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

by Anna Roberts

  Even on his own, he is the least relaxing person in existence, but with you in tow we get double the fun because you stupid fucking bastards can’t go five minutes without inventing some other imaginary drama to squeal about. No, honestly – that is literally all you do together, even when you’re posing prettily in whatever expensive location the author has picked out for your current backdrop. It doesn’t matter if you’re on a yacht, at a party, in a hotel room, in his apartment, on the pool table or in his sex dungeon – if there is the slightest possibility that for a single fraction of a second you might find yourself chilling out or God motherfucking forbid, enjoying one another’s company, then you start up again. The whining, the moaning, the endless blue-faced bitching about how he’s too rich, too handsome, too complicated. Can you handle his past? Can you handle his exes? Oh the pretendy drama! Oh the issues!

  God damn it, this book is getting to me. But seriously – words mean things. That’s kind of the whole idea of writing. If you wanted me to believe that life with Dickfacehead was relaxing then you would presumably use words to show Ana and Dickfacehead chilling out in vibrating lounge chairs while sipping perfectly chilled White Russians and smoking something really nice he picked up on his last trip of Hawaii.

  Don’t fucking tell me he’s a soothing balm to the soul after showing me a weekend that went on for about a fortnight in real time and featured stalkers, paedophile exes, creepy beauty salons and panic stricken midnight flights because you thought someone was trying to kill you.

  God. Ugh.

  Anyway. It’s Fuck O’Clock. Mazeltov.

  Then he complains he wants her safe and I just want Golumette to come in and shoot the both of them. Then Mrs. Robinson turns up and the chapter ends, much like my will to live.

  Chapter Twelve...

  ...opens with Mrs. Robinson turning up at the apartment. Ana is typically miffed. For all that is wrong with Ana as a character (ie. almost everything) I’m with her on this one – Mrs. Robinson is a kiddy fiddler. The trouble with Ana’s objections to Mrs. Robinson is that they don’t so much hinge on the fact that she groomed a child of fifteen to be her personal sex slave, but the fact that said child might ‘still have feelings for her’.

  Anyway, Mrs. Robinson is being blackmailed. She comes over to tell Dickfacehead this because ‘she just wanted to share,’ and that dramatic revelation dies on the vine before the flower could even fruit. But don’t be sad, because I’m sure this trio of plastic shitheads can wring some synthetic drama out of the scene.

  “Does [Ana] know how negative you are about yourself?” [asks Mrs. Robinson.] “About all your issues?”

  “She knows me better than anyone.”

  “Ouch! That hurts.”

  “It’s the truth, Elena. I don’t have to play games with her...”

  Bullshit. This whole nonsensical, pointless relationship is one long, personality-disordered game. Worse, they’re playing different games. He’s playing chicken with her limits and she’s playing Fix The Psycho. Also, they don’t know one another. They just think they do because they’re both so shallow they’d make a petri-dish look like the Marianas Trench.

  Elena leaves and oh my God here we go again – did you love her, did she love you, IT’S OVER, OKAY? Wah wah, issues issues pity me I’m so complicated it’s so hard being rich and pretty and in love.

  Can we ever have a normal conversation without it disintegrating into an argument? It’s exhausting.

  From your lips to God’s ear. Eesh.

  Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that absolutely nothing of importance was divulged during this fresh bout of squealing, except for the fact that Dickfacehead was originally the submissive party with Mrs. Robinson. This will become important later and you will never guess how.

  Then Ana calls her stepfather for no reason whatsoever and he asks how things are going with Dickfacehead, they exchange ‘I love yous’ and hang up. That’s literally all that happens. Then Ana looks at her watch and discovers it’s ‘only ten’. It’s like the author was getting paid by the word.

  I’m not sure how it’s only 10pm, since Ana had to work late and they’ve already fucked in the elevator, had dinner, talked with Mrs. Robinson and then whined at one another for what felt like forever but was easily half an hour at least. “Because of our discussion, I am feeling strangely innervated and restless.”

