Fifty Shades Fatter - A Sequel (Fifty Shades of Neigh Book 2)

by Anna Roberts

  Fifty Shades Fatter

  A Sequel

  by

  A.J. Roberts

  Copyright © 2013 by Anna Roberts.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  *

  The author acknowledges the copyright of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Twilight Sparkle, Rarity, Fluttershy, Pinkie Pie, Rainbow Dash and all of the other ponies mentioned in this book remain property of their respective owners. Please do not make porn of them, because it is gross.

  All quoted excerpts of Fifty Shades Darker are property of E.L. James, who is welcome to them.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed Fifty Shades of Neigh and a special thanks to all of those bronies and 'pegasisters' who were offended enough to tell all their friends that the book was libellous, reprehensible and vile. I love you guys - keep up the good work.

  Extra special thanks to Catherine DeVore for her kind permission to namecheck her novel Abraham Lincoln, Fuck Lord of the Moon, which proved search after search to be the greatest online erotica title on the entire internet.

  Fifty Shades Fatter: A Sequel

  Forewords, by the author

  Four words, by the Inner Goddess

  Chapter 1 - One Hundred And Twenty Hours of Sod Him

  Chapter 2 - Sex Queens of Boobulon Twelve

  Chapter 3 - Return of the Mind-Numbing E-mails

  Chapter 4 - Twihards and Other Cryptids of the Pacific Northwest

  Chapter 5 - My Little Pokey: Shanking is Magic

  Chapter 6 - An Even Bigger Mess of the D'Urbervilles

  Chapter 7 - Seriously. It's A Real Book

  Chapter 8 - Love and Smells

  Chapter 9 - The Perils of Poorly Written Apartments

  Chapter 10 - Love Means Never Having To Say 'Stop Whining'

  Chapter 11 - Vanilla Surprise

  Chapter 12 - La Venganza del Fupacabra

  Chapter 13 - The Irma Monologues

  Chapter 14 - Beautiful Monster

  Chapter 15 - Her Awfully Wedding Husband

  Chapter 16 - Bridezilla Attacks!

  Chapter 17...As The Sphinx Said To Oedipus

  Bonus - I Read Fifty Shades Darker So That You Don't Have To

  Also by the same author

  Forewords, by the Author

  Sequels, by and large, tend to be difficult affairs. This is no exception. While Fifty Shades of Neigh sort of fell out my head in a kind of desperate attempt to explain why the publishing world had gone mad for a tepid mess like Fifty Shades of Grey, this sequel caused me a considerable amount of pain.

  This was largely due to me having to read Fifty Shades Darker, which – like most sequels – was vastly inferior to the original book. Of course, if you’d read Fifty Shades of Grey you might be amazed to discover this was even possible.

  While Fifty Shades of Grey was the vacuous, synthetic tale of the various crotch-bumpings carried out by two of the most charmless, self-absorbed characters ever to be torn from the pages of Twilight, it still manages to redeem itself by not being Fifty Shades Darker.

  ‘Darker’ features the same charmless, self-absorbed assholes engaging in even more soulless, mechanical sex, but this time our twitchy cardboard heroine is determined to plunge headlong into an exploration of her fuck-buddy’s not-very-convincingly twisted psyche. Since Christian Grey is basically Edward from Twilight with a side order of A Child Called It, this is about as much fun as you can imagine – an endless grind of dusk til dawn whining about how hard it is to be attractive, cartoonishly wealthy and possessed of the only set of genitals in the world that are good to go five times a day without succumbing to cystitis.

  Worse, Ana ‘cures’ Christian of his sexual sadism by loving him. It doesn’t matter that he’s a manipulative, controlling stalker by day and by night a bona fide basketcase who should really be strapped to the bed after lights out – the moment he says ‘I love you’ nothing else matters. The threats of violence, the need to track her every move, the reluctance to let her see her friends, the foaming-at-the-mouth rages when she talks to another male under the age of fifty – these things all pale into insignificance because awww, he wuvs her really.

  I would like to extend a hearty ‘fuck you’ to everyone who has sold this horrible book as the last word in true romance. It’s not that I wanted to get heavy – I’m not a particularly serious person, but as I read these books I realised there was probably a special place in feminist hell for a woman who saw just how wrong they are and said nothing. I wanted to take a series of joyless, badly written books and turn them into something that would hopefully give somebody, somewhere a few laughs, but there is no getting away from the fact that the Fifty Shades series blatantly glorify and romanticise a relationship that is not – as the author might have intended – interestingly dysfunctional, but is in fact abusive.

  If your partner or husband behaves in any way like Christian Grey then you might want to visit one of the websites listed below. There are people out there who understand and have the knowledge and experience to help you. Some of them have lived the dream (or nightmare) with their very own Christian Greys and know intimately how abusive partners can manipulate you, minimalise their cruelties and systemically isolate you from your friends, family or anyone else who might point out that your relationship is unhealthy.

