Anger Not Those Wild Wyldewood Boys...
Chapter 5

Copyright© 2009 by Stultus

Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 5 - An Army veteran returning home discovers the mess that his younger brother has made of his marriage, and the extreme lengths that some of his other relatives will go to preserve their historic family secrets. An unusual story of a close knit mountain community and the terrible fallout that an adulterous wife creates, and the unconventional and forbidden love affair that results. Starts slow... lots of sex in the final three Chapters. Story will be continued in a Sequel.

Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   Mult   Romantic   BiSexual   Humor   DomSub   Polygamy/Polyamory   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Slow  

After about a week, March Madness was absolutely living up to its codename. Carrie and her three roommates were absolutely madder than a group of March hares locked into laboratory cages and fed a non-stop diet of raw cocaine. The hardware store had never been more crowded in its entire history, as even family members outside the loop of the operation got the word that Carrie was putting on a 24/7 comedy show, and everyone was constantly dropping by to listen in to her madcaps.

I would have been laughing hard too except my unease in the pit of my stomach wasn't going away. If anything, that little voice in the back of my head was whispering to me louder telling me things that I already knew but didn't really want to hear.

My worst fear related to our doping program on Carrie, using that admittedly extremely tainted amphetamine drug. It had been clear since the start that Walt had pretty much ignored my instructions about how this was to be used from the very start. Being of the 'more is better' school of thought, he was probably adding it to everything of hers that he could get his hands on — and with massive doses. Carrie and her companions hadn't slept in over four days now and from the sound of things they were too wired even to sit down. You only had to randomly listen in on their deluded conversations now to know that their brains were now seriously misfiring and that the hallucinations from sleep deprivation were just going to make things even worse very soon.

I'd already told Walt twice to stop using that stuff on her and each time I'd get some mumbled excuse as to why it couldn't be done. Finally I'd given up and flat out ordered him to stop using it. Walt refused, saying he had other orders to continue to increase the dosage and pretty much after that ignored me and anything else that I had to say.

On the positive side of things, I was also become much better acquainted with the lovely widow Marsha. She improved on my eyes with every meeting and I began to look forward to seeing her short (and top heavy) form bouncing down the aisle towards my office, and also the rear view of her when she left with her long ponytail nearly brushing against her delightful rounded ass. She was only a Wilde by marriage but she seemed extremely loyal and dedicated to the family and this operation. She would stop by each morning for instructions and then drop by the hardware store each evening to report back and offer any useful observations. Marsha's list of virtuous qualities seemed to grow by the day and I began to wonder why she hadn't been snatched up by someone and remarried.

One of her finest cardinal virtues, her lovely petite looks and large breasts notwithstanding, seemed to be her cooking skills. Having been a long time Army bachelor mostly getting my meals in either a military chow hall or the NCO's Club, I had never gained much in the way of practical cooking skills. Marsha, after catching me in flagrante with a Stouffer's Hungry-Man frozen dinner late one night in the hardware store, took it upon herself to start providing me with home-cooked food she happily delivered to me on a nightly basis, complete with dessert ... other than the eye candy. Nom nom!

If there was a bad side to this woman yet, I hadn't found it. Still it was extremely disconcerting the way she would look at me sometimes ... it still gave my stomach the flutters. Had to be my nerves ... I was going to need a bit of a rest after this escapade was finished.

Before long, any resemblance of usefulness Carrie might have had as a government whistle-blower was now long gone. In fact, between her rampant obvious madness and Emily's flawless imitations, there was not a single government or law enforcement official now willing to take her direct calls. A few organizations, such as the Secret Service, now had her phone number blocked entirely. This ought to have been a signal to her, but if anything this just made her even madder and she'd now just call the main switchboards and 911 emergency exchanges to rant at whomever answered the phone.

It became apparent quite early on that no matter how wild of a story we would concoct to give Emile for her faked calls, Carrie's real ones were become even better, stranger and wilder. After the fourth day, we just told Emile to quit. It was becoming an unnecessary risk — the real Carrie was doing just fine without our help.

She complained in her unique and highly deranged patter to anyone who would listen even for a few moments about cattle mutilations at the farm next door (conducted in person by both Bush Presidents), black helicopters stealing her thoughts, mystery trains running day and night in deep tunnels underneath her house, mysterious Men in Black that all had Ronald Reagan's face (and a thirst for human blood), vampires and werewolves disguised as DEA and FBI agents (probably also with a thirst for human blood) trying to claw their way into her cabin at night, or the secret NSA microwave experiments that kept her from sleeping.

