you’re a nosy neighbor.” He grabbed the hand holding the spatula. “And you shouldn’t be watching me through your curtains like a Peeping Tom. Are you looking for something, Marie?”

    “You’re seeing things.” She did not fight to free herself from her neighbor’s grip.

    “I have pictures of you spying on my house every night since the trial. I have quite a collection for the judge.” He pulled a stack of photos from his shirt pocket.

    “You’re quite the photographer, Mr. Striker.” She had her own collection to use in court but the judge deemed them inadmissible on a technicality.

    “At first, I planned to use them as evidence in a re-trial.” He firmed his grip on her hand. “But now, I’d like to show them to your fat ass husband.”

    “He’d kill me.” After the first trial, she argued with her husband about their neighbor. She agreed in principle to a cease fire, but secretly planned for a final battle.

    “He’d kill you. Now we’re back to those ten commandments,” Striker said. “Everyone has to start somewhere, unless…”

    “Unless what?”

    “Unless you help me break the last commandment on my list.”

    “Which is?”

    “Number nine.” He loosened his grip. He licked his chapped lips and said, “I’d like to covet my neighbor’s wife.”

    Marie wondered if Striker could feel her hand shaking in his grip. They stood alone above grass that needed a cut and below trees that needed a trim in the shadow of a house that needed siding. Red clay bricks sat in the grass. They outlined a kidney shaped swimming pool that was never dug. Her “less than handy” husband never got around to it. He was across town on an errand. Maybe he stopped to tease that wench of a waitress at the Double Deuce. The backyard was not ready for a barbeque, but she had an hour to kill. The invitations were printed with a 1:00 PM start. She looked Striker in the eyes and feigned a struggle from his grip.

    “Well, neighbor’s wife?”

    She set the spatula down and turned off the burners. She faced him and said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

***

    Striker followed her through the back door, the kitchen, down a narrow hallway and into the foyer. He tripped on a throw rug. “Where did you get this Persian rug?”

    She just smiled at him and tugged him towards the stairs.

    “I had one just like it.” He leaned down to inspect the rug closer. “I aired it out last month in my back yard.”

    “And I stole it off your line, Mr. Striker.” She grabbed him by the hand. “Do you know how many times I wished you would knock on my door and ask about it?”

    “You little, thief,” he said. “What else in this house belongs to your neighbors?”

    Marie looked around the foyer and took a quick inventory. At least six items, from vases to furniture at one point belonged to a neighbor. She said, “Just the rug.”

    They turned to climb a staircase. He paused. “That’s quite a collection of photos.” He pointed at the photos hung along the stair wall.

    She cocked her head to admire them. Each picture served a purpose. “You’re a photographer, right?”

    “Why would you ask that?”

    “Well, I see a lot of young girls at your door on the weekends.” She had pictures of every one of the girls since they started showing up in their mini-skirts, halter tops, and those uncomfortable shoes. “They look like models.”

    “Actually, I’m an analyst on the base.” Striker changed his voice to sound important. He said, “I analyze photographs for intelligence purposes.”

    She thought the line was rehearsed and already knew about his day job. “And the pretty young girls?”

    “Marie, your head is stuck in that silly lawsuit.” He grabbed her hand. “I’m not the monster you described to the judge. You lied to him. You bore false witness.”

    She laughed and led him to the first step and pointed to a picture. “Well, why don’t you analyze this one?”

    “That’s you and fat boy getting married.” He laughed, and then asked, “You’re Catholics?”

    “Very good.” She was the furthest thing from Catholic at the moment.

    “Today is Sunday. Did you and His Fatness go to church this morning?”

    “We don’t go anymore.” She led him up a step. “What about this one?”

    “That’s you and Tons of Fun on a college campus.” Striker stroked his chin, than asked, “Were you married then?”

    “Yes.” She recalled the picture. She stood with her husband and his best friend in front of a protest sign. “Yes, we were still newlyweds.”

    “You were sleeping with the best friend, weren’t you?”

    “I beg your pardon!” She recoiled at the suggestion although it was correct. She had slept with her husband’s best friend the night before the photo was taken.

    “You can deny it, but you’re an adulteress.” He squinted to look closer at the photo and said, “It’s in his eyes, not yours.”

    Marie still liked those eyes.

    “This is interesting.” Striker pointed towards the third picture from the bottom. “Are these your parents?”