  There are so many people waiting to help you. You don't have to take this any more.

  nationaldomesticviolencehelpline.org.uk/

  thisisabuse.direct.gov.uk

  womensaid.org.uk/

  refuge.org.uk/

  thehotline.org/

  Four Words, by the Inner Goddess

  Oh no. Not again.

  Chapter One

  One Hundred And Twenty Hours of Sod Him

  Hi. Hello. Hey. This is the Central Scrutinizer.

  Well, sort of. As in ‘not really’. I just always wanted to say that.

  So welcome, Gentle Reader, to the horrible interior world of Hannelore ‘Mess of The D’Urbervilles’ Squeal. I’m the Inner Goddess, your beleaguered guide to this vast and windblown mental landscape. I’m not gonna lie – it’s pretty fucking awful in here.

  We last left Hanna in the aftermath of a traumatic balloon huffing incident, much like the one than finished off her beautiful but less than brilliant Dad some eighteen years previously. Even worse, her internet billionaire boyfriend Crispian Neigh had just been arrested for copyright theft, bribery and (surprisingly) not kidnap.

  And even worse? She’d just discovered that the amnesia he’d developed after a concussion sustained by falling against a bidet after an unholy disgusting incident with a tampon and...you know what. Fuck it. It’s probably easier if you just read the first book. Long story short – he was faking the amnesia and was most assuredly still jacking it to porned-out fanart of My Little Pony, which had always been a sticking point in his and Hanna’s relationship, mainly because it was wrong and gross.

  While Hanna had always been something of a hybristophile and would normally have been soaked to the knees by the mere notion of his illegal activities, the pony smut proved the last straw and she broke up with him.

  Since she used to be Bella from Twilight (again, long story) Hanna couldn’t just break up with her boyfriend, get puke drunk and sing bad Gloria Gaynor karaoke like a normal person. Oh no. She had to chuck a quivering, partially catatonic shitfit in which she sat motionless fo
r hours on end, making high, weird whining noises. Whenever anyone spoke to her she would gaze at them with tears welling in the corners of her big blue eyes and flutter her delicate fingers over the edges of imagined hole where she fancied her heart used to be.

  Of course, this was at first profoundly disturbing for her roommates, Kate and Jesús. They were both cradle Catholics and wondered if she’d gone off her rocker and was attempting some kind of beardless Sacred Heart tableau.

  However, after a couple of days they concluded that she’d simply gone off her rocker and started using her as a pizza holder and occasional TV tray. She’s been sitting on the couch for the past five days, staring at the wall about a foot away from the edge of the widescreen TV. Nobody – least of all her – knows why she’s doing this, but at least she’s stopped with the creepy Jesus pose.

  Observe.

  It was me or the ponies. That's what I said to him.

  He actually had to think about it, so that was that, and now I am alone, an island state, a banana republic unto myself. The pain is like nothing else on earth - a gnawing emptiness that consumes me from the inside out. I will never love again - my heart has been broken by Crispian Neigh, entrepreneur, artist, bon vivant and Brony.

  I switch on the television but it means nothing to me, nothing. A sneaker sails past my head but again, I am too empty to feel when its twin bops me on the back of the skull. I stare at the brick wall, numb to the sound of my roommate, Kate. She has been typing very loudly on her laptop for the past thirty minutes, occasionally pausing to sigh and crack her knuckles.

  "Hanna, if you're going to stare at the fucking wall all day can you do it with the TV off please? Trying to work here."

  I turn off the television, beyond tears, beyond feeling. Oh Crispian - why? Why were you so unassailable and handsome and rich? Why did you love My Little Pony more than you loved me? Why is there this insurmountable distance between us?

  "Because he's in the pokey for copyright violation and attempted bribery," says Kate, looking up from behind her laptop.

  I stare at her, wondering how she can hear my thoughts. "You were narrating out loud again," she explains, by way of exposition. "Still, I guess it's better than you talking to the voices in your head."

  "Voice," I say. "Don't say 'voices' like I'm crazy." That's also something of a sore point - since Crispian and I broke up my Inner Goddess has disappeared. Not that I miss her - she was a hell-queen bitch, a lousy friend and a terrible mime.

  "Whatever, shitlord," says Kate, and carries on typing.

  Jesús comes out of the bedroom, wearing boxer shorts and a pink marabou trimmed robe. We had kind of a thing going on at one point but I'm not really his type - he likes girls who are more obvious than me. Girls like Kate.

  He leans over Kate's shoulder and bites the edge of her ear, his hands sliding up under her shirt, squeezing her breasts. There's a smudge of white powder in her cleavage and I can guess what they've been doing - it's all over the kitchen.

  "What you writing?" he mumbles, his face in her hair.

  "Skunk ape," says Kate.

  "Qué?"

  "Skunk ape."

  "That's what I thought you said. What the hell is a skunk ape?"

  "It's like a sasquatch but it smells worse," said Kate. "They have them down in Florida. They hang out doing your standard sasquatch stuff - posing for blurry photos, pretending not to exist, all that usual cryptozoology shit - except they have the added bonus of smelling like blocked drains."

  Jesús straightens up and frowns at Kate's laptop screen. "Bullshit," he says. "I've never heard of a skunk ape. You're making shit up."