All highly amusing and even hysterically funny, until Carrie crossed the line late into day six of her ordeal and phoned the national Secret Service main switchboard to accuse President Bush of abducting her newborn baby, murdering her dog, cattle rustling, and stealing her morning newspaper, etc ... and loudly, clearly and directly telling the befuddled operator in excruciating detail about the forty-seven ways she was going to go Buffy on him and kill his soulless bloodsucking vampire ass.

Oh Shit.

I ran, not walked, over to Joe's to tell him that I was pulling the plug on the entire operation. NOW. The First Amendment allows you say millions of crazy and insane things, but blatantly threatening the life of the President isn't one of them. It doesn't matter if you don't personally like the guy (I had real no opinion either way), but threatening to 'pig-fuck' the guy with a sawed off shotgun is just asking for trouble — seriously BAD trouble. That magic invisible line had most definitely been crossed and sooner or later now — very likely sooner — fed's were going to show up on our doorstep. Maybe even lots of them ... and they weren't going to be in a good mood.

Joe didn't quite see it my way. As far as he (and the Elders) was concerned, the further she melted down, the better. Having the FBI or Secret Service possibly show up to haul her away was inconvenient, but an entirely acceptable solution to the problem. "Don't be a wuss!" Joe told me repeatedly.

Now that the gauntlets were thrown, I took the time to rant about Walt, and how his indiscriminate doping of Carrie had now made her blatantly and dangerously unstable. I ordered Joe to get Walt under control and cancel the drugging part of the plan, if nothing else. He pointedly refused, muttering about his nephew going all weak and wussy on him.

I muttered back something in return about Mickey Mantle taking his weak sauce heater 500 yards over the center field flagpole while Joe was bawling on the pitchers mound like a little schoolgirl.

Things went downhill from there.

We disagreed; loudly, violently and all over the place. I smashed a beer pint glass (half full) onto the floor and stomped out, loudly washing my hands of the entire situation. Then I went straight over to Rollie's office at the phone company and returned his laptop, and left him with a few choice words behind closed doors.

"Rollie, I don't care what your instructions are from the bozos up on high, but as far as I am concerned this operation is over and done. Fini. If you have even half of the sense that God gave a lamprey, or even an US Marine, you'd wash your hands of this matter fast too!"

"No can do, Dan. I've got strict instructions, confirmed and updated just a few minutes ago. The operation stays running 'as-is' until either someone hauls her off in a straitjacket to a padded room or she achieves room temperature status. It's what the Elders want." He added in a more subdued tone to suggest that he wasn't an entirely happy camper with these new marching orders. Then in case I hadn't gotten the hint, he sadly shook his head and rolled his eyes a bit.

"Fine then. I'm done with this shit though. This is going to go bad ... real bad, and fast. I've just got that feeling about this and after twenty years in the Army dealing with general officers and other morons, I've learned to trust my gut instinct. We don't want any part of what's coming and we definitely don't want to be anywhere near the splash this is going to make when this all goes bad — which it will, soon. The fed's are coming ... probably they're already on their way here with real black helicopters and some genuine men in black with lots of guns and a willingness to use them. Do you think even for a moment that Carrie is going to take a look at them and invite them all in for tea? Not a bloody chance. Someone is going to hurt ... probably badly. Maybe it will only be Carrie, but maybe they'll take a few fed's down with them ... or even worse, maybe a few of us get hurt in the process That's attention the Elders should never want to risk having under any circumstances."

Rollie muttered a few platitudes and suggested that "things would probably work out ... they usually do." I just shook my head and turned for the door, but offered him one last piece of useful advice to either take or ignore.

"Hope for the best, but plan for the worst, Rollie. If I were you, I'd waste no time ripping out at least that Bell line wiretap on Carrie. The odds are this is one of the first things that the fed's will want to do themselves once they arrive and it could look awful embarrassing to everyone if they find a bug already in place at the switching station. Your FM wireless bug under the cabin ought to be fairly safe. At worst, that one can always be blamed off on teenagers wanting to listen to the hippies fucking. Up to you, Rollie, but it's the first thing that I'd do if I were in your shoes. There's a shit storm coming, so get your high waders on and your ducks in a row."

With my conscience now mostly clean, I started to head back towards home but somehow found myself taking a long detour heading towards Carrie's hilltop cabin, which used to be my dad's old place before he retired and was Ned's and mine childhood home. It was about a thirty minute walk up and down a couple of hills and I could have driven over there in about five minutes but I wanted to use the time to think of something to say that wouldn't get my head blown off. I never did find the exact right words to say, but I did find a few things that ought to be said that were true and heartfelt.

At the end of her dirt driveway down at the bottom of the hill a pair of Wilde retainers that I didn't recognize them as being of any of the direct families, were lurking with their dark suits and sunglasses in the rental black Yukon SUV, trying to look vaguely official and menacing. We'd given them the operation nicknames of Bert and Ernie — and it fit. One short, one tall, both with uncertain sexual preferences, and not a full set of brains between the two of them. I waved and smiled at them and headed up the driveway.

