B J Jones the Story of My LifeChapter 459
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Incredible ChangesChapter 459: Can I Fix It? Uh-Huh, I Think So free porn video
Time to go find out what is up with the other houses.
As I got to the next home under dispute, I had the contract punch list of the upgrades they requested.
“It clearly states stainless-steel appliances, but these are brown,” the woman started bitching.
I waited for her to settle down and then said, “These are stainless steel, specifically the Tuscan Stainless Steel you requested because the slate stainless steel was too dark, and regular stainless was too shiny. Those are the only three finishes on the market for stainless steel.”
“Well, we can’t change them now because the countertops are already installed to match the appliances, so your company failed to meet the contracted delivery date, and we can’t close tomorrow,” she told me. I watched her husband walk out with a red face in anger.
I just smiled and told her, “You are wrong there. These countertops were custom sourced also to match slate and stainless steel finishes. If you decide which of those two you want, I will have them replaced in the next thirty minutes. What else?”
“The master bathroom is horrible,” she started, and her husband had had enough.
“Mr. Jones, please excuse my wife. There is nothing wrong with the master bathroom that she didn’t inflict on herself. I’m not about to ask you to rip out the entire bathroom to replace it with a different shade of pink than the one she chose. She spent half the night on Monday telling all her friends how it was perfect,” he told his wife more than me. “I did want to ask about the pool system. We didn’t choose for the saltwater system, patio furniture, or an outdoor kitchen.”
Patting him on the back, after calling to have regular stainless steel appliances replace the Tuscan finish ones, I said, “No, you didn’t. I have some very nosy friends. We had a large group of kids learning to build houses, install pools, configure the automatic saltwater systems, run natural gas lines, and do the stonework on the outdoor kitchens. You are also not paying for the ten-person hot tub or the finished basement you have not seen yet. The basement has a separate entrance around the side, a full kitchen, a master with an ensuite bathroom, four bedrooms, two full bathrooms, and a den. The designer also ensured six inches of sound-deadening material between the basement and the main floor.”
When we got there, I saw his wife complain about everything it seemed, but I told her, “This basement is twice the size of your current home. My company finished it, installed top-of-the-line appliances, and fully furnished every room, including bathroom towels. All four bedrooms have easily hidden pocket door baby gates. As tested by my three-year-old siblings, it is as fully child-proofed as many toddlers.”
I then took the master first and showed her the closet and dressers. I did that to all the rooms.
“You may be a complete bitch, but I’m not letting your daughter get kicked to the curb because she chose to get pregnant multiple times. She wouldn’t have if you didn’t tell her at the time that you would support her and take care of the kids as if they were your own,” I told the woman and watched the emotions wash over her face. “Your daughter isn’t the only one who got pregnant using my dick when I ignored everything. I didn’t do this for you. The house is for her and my children. If you bitch about one more thing, I will invoke the sales contract clause that states your sign-off on the requested upgrades is binding. You will be the one at default coming tomorrow morning when it is time to close. I don’t have any problem giving this house to your daughter and her girlfriend out of spite.”
Her husband put his arm around my shoulders and told me, “I see now why my daughter chose to keep trying to get pregnant with your children even after she miscarried the first three tries. We were sure you were the father, but she wouldn’t tell us. I don’t think we would have gotten grandchildren as smart or well-behaved if she had them with someone else. My wife may not appreciate you stepping up to take care of your children, even if the first three you had no idea you made inside her. My daughter is carrying another of your children, but I don’t know how she pulled that off. You were not in town when she got pregnant.”
“Seriously? Your daughter has had a child, or sometimes two, every year and still finished high school before turning seventeen. Since I came out of my coma, I would remember having sex, but all children are mine. I would guess she has a hidden freezer somewhere with dozens of test tubes of my sperm to keep her pregnant with my children,” I told him.
His daughter walked in, carrying a baby. She looked ready to pop with the bun in the oven, even though she was only six months along. She handed me the baby to change.
As I cleaned up the massive blowout, the girl told me, “I indeed have an abundant supply of your semen in cold storage. I wanted you to get me pregnant when I got my period, but we’ve never had sex. I jacked you off hundreds of times to get your sperm. The idea of a penis inside me, other than my sons before they are born, makes me ill. Well, it did for anyone except you, but by the time I realized that you had put yourself in a coma, you weren’t around. I know you are busy, but I would like you to be my first and only that I let have sex with me.”
“Yes, mom, I promised you in first grade that I wouldn’t have sex with a boy or man until I finished high school. I’m still a virgin. I artificially inseminated myself,” she told her mom and watched the look of shock on her mom’s face. “I never told you the father’s name because I technically molested him from two weeks after my first period until I managed to stay pregnant the first time. Now quit being a bitch and help me get the kids settled before bedtime.”
She turned to me and said, “I know you didn’t do it, but I got a text to come over to move into my new house. They said the paperwork at closing tomorrow is only a formality and already has my digital signature. My parents have to be on the deed because I’m not going to be eighteen for another year and two days. The person that texted me also said that the house was mine, free and clear. My parents would be stuck with the homeowner’s dues, and I could kick them out if they didn’t pay them.”
