Dysfunctional Romance: The Break-Up!

By Derick Hudson

Dysfunctional Romance‘The Break-Up!’

Follow Barry and Sandra, the most dysfunctional couple ever, as they tackle an inevitable marital crises in the company of their psychotic twins, a frustrated fortune-teller, a few mental asylum ‘buddies’…and two poxy pedigree poodles!

Throw in a crazy dollop of OCD, ADHD, panic attacks, alcohol and kinky sexual shenanigans, stirred up with a nice sprinkle of pavement crack phobia, and this might just be the funniest escapade ever to be told.

An unconventional romantic comedy that’ll restore your faith in antidepressants!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291715835

Book preview

Dysfunctional Romance: The Break-Up!

Dysfunctional Romance

The Break-Up!

by

Derick Hudson

Copyright

© 2014 Derick Hudson

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any methods, photocopying, scanning, electronic or otherwise, without written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locations, or events is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank anyone who knows me and those yet to know me. Enjoy the rollercoaster ride! I feel sick already…

Contents

Dysfunctional Romance

Copyright

Acknowledgement

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

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Also by Derick Hudson

Fiend Street

Infallible

Asphyxia

Unholy Romance!

Dysfunctional Romance!

Author Interface

"Men always want to be a woman's first love. Women have a more subtle instinct: What they like is to be a man's last romance."

Oscar Wilde

Prologue

Help! I’m bleeding to death! twin A pleaded, after prising open his gooey eyes and seeing his perfectly formed body covered in bloody afterbirth.

Please put me back in. I’m only here a few seconds and someone has already hung me upside down and slapped me on the arse! twin B pleaded.

OH MY GOD! I’ve burst right open, haven’t I? screamed Sandra, the twins’ mammy, feeling like her insides had now become her outsides…down below.

Now, now, Sandra. A few stitches and we’ll be grand, confirmed the saintly midwife.

You’re not sealing her up…completely? asked Barry, the twins’ daddy, fearing his conjugal rights would be forever lost behind the stitches.

Oh, and you have some nasty piles, added the midwife, ignoring Barry’s asinine query.

Piles of what? asked a still delusional Sandra.

Shit! No more unholy sex for a while! Barry feared the consequences of the dreaded piles diagnosis. He had become fond of the ‘back door’ entry lately as he feared the ‘front door’ was only interested in propagating the human race by enticing his willing appendage inside and then lumbering it with twins…which was way too big a penalty to pay for a just few seconds of ecstasy!

Having spent their first thirty minutes of life in the company of their crazy parents, the twins were hoping the midwife would take them to the baby unit and mix them up with babies of normal parents. Why us! they thought in unison, as Barry tried to feed them a packet of chewing gum, pleased in the knowledge that it was sugar free!

Chapter One

Ten years later:

The Mercury Interface board of directors sat around the old mahogany, cigarette, alcohol and semen-stained table, open mouthed. The news had come in that the government was about to cancel the practice of cold calling, the mainstay of their call centre business.

I’d call them a bunch of feckin’ wankers if I thought any of them had balls! said Barry Shaw, managing director of the lucrative enterprise.

We should be praised for giving some of those sad and lonely people out there the chance to converse with someone, not penalise us! huffed Mr. Cobb, the increasingly forgetful chairman and owner of the business. The fact that we try to persuade them to buy things is secondary…surely? he continued, and then proceeded to cough cigar phlegm into his originally white handkerchief.

Like trying to sell little old ladies sex toys? said Sandra Shaw, the conscience of Mercury Interface, and Barry’s long suffering wife…and rock.

It’s not just you young ones who want to get the leg over, retorted Mr. Cobb, trying desperately to uncross his octogenarian legs under the table and allow his sludge-like circulation a chance to reach his failing vital organs, notably his brain. Old people have sex too! They just don’t brag about it. he said, recalling that only last night he had given his Vera a good seeing to…having ogled her naked body from crotch to nipple, bypassing her fluff infested bellybutton, at least four times! The fact that he did not have the energy or appropriate level of stiffness to do anything physical to his sleeping wife was by the way. His wilting member still came in his hand, with decrepit semen dribbling out slowly behind their zimmer frames onto his grey haired ball sack. Mr. Cobb’s spurting days had long since gone. He wondered why everything else in his ancient body was stiff except the one organ that really needed it!