    “Yes.”

    “Why is the glass cracked?”

    “I threw it at them in an argument.”

    “And the photo has been taped back together.”

    “My husband did that against my wishes. I still don’t care for them.”

    She turned to the far wall and guessed her husband would be home in 20 minutes.

    Striker noticed her glancing at the clock. “How much time have we have, Marie?”

    “An hour,” she said and then pointed to the next picture up.

    They both paused to listen to a car pass in front of the house.

    Once clear, she said, “Analyze this one.”

    He focused on the picture and asked, “Is that a pentagram in the background?” Striker pressed his finger against the photograph.

    “Why, yes it is.” Marie felt a little tension. Nobody noticed that before. “We didn’t know Satan would ruin such a good picture of us.”

    “So, who took the picture?”

    “Our other neighbor, Jack Freemont,” she said, “the three of us got drunk and went out looking for trouble.”

    “Did you sleep with him too?”

    “Mr. Striker, you are very perceptive, but I have a party to host in 40 minutes. Why don’t you ask Jack himself, if he shows up?”

    “I’ll be gone by then,” he said, “and the pentagram?”

    “We like the picture despite the background. We wanted to have it airbrushed out. Perhaps you can help us out in your studio. My g** d****** husband can’t do a thing around here!”

    Striker grinned. “Don’t curse at the man. He’s the reason you’re climbing these stairs with me.”

    “I have my own reasons.” Marie lost her footing on the next step up.

    “Careful,” he said. He grabbed her arm to settle her on the stair. He looked down to see what caused the slip. “What’s this?”

    She tried to kick a stack of envelopes down the stairs.

    Striker stooped and picked up an envelope. “It’s an invitation,” he said, “just like mine, except the party starts at 1:00 PM.”

    “There’s a misprint on those,” she said. “The time is wrong. My husband was supposed to throw these away.” She glanced at the wall clock again.

    “You’re lying,” he said, “But, let’s start coveting!”

***

    Striker followed her through the bedroom and into the private bath. She went straight to the tub and drew hot and cold water.

    He saw her drawing water and said, “I like your style, Marie.” He unbuttoned the last button on his shirt and let it fall to the floor. “Is this how you seduced Jack? Did your husband’s best buddy like the water warm or cold?”

    She didn’t answer either question. Instead, she watched Striker in the mirror remove his shorts and toss them on top of the shirt. He lowered his nude body into the water. The water rose to compensate.

    She needed more time. She needed to stall. Her hands shook as she plugged in her electric curling iron. It was a bed time habit. She always curled her hair before going to bed. She wanted the last thing her husband to see was her at her best. But today, she struggled to find the switch.

    “Do you have any wine, Marie?”

    She noticed Striker in the mirror again. He was looking straight into her eyes in the reflection. He licked his lips.

    “I’ll be right back,” she said.

***

    Marie counted to one hundred outside the door of the bathroom. One hundred was how long it took her to fill the tub last night. One hundred and one and the water should be just about right. She entered the bathroom. “Sorry, but we’re out of wine. That’s where my husband went.”

    “Come here.” Striker held out a hand for her to join him in the tub.

    She reached behind him and turned the hot and cold valves until the water stopped.

    “Get in the water.” He reached to caress her thigh.

    “Hold on,” she said. She stood up and backed away. “I want to look pretty for you.” She crossed the room to the sink and grabbed the curling iron. This time she found the switch and turned it on.

    She tossed it into the tub.

***

    The police responded and parked their cars on the front lawn. Jack Freemont stood on his porch, still in his robe. The rest of the neighbors came outside too, craning to see the commotion. None were dressed for a barbecue.

    The police found Marie’s husband upstairs, in the bathroom, standing over the tub and looking down on his neighbor’s lifeless body.

    “Put your hands above your head, mister!”

    Marie’s husband emptied his hands and clasped them behind his head. A piece of paper fell to the floor next to the photographs of young girls on the Striker’s porch.

    “What’s this?” The policeman spread the photos out on the floor.

    “I don’t know.” Marie’s husband turned to the policeman.

    The cop picked up the piece of paper. He studied it and said, “It’s the ten commandments.”

    “They’re all lined out except one.”

    “I know.” Marie’s husband looked down at Marie's handwritten list and then at the body. He whispered, “Thou Shall not Kill.”