  Oh dear. You know what this means, don’t you?

  Maybe not – it’s not quite Fuck O’Clock yet. Ana goes into the library and finds the ruler from last night’s spanking. Then she cracks it across her knuckles and thinks one of the most horrifying things ever written in a romance novel.

  Why can’t I take a little more pain for my man?

  FEMINIST. THESE BOOKS ARE FEMINIST. THEY’RE LIBERATING – IT SAID SO ON THE BLURB. (No, but seriously Random House – what the fuck?)

  Then she reads some of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, which is almost a clever nod, since there’s a dead woman (Dickfacehead’s mother) hanging over their relationship. Like I say - almost. Nothing in this book has so far convinced me that the author is capable of subtle intertextuality, so I’m guessing this was probably an accident. If it had been on purpose Ana would probably have one of her stone-obvious ‘symbolic’ dreams about how there was a dead woman haunting their relationship and wake up to point out the literary parallel much as she did when she had a dream about strawberries back in Fifty Shades of Grey.

  Then she wakes up and finds Dickfacehead playing the piano, because he’s so cultured and brilliant like that. He’s also pretty bloody inconsiderate, playing the piano at three o’clock in the morning. Presumably his neighbours understand that someone as beautiful and complicated as him must play the piano alone at three o’clock in the morning, because if he didn’t then how on earth would the readers understand that they were supposed to fancy him?

  “Why do we fight?” he whispers, as his teeth graze my earlobe.

  Because you’re self-regarding assholes and you’re addicted to your own invented drama?

  “Because we’re getting to know each another, and you’re stubborn and cantankerous and moody and difficult,” I murmur, breathlessly...

  Aw. Look who got a big girl Thesaurus for her birthday last year. And also, what the fuck do you mean, Ana? Getting to know each other? I thought you knew each other, deep down, in the roots of your souls? At least, you did about six pages ago.

  Then they fuck on the piano. I’m told this is like the movie Pretty Woman but I’ll take people’s word for that – I don’t think I’ve ever seen it all the way through and have no desire to change that.

  Then they wake up after about two hours sleep and immediately Ana sets to work rummaging around in Dickfacehead’s plastic mind by asking about his childhood. I don’t care. I really, really don’t care.

  There are several more conversations about nothing and then the phone rings and Dickfacehead burps out some lines of exposition that indicate a definite end to the Mrs. Robinson blackmail storyline introduced at the beginning of the chapter. Well, that was pointless. Onward.

  Ana goes to work and tells us that she exchanges friendly conversation with another woman. The woman in question is Claire from Reception, who is black, so instead of being hostile and insecure in Claire’s presence Ana is the literal embodiment of white guilt. Claire is even allowed to remark on how ‘dreamy’ Dickfacehead is and Ana laughs, when usually she starts snarling if another woman so much as breathes near him. The unfortunate implication here is that Claire, as a black woman, is not a threat to their relationship, which means we can add ‘Possible racist’ to Dickfacehead’s already long list of delightful attributes.

  Jack is horrible. Dickfacehead e-mails to say one sentence.

  I love waking up with you in the morning.

  If you were wondering what these e-mail exchanges amount to, this is pretty much it. It’s one of the few consistent pieces of characterisation in the entire book; it only follows that two people
who spend all their time together talking about absolutely nothing spend their time apart sending each other banal e-mails about fuck all.

  Two pages of sexy e-mails about how they did sex on pool tables and yachts. Yawn. Also, it figures that Ana is a lousy employee because she never stops e-mailing her boyfriend, but what about him? I thought he was supposed to be a workaholic?

