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From: "cmsix" <cmsix@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} D I V O R C E - Chapter 1- MF Mf Mult harem ScFi TimeTr - In Progress
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Date: Fri, 02 Feb 2007 23:10:01 -0500
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Laid off at the steelmill. How about a little camping trip? 

Codes: MF Mf Mult harem ScFi TimeTr

Also available at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/cmsix/www

Copyright cmsix

<1st attachment, "divorce001.txt" begin>

D I V O R C E

   Chapter 1

   That was interesting, and it would have been well worth a dollar, but I
didn't really think it was worth almost everyting I had.  It must have been
though, the judge had said so.  I guess it was my own damned fault.

   My now offially X wife seemed happy enough with the outcome.  She had a
right to be.  She got the "farm" - all fifty acres of it, and the house,
and her car I'd been stupid enough to pay cash for.  I got the pleasure of
finding out how a lot of women feel after they help their man through
medical school and then he dumps them for a young nurse.

   It wasn't really like that, exactly, but it seemed like a good thing to
bitch about at the moment.  We'd married young and I hadn't really wanted
to go to college.  Right out of high school I got a job at the steel mill
and I encouraged my young bride to get an education.  Steelworkers made
pretty good money at the time and we could afford it.

   She studied hard and I worked a lot of doubles, a lot of them.  Lone
Star Steel's main product at the time was "oil field tubular goods" and
they were selling hell out of them after the arabs pulled their little
"cartel" stunt.

   My sweetie got her degree in three and a half years and was accpeted at
a medical school, and even though we'd already paid for the fifty acres we
lived on, we rented a home about halfway between Lone Star, Texas and
Dallas, where she had to continue her education.

   We were still in love then, even though my long hours working and hers
studying and later interning, meant we usually seemed like we were visiting
when we had time together.  But shit happens while you aren't paying
attention and we drifted apart.

   There's a good chance we could have made a go of it anyway, if it hadn't
been for that cute little big tittied blonde that started working in the
coupling shed, which happened to be right near the tiny office of the
extrusion yard, my usual "home at the mill."

   She was friendly and my dick still got hard all the time, and soon
enough we were calling off work at the same time about once a week, and
spending the day laid up in a motel and bumping fuzz.  Of course my wife
found out about it, but she didn't even let on she knew for two years,
until all her schooling and internship was finished.

   The courrier delivered the papers to me in the mill's parking lot.  The
ones that said I was soon to be single again, and some more that said I
wasn't welcome in my home, the one we'd just moved back into.  They also
gave me a big thick manilla envelope that had copies of some of the
photographic evidence.

   I looked them over after the courier left and I now understood the
blonde's interest in "doing it with the lights on" and "dog fucking" these
last couple of months.  Later I found out that my X had paid her a visit
and explained the financial incentives for her to co-operate and the
serious disadvantages if she didn't.

   A big part of my serious mistreatment during the divorce proceedings was
my guilt.  Hell, I knew I was in the wrong and at the time I felt like I
deserved everything I got, or didn't get.  I was so out of it that I rented
a storage building for my X to send my things to.

   She graciously let me keep my pickup, my small camping trailer, and most
of my personal things.  She even let me come to our place, to the barn, and
collect my favorite saddle and bridle and a few other assorted items of
tack.  Of course I had to leave it all on her carport, leave while she
inspected it to make sure there was nothing she wanted, and then come back
and get it after she was done looking it over.  The deputy she'd requested
from the county shiriff's office was firm about the rules.

   I made a deal with a trailer park in Lone Star and set up my camper
there.  It was a good place to sleep and bathe anyway.  I kept going to
work and things were just peachy.  The blonde had hauled ass with the ten
thousand in cash she'd earned, but it wasn't far to Longview and the Rio
Palm Isle, and I always could do a mean two step.

   After about a year my X must have settled down some from her original
'mad' because she sent me a letter saying I could have one of the old cars
I'd stored in the barn.  I guess I should have mentioned my car collection
to her from the git go instead of having her find them on her own after I'd
been banished.

   There wasn't even a deputy out to keep an eye on me this time, but I had
been instructed not to bother her at the house.  I paid Marlin to take me
out there in his wrecker and we hooked the black 1966 Ford Fairlane two
door hardtop, the one I'd put two fours, a four speed, and a nine inch
limited slip rear end in.