We should look upon this as an opportunity rather than a door closing shut in our faces, said Barry, doing his best to hide his increasing anxiety at the thought of losing so much business due to the government spoilsports. Barry was riddled with ADHD, general anxiety disorder and OCD, and had formed an unnatural addiction for red Smarties over the years…and antidepressants, although he had managed to wean himself off the happy pills only recently. His latest attempt at reducing his general anxiety disorder symptoms had been to engage in two twenty minute meditation sessions a day, which sometimes had the nasty habit of sending him off to sleep, either at work at his desk or at home on the toilet!

Perhaps we can call people…by accident? said the company’s stingy financial controller. I do it all the time, especially when my phone is in my pocket.

Must be banging off something that’s pretty solid, said Mr. Cobb, through dagger eyes.  If only…he thought.

Look, we just need to find clients that don’t require us to cold call, said Sandra. We should go back to concentrating on the insurance claims business. Stick to the knitting and all that!

WHAT? We’ll be going into the knitting business over my dead body! said Mr. Cobb, his malfunctioning ears filled with long grey hair and overly ripe wax.

Excellent suggestion, Sandra, replied Barry, hoping his public acknowledgement of his wife’s brainwave would serve him well in bed that night. It had been far too long since they had done the bondage thing. Your creativity is endlessly fascinating and fascinatingly endless!

Why thank you, Barry, replied Sandra, hoping her husband would reward her for her input with a nice peck on the cheek and a cuddle that night.

Downstairs, Rebecca Charles, Sandra’s best friend and newly promoted manager of the claims department, was busy sticking her chocolate and nicotine coated tongue down her husband’s saliva-filled gob. As head of security, Cyril Charles knew exactly where to go to avoid the all-seeing CCTV cameras. His office was the perfect snogging zone. Filled with security monitors and not a camera in sight, the privacy of his office allowed the couple the freedom to become filthy work naturists if they so wished. Not content with having had six children since marrying Cyril, Rebecca was once again feeling broody.

Get them off, Charlsey! ordered Rebecca, pulling down her polka dotted skimpy knickers from under her grey pinstriped power skirt.

Cyril was a man of little patience and simply opened his fly, rooted around for his little friend, popped him out into the fresh air, whereupon it inhaled the lustful atmosphere and became his big friend. Within seconds the couple were hard at it, stopping now and then for a glimpse at the security monitors to make sure everyone else was working hard and behaving themselves. Cyril was good at his job and could spot a misdemeanour a mile off.

I think that hit the spot! said Rebecca, having suppressed her normally extremely loud, orgasmic victory cry. I can feel you in my fallopian tube already! she said, pulling her knickers back up to keep in as much of her reward as possible. Put your clothes back on! she ordered her husband, who duly obliged by closing his fly.

Jesus! Would you look at that skinny bitch decorating herself again, said Rebecca, staring at a monitor showing Sandra’s ultra vain secretary, Joanne, applying another layer of slap to camouflage her shite personality. "She does fuck all, the stupid cow! You need to have a word with her again!"

She’s harmless…and brainless, said Cyril, who had developed a soft spot for the incompetent, but still very sexy employee. You remember she was Mr. Cobb’s PA before Sandra nabbed her? Cyril reminded his wife.

Yep! But Sandra only took her on to humiliate her back for all the times Joanne had made her feel cheap when Sandra was a lowly claims assessor. Now Sandra just feels sorry for her, feeding her with the odd letter to type, which usually comes back days later filled with typos, coffee and makeup stains. Stupid cow!  Rebecca was not particularly fond of Joanne and her skinniness. She detested her perfectly formed, artificially bronzed pins. Going through six pregnancies in eight years had meant that poor Rebecca had rarely been able to see her own slightly stockier pins underneath her almost permanently bulging impregnated belly.