  You’ll be pleased to know there’s no sign of Golumette. That’s good, isn’t it? Then Ethan (Kate’s brother. The role of Ethan will be played by Jasper Cullen from Twilight, because that’s who he is.) phones to say he’s back from Barbados and wants to collect the keys to the apartment Ana shares with Kate. Then there are four further pages of silly e-mails and endless fuckaboutery that could have been cut, but then most of this book is things that could and should have been removed by an editor.

  Then she goes to the apartment and Golumette is there with a gun. Cue dramatic prairie dog.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Unlucky for some, almost certainly unlucky for me.

  She’s here, gazing at me with an unnerving blank expression, holding a gun. My subconscious swoons into a dead faint, and I don’t think even smelling salts will bring her back.

  You know, writers and creative writing teachers will tell you there are many ways to blow a really tense, dramatic scene – cliched dialogue, unnecessary details, etc. However, I have to give E.L. some kind of twisted props for inventing entirely new ways to suck at writing. So far I’ve never heard ‘Do not palm off narrative responsibilities on the stupid fucking cartoon characters in your protagonist’s head’, but it probably goes without saying that it has now been added to the list.

  Golumette is, of course, round the everloving twist. For once Ana does a thing that I can completely understand and is probably exactly what I would do if I found a madwoman with a gun in my kitchen – she offers to make Golumette a nice cup of tea. Unfortunately Ana is supposed to be American and therefore has no excuse for this kind of behaviour.

  “I never slept in Master’s bed,” she murmurs. She’s like a fallen ethereal wraith. Half a person. She looks so slight, and in spite of the fact that she’s holding a gun, I suddenly feel overwhelmed with sympathy for her...

  “Why does Master like us like this? It makes me think something...something...Master is dark...Master is a dark man, but I love him.”

  Isn’t she good? It’s like Emperor Palpatine and Gollum had a baby. If you ever need a laugh, remember that someone wrote the above dialogue with a totally straight face.

  So, then Dickfacehead turns up with Taylor and Dickfacehead attempts to persuade Golumette to give him the gun, apparently by staring at her.

  I realise I’m holding my breath. What will she do? What will he do? But they just continue to stare at each other. Christian’s expression is raw, full of some unnamed emotion. It could be pity, fear, affection...or is it love? No, please, not love!

  Yep. That happened. The gun pointed at her boyfriend is second on Ana’s list of priorities. First is ‘Does he like her more than he likes me?’

  Dickfacehead makes Taylor take Ana downstairs and Ana whines that if she goes downstairs then Dickfacehead will be alone with Leila. And they might fuck.

  Also her beloved Dickfacehead might end up getting shot and killed, but whatever.

  I know Ana is basically Bella Swan with the serial numbers filed off, so it’s not like I expected her to be a nice person, but holy fucking shit. And yes, it kind of doesn’t get mentioned so much because Dickfacehead is such a psycho, but Anastasia is a monster. She’s so self-absorbed and stupid that it doesn’t even occur to her that her reaction is insane.

  Ethan turns up and we learn that nobody has called the police. Because ‘it’s not like that’. No, it is like that. Now, nobody is saying it’s her fault, but it’s clear that the nice lady with the thousand yard stare and the gun is not exactly swinging on all her hinges right now. The best thing to do would be to call the police and make sure nobody gets killed, then we can talk about how culpable Golumette was for her actions, okay?

  But this book was not written by anyone remotely sensible and so Ethan suggests he and Ana go for a drink in a bar across the street – and Dickfacehead can come join them if he’s still alive, you know, after facing off with the pistol packing mamma upstairs. Ana agrees because she’s still in a mushroom-cloud sized sulk because Dickfacehead is alone with Leila. She doesn’t want to stay as close as humanly possible to Dickfacehead in case something happens to him – no, then she would be obeying the instincts of someone who actually, you know, loved him.

  Ethan, by the way, is an aspiring neurologist and part time rocket scientist. When Ana tells him about Golumette (Bandaged wrists, staring eyes, hasn’t showered in weeks, waving a gun around.) Ethan says;

  “...she sounds unstable."

