Stepfather, single parent to an AGS teenager.

"... ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

The priest's final words snap you out of your daze, and once again you feel the raindrops rapping on your shoes. The rest of your body is spared by one of only three massive, black umbrellas present: the one wielded by your wife's deadbeat brother, one wielded by her last friend, and the one you hold, in an grip reflective of your vexing anger and grief, for yourself and your stepdaughter. The three lonely black shields against the downpour mark everyone who appears for the burial of your wife. You are Leonard Krowe; your wife, Ashley Krowe, perished only days earlier while sucking off some prick named Jerry Fields, a man you never knew existed until you got to review her personal effects, including a cellular you never knew she had. Jerry, who also died in the accident, was one of two men with whom she cheated on you, though clueless as you were you have to wonder if there were still others. You stare at the coffin as it's lowered: four sunflowers, her favorite, rest on the lacquered black lid, to be buried uselessly along with your gullibility and optimism. There is grief in your heart, but it pales next to the feeling of being abused emotionally by the woman who refused you physically for the last two years. You got in better shape over the last year, thinking you could be sexy to her again, maybe coax some sort of pleasure from her beyond a sad, lackluster handjob now and again... never knowing she was already being satisfied by some train of men who must've been laughing at your back.

A bit of guilt scratches at you for focusing so much on sex at a funeral, much less sex with what was now a mangled corpse in the coffin, but this too is smothered by your hate and self-pity.

Isabella Boucher cries at your side. Ashley's daughter from a previous fling has an appearance that marks her heritage: swarthy skin from the mixture of Ashley, an Irish ginger, and some dark-skinned man who abandoned her the moment she got pregnant. Her auburn hair, normally between curly and kinky, is straight, and her lean body quivers in the simple black dress you bought for her. Given that she was almost nineteen, the state of Illinois couldn't give less of a damn what happens to her now. With no father listed on her birth certificate or even known to anyone else, it falls upon you to decide her fate. This thought plants a seed, but your coiling rage pushes even this consideration away. Lies were ever Ashley's trade: Isabella thinks she came from an immaculate conception, somehow "blessed" into her mother's womb. Isabella still believes this, completely, even now... all for the same reason that Isabella had to attend a special high school before dropping out: she suffers from Absolute Gullibility Syndrome, a condition so incompatible with regular life that it ultimately fell on you two, and now only you, to support her after she dropped out of 10th grade and continued living with you as an adult. Even if it was your wife's wish, you now see the world through a crueler lens: Isabella is yet another woman taking advantage of you, and at that cheating bitch's command no less.

The coffin vanishes, and Ashley's uncaring friend and family both leave in a hurry, more upset by the humidity than the of a woman who betrayed everyone she apparently had in her short life. Isabella isn't even a second thought to them, and you're hardly a third. You let Isabella continue her grieving for a bit longer before ushering her towards your car, parked ahead of time at Park Hill Cemetery, here in humble Bloomington, Illinois. You always liked the small-town feel, but even this only leaves you wondering how many men Ashley had back in Chicago, given that she managed to find at least two here. "Come on, Isabella," you mumble as you open the door for your stepdaughter. She obeys, and continues to weep as you drive home.

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o AGS o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Your eyes open. It's a new day... and with it comes the memories in this order: three weeks ago, your wife died, your wife cheated on you, her daughter still lives with you, you are a sucker, and your bank account received an $8,000 check, the first of many payments from the life insurance policy your wife had. They might still dispute or investigate, delaying whichever one comes next, but they'd find no foul play. You wish there was foul play to be had. After all of these bitter, ugly thoughts to greet you, one final thought on the matter, one that has been brewing for days now, buds in your mind and rises with your morning wood: there is still an opportunity for foul play.

The thought had crept into your mind the night of the burial, after you told Isabella she would feel better if she went to sleep. You intentionally worded it that way: you've learned how AGS has to be handled as a parent, and avoid almost any sarcasm or misleading idioms that could endanger the suffering youth. Moreover, Isabella WOULD feel good once she went to sleep: her natural grieving would come to a sudden, incredible stop simply by believing your words. For four years you've mastered this way of handling her... and, in many ways, it has prepped you to do whatever you want with Isabella. You splash cold water onto your face in your bathroom, still naked save for your socks. Ashley never let you sleep naked with her in the bed. Ashley is dead now. The thought brought you to tears for a week, even with your resentment for her adultery, but your tears have since dried. Down the hall, still lazying about in her bed no doubt, was Isabella Boucher, your stepdaughter. Your roommate without blood relation and, now, without a single living familial tie.

You put on your boxers and a t-shirt, and walk downstairs to the kitchen to get breakfast ready for the two unemployed adults in the house. You lost your job when you found out your boss was also fucking your wife. While the black-eye you gave him earned no legal charges, because he was a sporting chap about it, he was not sporting enough to keep you on the payroll. You doubt you'd have stayed on anyways, given what you now know. Thankfully, no other grieving boyfriends came to report their own trysts to you, but that encounter left you questioning every man in your vicinity. Now you're a jobless fool, though the life insurance policy would keep your lifestyle the same for at least the next four years. "Incredible," the word hisses out of your mouth as you start cooking up some bacon. It is incredible. A woman, so unfaithful and cruel to you, so loveless, so heartless... and yet her protective mothering of her bastard daughter!

The fierceness with which she defended her! Isabella's AGS makes her the perfect victim, easily vanished in a day if anyone malicious found out, and so was so sheltered and protected by Ashley with a ferocious loyalty that now seems alien to her character. Your wife even treated you like a suspect for years, always worried you would take advantage of her daughter for some reason. But you were the doting, loyal husband, and so you learned the rules, the words to use, and gave Isabella her space while also giving her guidance... but that was then.

Now, the only thing your dead wife ever cared about and protected, other than the identities of the men she humiliated you with, came sauntering down the stairs, yawning with a wide-open maw. Her t-shirt is threadbare and hugs her perk little tits, and her simple white panties were bushed up and tucked neatly against her nubile crotch. You used to hate yourself for catching eyefuls of her indecent mornings; now, it solidifies your plan for .

"Good morning, Lenny," she yawns.

"Good morning, sweety," you declare with a smile.