   He even cut me a break for taking it all the way over to Lone Star and
dropping it by my trailer.  Back in my old home town, he let me off at my
truck and I went directly to Wal-Mart to buy the Fairlane a car cover
before heading to my trailer.

   Life was wonderful and even though I wasn't trying, I made plenty of
money.  I still doubled anytime I could.  That was often, because the race
was still on for oil and the pay was even better now.  We'd just signed a
new contract and pipe was selling so good that the company had nearly
pissed their pants at the thought of a strike.  My previous hourly rate
jumped over five dollars overnight.

   All in all I didn't really give a shit.  I worked as much as they'd let
me, and then went to the Rio a time or two a week.  I usually ended up
fucking the wife of some poor bastard that was at work and then going home
in time to make my next shift.  I even found out that time flies not only
while you're having fun but that it hauls ass when you're just treading
water too.

   Or at least it did until 1992 and a half.  In June of that year me and
six thousand other steelworkers were invited to a lay off.  I never did
understand exactly what happened to the oil market or why.  I did
understand that they didn't need nearly as much of the pipe we'd been
making and that the company hadn't discovered any other good markets for
the amount of steel we could pour.

   If our President at the time had started a nice little war we could have
kept our jobs.  Bomb casing was another staple for our mill, but things
just didn't work out this time.  Where in the hell are the Viet Cong when
you need them?

   I wasn't too worried myself.  I'd been making money hand over fist for
years and I didn't really spend much.  I was still driving the same pickup,
and while it didn't get great mileage it did all right, not to mention that
I still had the same farm account from before my divorce.  I didn't have a
farm anymore, but I still bought my gas as off road fuel, and got to skip
the forty-eight cent per gallon tax.

   My only real concession to this fiction was the two hundred gallon
auxilary tank I'd had to put at the front of the pickup's bed.  With that,
and the two twenty-five gallon tanks that had come on the truck, I could
buy enough gas at one time to make the purchases large enough to look
legitimate.  I even sent the receipts to my X and she deducted them on her
income tax as farm expenses.

   It cost me a hundred a month to park my trailer and that covered the
light and water bill too.  I paid the chunky old gal in the trailer next
door twenty-five a week to do my laundry, sweep up and dust a little, and
that was about it.

   Now that I no longer had a place to keep a horse, I was down to one
hobby, shooting.  I wasn't even a "gun nut" but I did like making loud
noises every week or so, but my firearms were fairly pedestrian.  One
Marlin 336C in 35 Remington and one Glock 34.  I was even so cheap that I
reloaded my own ammunition.

   I know what you're thinking, most of the guys that reload are really
looking to get more accuracy and more power from their cartridges.  Maybe
most of them are, but the ones that are don't shoot lever action rifles
chambered for 35 Remington.

   Its main claim to fame is that it won't stray off into next county if it
hits a twig on the way to the deer.  In fact, the main reason I swapped in
my 30-30 was because I found fifteen thousands spent brasses for the 35 at
a garage sale.  I've always wondered what kind or wierdo had burned that
many factory loaded cartridges in that calibre.

   No matter where they came from or why, I thought fifteen bucks was a
great price.  Within six months I had them all loaded with 180 grain Speer
bullets and I'd been firing and reloading them ever since.

   I practiced with my Glock even more.  Empty 9mm brass was available
almost anywhere and I must have twenty-five thousand rounds ready to go at
all times.  If the commies ever try to take over, I've got something for
their asses.

   I actually had three Glocks now and would probably end up with more
soon, and probably even other nice guns.  With the layoff in full swing
there was no doubt that a few family men were going to run short and have
to sell some of their toys.  At least I paid more than a pawn shop would,
even though I wouldn't buy just any piece of shit.

   After three weeks of liesure I was about relaxed out.  I'd already done
all my paperwork for the unemployment checks and even received the first
one.  I'd nearly worn out a pair of boots at the Rio, but I didn't like to
dance that much and the stray women had thinned out dramatically since
there weren't nearly as many husbands working nights, or at all any more. I
decided I might as well take a real camping trip.

   I did have a few details to take care of first.  For one thing, I had
over a hundred thousand miles on my pickup's engine.  I could always get a
new truck but it didn't seem sensible to buy a new truck while I was on
unemployment.  Besides I liked my old truck fine.

   I decided to redo the engine.  It would take a week or so, but what the
hell, I wouldn't miss any work.  I made sure the Fairlane would run good
enough first, and then I drove my truck to a friend's shop.  He had a drag
car he worked on all the time, and he said I could use his shop for my
rebuild.