  Just savour that a moment. I’ll wait.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And what’s Christian doing with her now?”

  The blood drains from my face and bile rises in my throat. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  Ethan’s eyes widen – at last he’s got it.

  What, that Dickfacehead’s life is in immediate danger?

  This is the crux of my problem. What the fuck are they doing? Talking, I hope. Just talking. Yet all I can see in my mind’s eye is his hand, tenderly stroking her hair.

  See? Terrible, terrible person.

  Then she sees Leila being taken out of the apartment by white coated men with butterfly nets. She’s being taken into psychiatric care and Dickfacehead, Ana’s precious snuggy honey bunny chirpy chirpy cheep cheep lovemuffin and True Love 4EVA is (sadly) safe and alive.

  Ana doesn’t even rejoice for a second, and when he gets into the car with Leila she reaches for the nearest bottle and dives to the sozzled depths of purple despair.

  I take a gulp of the burning amber liquid, the fiery heat a welcome distraction from the hideous blossoming pain in my heart.

  This is extra fun if you remember Fifty Shades of Grey, in which Miss Pissed here claimed never to have been drunk before and then spent most of the book (and this one) with her nose in a snifter of some sort. Call me judgemental, but if in the space of a month with someone you’ve gone from Twinings English Breakfast to pouring neat Jack Daniels on your cornflakes, then maybe you need to take a long, hard, sober look at your relationship. And possibly your boyfriend. You know how she keeps saying how hot he is? Well, maybe he’s not. Maybe she just had beer-goggles the whole time.

  Yeah. Is your mind blown? How’s that for a Fight Club twist?

  Anyway, once Drinky McShitfaced is good and fucked-up, she catches up with Dickfacehead, who is for once understandably angry that while he was up in the apartment negotiating for his life, his whiny, self-obsessed girlfriend was out getting sulky-drunk because he had history with the person who was just trying to fucking kill him.

  He’s angry with me? He’s the one that just spent God knows how long with his loony ex-girlfriend, and he’s angry with me?

  Look, for God’s sa...oh, fuck it. I don’t have the energy for this any more. I’ve peeled carrots with more common sense and empathy than Ana. Cram it up your catflap, you pie-eyed little psycho.

  Ana, sensitive soul that she is, then yowls that she can’t be everything he needs (a lunatic with a gun, apparently) and decides to break up with him. Then in a desperate bid to keep her, Dickfacehead goes catatonic.

  No, really – he does. You know how I said it would be important that he was the sub in his relationship with Mrs. Robinson? And that you’d never guess how? Here it is, in all its dumbass glory - the money shot, ladies and gentlemen.

  “You can’t go. Ana, I love you!”

  “I love you, too, Christian, it’s just – “

  “No...no!” he says in desperation and puts both hands on his head.

  “Christian...”

  “No,” he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head bo
wed, his hands spread out on his thighs. He takes a deep breath, and doesn’t move.

  What? “Christian, what are you doing?”

  He continues to stare down, not looking at me.

  “Christian! What are you doing?” I repeat in a high pitched voice. He doesn’t move. “Christian, look at me,” I command in panic.

  His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards me passively with his cool gray gaze – he’s almost serene...expectant.

  Holy fuck...Christian. The submissive.

  See what I mean about the movies? They’re going to be amazing. No amount of Bach and arthousy film-grain is ever make this scene anything other than what it is – total, hilarious pants-on-head stupidity.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’ve said it before but it bears repeating – the main characters in this book consistently talk about nothing. In good moods they moo the sweet nothings of new lovers and in bad moods they retread plot points over and over again in endless circular arguments designed to demonstrate how angst ridden and complicated they are.

  This is where you can see this is a find/replaced fanfiction. Twihards would care about Edward and Bella talking in circles for five hundred pages – the rest of us just see a couple of annoying pricks indulging in the emotional equivalent of huffing their own farts.