I considered knocking on Carrie's door, but settled for just stopping at the bottom of the steps to the front porch and shouted to let them know I was outside. Staring down the barrel of a shotgun being held by a seriously drug addled and probably mentally insane woman was undoubtedly the bravest thing I ever had to do in my entire life. The door didn't open at first, but I didn't really need to see her face for what I had to say anyway.

"Carrie, this is your brother-in-law Dan, Ned's older brother. We've only briefly met a few times and I know we're all having a bit of a family disagreement right now, but I've got something important to say anyway." Deep breath ... think happy thoughts ... try not to get shot.

"Carrie, please stop the drug use and the heavy drinking. It's not healthy for you right now. Things are starting to get weird around here ... bad things might soon be happening. It's just not safe here anymore. You should try to leave — get away — NOW, while you can, with your friends. Somewhere else where you could be safe, where the voices can't find you for awhile. Carrie, please just GO, get away from here and leave while you can."

My message delivered, I was about to leave when the door opened up in front of me just enough to see the barrel of a shotgun, my father's old Remington I think (he'd passed it on Ned after I'd given dad a new Mossburg 500 Persuader for Christmas a few years ago). Carrie's voice spoke weakly and in a dreamy sort of voice but with an edge of determination, and more than a touch of utter madness.

"I can't go ... I belong here and the voices are telling me to stay. The Bad Men are coming here, soon. Dubya is going to be with them ... bloodsuckers, all of them. They want me and the others, to catch us if we fall asleep, but we're too smart for them. They're coming ... but we're waiting for them. We're ready for them and we're going to fight them all off and win. We'll put stakes in their hearts and turn them all to dust ... and then we'll have some cake. I'd rather have some pie instead but we don't have any ... maybe Marsha can make us one. You'd better go - it's not safe around here and it's going to be dark soon and the Bad Things might come. Tell Ned that I miss him sometimes ... I'm sorry it didn't work out."

With that the firearm was withdrawn back into the house and the door closed. I turned around and walked so fast down the drive that it was nearly a run. Dignity be damned. Carrie had had a final lucid moment at the end, of sorts, but the die was pretty much cast. She and her friends were pretty much past reasonable discussion now and the next person to knock on her door was probably going to eat a load of buckshot ... and I didn't want to be anywhere nearby when it happened. I scurried on home to wait for the inevitable knock on the door or phone call.

Miraculously nothing happened that entire long dark night, but our luck wasn't going to last much longer.

Late the next morning about half past ten, I received the anticipated phone call. There was a visitor at the Sheriff's office who would very much like to speak with me. Was I available - immediately if not sooner? Unfortunately, yes. I said I'd be right on my way and would hop in my truck and could be there in about five minutes. I guess I was looking forward to getting the drama part done and over with so things around here could start getting back to normal. Besides, I just couldn't leave town for a vacation rest until everything was over with and the last dirt had been shoveled on the graves. Hopefully, one of them wouldn't be mine.

I'd heard that the Sheriff's office had been running a pool anyway to see which branch of the fed's showed up to deal with Carrie first. The favorites accordingly to the list on one of their whiteboards ran in the order of, DEA, FBI, Secret Service, some branch of Military Intelligence (yes, it really is an oxymoron), CIA and No Such Agency (NSA). After Carrie's meltdown yesterday, the smart money all moved to Secret Service, and indeed that was the winner.

The Treasury Agent sent to deal with Carrie, via me, was a delicious long drink of a thing, with shoulder top length salon styled honey-blonde hair in a short perky ponytail and had the biggest bluest eyes I'd ever seen. She was probably just a bit younger than me, probably around her mid-thirties I guessed. She was at least five foot-ten in her stocking feet and a tad smaller in the bust than my normal preference, but for her I was willing to make exceptions. She was wearing sensible but expensive looking shoes that coordinated well with her tailored professional suit, but I thought she'd look absolutely stunning in high heels ... and not much else. No current wedding rings, but I thought there was a slight hint on her finger from where one might have been a few years ago. I'm absolutely certain that she received regular and frequent marriage invitations and undoubtedly someone had proposed to her in at least the last hour or so. If not, I'd certainly consider throwing my hat into that ring, if I could get the swelling in the front of my pants to go down enough to avoid being too embarrassed while I did it.

The lovely Secret Service Agent, a Ms. Lindsey Wallace according to her card, wasted little time getting down to brass tacks and started to grill me right away. If it got me more quality time looking into her deep baby blues, I was more than willing to be grilled well-done and served up on any sort of platter she chose.

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