“Works for me, and this is one less house I have to try to get resolved before tomorrow morning. I have to go then. There are others I need to go find out what is wrong,” I explained as I handed her back the changed, washed, and dressed baby.
The next three were already resolved before I could get there. Two were complete bullshit things like the outlets with white faceplate covers, and they wanted the standard beige.
One was trying to scam the corporation Molly formed to use as the company to build the homes. They had an unpleasant visit with Paula and were happy to answer some questions at the police station.
Maybe not happy, Now, what the hell is going on here?
When I got to the next home, I found an obscenely obese, as in twenty-six-X-size underwear wedged into the opening for the front door. Around the back, two kids, who weren’t even in puberty yet, got stuck trying to get through the doors on that side. There was another large person stuck trying to get in through the garage.
The front door is forty-two inches wide, and the others are all thirty-six to accommodate wheelchairs.
For the kids stuck in the doors in the back, I got them to hold my arm as I lifted them up and then bumped them with my hip to get them inside. Tickling the twelve-year-old girl got her squirming around enough that her belly got free from how she got it stuck. She was back out in the garage.
Now the kids’ mom, I remembered her from working at the underwear store. She had a one-hundred-thirty-inch waist and a one-hundred-ten-inch chest. Now she had to be at least a hundred pounds heavier. It took a lot of work to get her worked out the front door. The younger two kids walked out of the front door once I got her loose.
Instead of being embarrassed, the woman started screaming, “Your company told me that you put in extra-wide doors for wheelchairs. These doors aren’t anything close to getting a wheelchair in here. We can’t move in here. You are going to pay out the ass when I sue you.”
“The ADA requirements for wheelchairs is thirty-two inches. All doors in this home are thirty-six inches, except the front door, which is forty-two inches. We had each opening tested with a motorized wheelchair with a six-hundred-seventy-five pound weight limit. I’ve seen you naked when I helped you get a bathing suit three years ago, and you are at least five sizes larger now,” I told her loudly so her children could hear. “That is your choice. I got bathing suits for all four of your children too, and not one of them had any fat on them. I don’t know what you are feeding them or doing to them, but that van in the drive is taking them to my foster-care complex. What you did to yourself is your problem. Causing them to be unhealthy and morbidly obese is justification for child abuse. The state licensed me as a caregiver and permitted me to take any child I wanted and send them to my foster-care mini-cities to be evaluated for possible abuse or need a safe place to live for a while. Sue me. I don’t care one bit because you will lose in court. Everything in that house was designed and rated to handle a thousand pounds per square foot, including everything in the bathrooms. Bye now.”
Her kids were in the van and heading to the hospital in the foster-care complex before she knew what had happened.
The man-in-the-machine told me that he had my doctors standing by to do precise liposuction on each of the children because the fat had them all on the edge of organ failure from what the women had been feeding them to make them fat. He was going to tell me what he found out about why it happened, but I stopped him. That was all I needed to know as long as the children got the help they needed and exercised to get back down to their correct weights. I will let Mary Beth deal with the kid’s mother.
“This is not right,” a man said at the last house being disputed, with a heavy accent.
He tried to explain it to me and those from the contractor but couldn’t translate it correctly into English.
“I’m good with languages and pick them up almost instantly. They said I was a natural linguist at college,” I explained slowly in English.
After the first two words were out of his mouth, I found I already knew his language.
Speaking to him in that language, I asked what the problems were, and he told me, “This house is suspicious. Home, this size with top-of-the-line everything, costs half as much more, if not twice as much. Nothing comes for free, Mr. Jones.”
“You’re right. Nothing comes for free. That is what you are paying for this house at closing tomorrow, or using the loan from your bank is at least,” I explained. “I’m not making any profit, only breaking even for what it costs to build it. Three-quarters of the work done got done by children from my orphanage who volunteered and worked their asses off building these homes. You can see them working on those still under construction. Each one wants to learn one of the trades needed. They are apprenticing under the best in their line of work in the area. I pay for their clothes, room, and board. As a result, all the people who can build homes are working too. I’m employing many skilled workers that were previously sitting on their butts waiting for any work for them within a hundred miles or more.”
“Oh. I did not know you were that boy who got a lot of money from some wealthy person who died last fall. When I saw it today, I became apprehensive. I expected a real asshole only interested in using all that money and there being strings. We put the contract on this house because my employer relocated me from Europe to this area. I looked at house prices, which were only a bit low for the size. Something too good to be true usually is. Now that I know the full story, I am pleased with this house,” he told me.
“We are good to go here. I cleared up some confusion,” I explained to the group, waiting to fix whatever.
At dinner, I introduced our new house guests.
I asked mom and dad to have a private discussion when they had the chance.
“How can we help, David? You seem to be on top of everything and have a big group of friends to help you. I don’t think we have talked for more than a few minutes over dinner some nights,” dad asked.
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