Honey, are you still coming? asked Rebecca.

Where to, darling? You know I don’t like socialising on weekdays, said Cyril, combing his red tuft back into place across his spotty bald crown.

No, you big eejit! There’s a wet stain developing through your trouser’s crotch. What a waste! moaned Rebecca. I could have done with that inside me! I want twins next time!

Chapter Two

Dad, am I going to die soon? asked Barry’s son, Eamonn. Unfortunately, Barry and Sandra had passed their unstable genetic code across to their twin offspring and had been living with the unrelenting consequences 24/7 over the last ten very long years.

Probably not, Son. I’m guessing that they’ll invent a cure for everything…after I go! So you and Robbie will probable live forever, Barry replied, jealously.

But what if I can’t afford the health cover? And what if they inject me with the wrong medicine! Will all my hair fall out? asked Eamonn, working himself up into the usual bundle of nerves, which he would no doubt soon unwind by racing around the house, kicking the pet poodles in the arses and fighting with his stupid brother.

Ask your mammy, Barry replied, before opening a cheap bottle of Aldi own label wine. Barry hated wasting good money and loved grabbing the odd bargain. His love affair with four lettered foreign discount chains like Lidl and Aldi had given his shopping fixation a much more eclectic and cheaper alternative to spend his hard earned money. You can take over the world, Tesco, but you’re never going to own me! had become his new war cry.

Jesus, Barry, it’s only Monday night and you’re knocking back alcohol! moaned Sandra, smoothing the ‘crease’ in the rug left behind by Barry’s foot imprint. Sandra’s OCD had become so bad that she often wore a dust mask over her face both inside and outside the house. The trauma of having to clean up her babies’ shitty bottoms all those years ago had left very deep scars. After fainting a couple of times, vomiting even more times, and finally trying to pass the buck to her most unwilling husband, Sandra soon accepted that God had obviously wanted to punish her and her alone for marrying an agnostic, and that her purgatory took the form of wiping the putrid, germ infested faeces from the twins’ arses, their clothes, the toilet seat and the floor.

It thins the blood, said Barry the Hypochondriac, pouring himself a large glass of Australian elixir.

But you take aspirin for that! said Sandra. You take tablets for everything these days…except for what’s wrong with your head!

You know Dr Finnegan doesn’t want me to go back on those mind warping antidepressants, said Barry. I prefer to go au naturel these days. Alcoholic grape juice is the way forward, he continued, taking a sip and feeling an instant bond with the liquid relaxer.

But, Daddy, I read that alcohol is a depressant, said Robbie, the older twin by two tortuous, vagina-bursting minutes.

Thanks, Son, I’ll be very careful, whispered Barry, hoping that Sandra, who had started to retreat back to her open plan kitchen, had not overheard their all-too-clever son’s damning contribution.

Barry looked around his church conversion pad and marvelled at the extension they had built to accommodate the twins. The nearly all glass extension burst out from the side of the church into an old graveyard, offering glorious views of rolling hills and creepy headstones. Barry and Sandra had invested their ten year old mini lottery windfall of three hundred and thirty-three thousand euro wisely. In addition to the extension they had invested in a sauna, mirrors on the ceiling above their heart-shaped bed, a massive home cinema projection unit with ‘vibration’ surround sound, and a brand new campervan. Barry’s original and still loved mushroom infested camper van was parked at the back of the church and was being used as a four star chicken coup for a motley crew of Rhode Island Red hens and what had to be the nosiest cock in town, who had a habit of varying the times of his cock-a-doodle-doo alarm cry. Barry guessed the cock was suffering from bird Alzheimer’s, or needed a Duracell shoved up his bum.

Mammy, is Daddy going to die? Eamonn asked. "He told me they would invent a cure for everything after he dies. And what if you die as well? Who will feed us? Who will buy us