  "Of course I'm making shit up - that's the beauty of writing for these supermarket tabloids. None of these fucking imaginary beasts exist, so I have free reign to write all kinds of weird bullshit about them. I got a hundred bucks for that article I wrote the other day - the one where I claimed Brian Blessed was a close cousin of the yeti. Nobody can say a fucking thing because who's going to find a yeti to compare its DNA with that of Brian Blessed?"

  What are they talking about? Look at them - just look at them. All they do is talk nonsense, play video games, have loud, meaningless sex and smoke illegal substances. And this is supposed to be love? They don't have a connection, not like we did, Crispian and I. Our love meant something. Ours was deep. Complicated. We had issues.

  I start to cry again. It's been that way forever - work, cry, sleep. Not that I can escape him even in my dreams - at night I dream of brown eyes, loud shirts and five dollar pinstriped fedoras.

  "Hanna, go do something," says Jesús.

  "What?" I wail, my heart in tatters. "What am I supposed to do?"

  "I don't know. Read a book. Do some cooking. Something you like. Just stop staring at the wall all day - it's not healthy."

  I stare down at my hands. I watch the tears splash over my fingers, my thumbs. "I'll try," I whisper.

  Kate sighs and folds down her laptop. "Look, Hanna - I know this is a big deal for you, first boyfriend, first heartbreak - all that shit. And yes, I'm fucking sorry about what I did at graduation, but you said it yourself - he was faking amnesia so that you'd think he'd given up his My Little Pony porn habit. Could you really deal with it if you found out he was still yanking it to dirty pictures of ponies?"

  "I'll never get the chance to find out," I say. "But nothing can be worse than this pain - nothing."

  I go into the kitchen. Behind me I hear Jesús saying, "Has it really been only five days?" I know what he means. Five days since I broke up with Crispian. Five days of emptiness, agony. I am cold, hollow, a shell of my former self.

  The kitchen table is covered in flour. Jesús tried to teach Kate to make tortillas but clearly they ended up doing other things - there appears to be a butt-print in the flour. I go to the kettle and switch it on, meaning to narrate my way through the process of making a cup of weak tea, but I find Kate's black lace thong behind the Twinings caddy. It reminds me of passion, of sex I will never have again, and I sink to the floor, weeping, weeping, torn and broken.

  Kate wanders in to get a glass of water. "So, I was thinking we might get Chinese food for dinner?" she says, trying to cheer me up. It won't work.

  "I guess you're sick of eating Mexican," I say.

  Kate raises an eyebrow. "Oh burn. Congratulations - that was almost cunty."

  "You might have cleaned the kitchen," I say, getting to my feet. "It's bad enough that I'm experiencing the depths of anguish without having to wipe your buttock-prints off the kitchen table."

  Kate frowns at the flour. "Dude, that's not my butt."

  "Jesús' butt then."

  She brushes flour from her cleavage. "That's a boob print," she says. "Those are clearly my tits. Look, you can even make out the nipples. It must be my tits because we didn't do it in any kind of position to leave a butt-print - I was bent over the table and he was standing up fu..."

  I beat a hasty retreat from CSI Tortillas, before Kate can furnish me with any further details. Thanks to the paper-thin walls in this place I have learned that Jesús likes her to put her fingers in places I don't even want to think about. "I'm going to visit Crispian," I say.

  "Yeah, that'll help," says Jesús, who has reopened Kate's laptop and is probably looking at porn. He doesn't have a job yet and says that was the whole point of getting a degree in English Literature, although I don't know what he was talking about. I got a job two weeks after graduation - I was headhunted by the RIP Publishing Company. So much for me 'failing college'. Turns out I was a genius after all. I'd point this out to Jesús but he'd probably drag being Mexican into it - he's kind of a racist like that.

  I don't know why he keeps on about the plight and prejudices facing Hispanic Americans when my poor Crispian is languishing behind bars. Jesús keeps saying stuff about how prison populations feature a huge percentage of Hispanic Americans, but he must be wrong because almost everyone at the prison where Crispian is being held is white. I think th
at’s why they call it ‘white collar crime’.

  My new car was impounded along with all of Crispian's other significant assets when he was arrested, so I have to borrow Kate's Beemer. Also they took my computer, claiming it was 'evidence', so now I can't even e-mail him except from work. They took everything - his fourteen cars, his yacht, his cabin in Aspen.

  Still, there was one bright side – when they seized his assets they also seized his My Little Pony collection, but not before they’d paraded said plastic equine trollops on TMZ. I could have died of shame there and then.

  When I get to the prison a blonde warden frisks me a little too enthusiastically and I glare at her.

  “No touching, no kissing and no passing objects,” she says, handing me a visitor’s badge. I put it on, reflecting that I hardly need it – it should be obvious I don’t fit in anywhere.

  Crispian sits in the visiting room, denuded of his trademark hat and Hawaiian shirt, but even in his prison jumpsuit he is still compelling, still addictive as ever.

  “Hey,” he says. “What brings you here?”