   He helped me yank the engine and then took it apart.  The cylinders had
enough wear that I decided to bore it thirthy thousandths, and since I'd
have to buy new pistons anyway, and I'd never liked the 400 inch small
block, I ordered pistons with a pin height to let me change cranks.

   It turned out to be more of a fuckup than I'd first thought, and I ended
up buying aluminum rods because of some wild hair that crept up my ass
telling me I needed six inch rods.

   Of couse those chickenshit stock heads that came on a 400 wouldn't do by
now, and a different bracket racer, one who had the misfortune to be laid
off too, parted with his pair of the old 292 castings.  They didn't need
all that much work after I got the screw-in rocker studs in place.  I
didn't even have to replace a single valve seat.

   Gil, the guy who was letting me use his shop, would not hear of me
putting the Quadrajet back on.  So we both spent nearly a week looking for
a used EFI setup and he finally found one.

   The result, with only a mild camshaft upgrade, was a 377 cubic inch
Chevy small block that made way more horsepower than I needed in a four
wheel drive pickup.  Of course it didn't hurt anything, and with the EFI
setup done right, it didn't do bad on gas, it actually got better mileage
than it had with the Quadrajunk on it.

   It only took a few days before I decided that I now had a shitload more
low end torque and that the 4.11 gears that had come with the truck just
weren't necessary any longer.  I bit the bullet and had someone who knew
what they were doing change out the rings and pinions and I opted to
replace all the bearings in both differentials while he had them apart.  I
went to 3.70s and they did a great job when they were rolling.

   I'd picked up quite a few new guns, and Ieven made some money selling
them.  I hauled twenty three of them to a gun show in Dallas and spent all
day walking around with one at a time and letting dealers make me offers.
Dealers usually come to gun shows to sell, but if you offer them something
nice and resellable, they will deal, sometimes.

   I kept a nice Colt Diamondback with a six inch barrel in 38 special. 
That isn't much of a cartridge but the Diamond Back is one of the nicest
revolvers ever made.  I also kept a rifle, though I'd never really wanted
anything like it.  It was so different that I had to hang on to it.

   It started life as an M1 Garrand, but a guy that was making more money
than he needed at the steel mill went wild on it.  He'd sent it to some
high class rifle shop somewhere and they had done the deal to it.  It had a
Shilen precision barrel, a synthetic thumbhole stock and an ATN 4-12
Day/Night scope.  The part that I really liked though was the magazine
modification.

   M1s, as everybody knows, have an eight shot magazine that has to be
loaded from the top.  This one had been modified to use a replacable clip
which held twenty rounds instead of the standard eight, and he had twenty
of the clips.  Here was a man who'd been planning to really do his part
during the red invasion.

   Alas, unemployment left him unarmed.  I never did figure out what he
wanted with the damned thing.  It was more of a sniper's rifle than one for
hunting, and sniper gigs are fairly hard to come by in East Texas.  I
wanted it because it was the only one I'd ever seen that was even anything
like it, and besides, I had the money.

   I went ahead and bought dies to reload for it, and the Diamondback.  The
brasses were just as easy to find as they had been for he Glocks and before
I knew it, I had thousands of rounds for everyting, even though I probably
wouldn't ever shoot a tenth of them.  It seemed like when I was reloading I
just wanted to keep at it.

   Thankfully I was able to resist when that urge to start casting my own
bullets reared its ugly head.  Ditto with jumping onto the black powder
bandwagon, though I did buy a lot of black powder rifles from steelworkers
in need.  I made myself sell them after I couldn't resist buying two
hundred and fifty pounds of linotype.  I had to draw the line somewhere.

   I'd fucked around and spent eight weeks on a two week overhaul and
another three, a day or two at a time, buying and selling guns.  September
was damned near gone and here I was, still in Lone Star Texas.  I was
determined to go camping even if it was snowing when I left.

   To make sure I actually did some camping instead of just dragging my
trailer around and sleeping in it at different locations, I bought a good
tent, a nice sleeping bag and some other crap like that.  By the time I
drove over to fill all my tanks, my camper shell was piled high with crap
and the trailer was even a little crowded.  I'd even gone so far as to buy
new files to sharpen my Estwing hatchets and axes so they'd be good and
sharp when I needed to cut firewood for the campfire.

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