Hutches Hutchesse and Friends

There was a sombre silence ringing over Flanningham ave. as the tall hunched figure of Mr. Biff Hutchess walked briskly through his residential neighborhoods' redundantly blue-collard - pick up truck - all american family homes embellished with menstruation reds whites and blues. Selfconciously checking his pocket watch, as though he had something significant to do with the remainder of his free time, Hutchess quickened his pace and pretended not to notice his neighbors' bland enamel flashes of pearly white teeth and a superfluous obligation to wave and say hello.

Mr. Hutchess had concentrated hard on what he would do today. He had, as always, anticipated something new and fruitful to disengage himself from the seemingly wonderful idea of finally just commiting suicide. This was the time in which he would sit at his computer desk for a good hour or so and stare listlessly at the blank computer screen until Dee, the obese ginger headed woman with no chin would verbally attack him and his lack of character.

"Remember Biff," she would recite [occasionally even more than a few times in one day], "what the heck is better than a friend at Digi-tech!" obviously acquiescing fully with the companys co worker friendly slogan that was strung up and pasted to every square inch of the inside of the building [ including the restrooms ].

Then she would slap him on his meatless spine hard enough to produce a low and hollow tone that would vibrate his inards and stop all blood circulation to the brain. Cackeling and snorting, she would then waddle back to her small station across the hall, jiggling and chewing her cud for the rest of the day while the imperceptible cow bell silently clonked as she tried to work her tiny inadequate arms around her monstrous freckled utters to get to her beloved bucket of feed.

There was a shiny blue car outside of his house. His wife must be home, he thought, slackening the pace just a little. The little car implicated some sort of richness. More than likely, its owner was going to be a rich, single, and successful handsome young man with an immense sexual desire for middle aged housewives with insignificant husbands who have erectile dysfunction whenever it gets near payday. Maybe Biff could catch them fucking in their marital bed, grunting and thrusting like sweaty monkeys, and neglecting to remember that the other generally excretes semisolid wastes out of the penetrated orifice. All that matters in those moments is something soft and warm on the