This centers on a deranged woman's path to becoming a complete nihilistic and feral serial killer. Emma Woodburn was put in the asylum for eleven years after killing her own husband and ten-year old son, along with the aging mother of a detective.
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He was happy that terrorist blew Uncle Sam and Kitty's gym to smitherings. It was finally another thing for him to use in gloating at his sister's face, but why wasn't he in the mood? Mrs. Summers had been waiting underneath the comfort of their sun-screen blanket, a copy of the novel "How To Be The Next Jennifer Lopez" by Matt Dave, held in her hands.
Mr. Summers knew she was in bed naked for the first time since eight years but still no arousel. To her bewilderment, Mr. Summers hurriedly and quietly stripped naked, so fast his wife couldn't even get a chance to glimpse at those tight butt cheeks.
"Why are you undressing so fast?", she questioned in an odd manner, watching him.
"Nothing," he replied blankly then escaped into the cold showers. As if the night could get any boring and awkward, Mrs. Summers suddenly remembered what was still beneath the thick sunny blanket. With lightning speed, she picked it up and shoved it underneath her pink pillow. Her hand laid gently on her heaving chest to calm the rapid beats down. At approximately 1:45, Mr. Summers emerged from showers right after drying himself and concealing all the nudity with his warm, red pajamas.
The movie channel on the television was left on, and Mr. Summers was puzzled to see that it was the Kiddy Movies being shown. Could you at least remember to pay for the Netflix? He muttered to himself but he looked at Mrs. Summers and realized she was neither watching nor reading. Just staring at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes. The 70's Golden Age of Porn cassettes and Blu-ray DvDs lay sideways the flatscreen TV set and the windy breeze blew peacefully through the large single window of the room.
There was a shiny glitter from the trophy compartment on the right side of the room, as well as four twin candles on each corner lit. What the hell are the candles for? Mr. Summers asked himself before hoping onto the pink king-size bed. It felt so damn warm and wobbly, he could feel himself transcending into slumber already.
"Are you actually sleeping?", the distressed Mrs. Summers beckoned at him, "Oh, Jesus. You know I'm not wearing any clothes, don't you?"
"I know, Booboo Kitty," Mr. Summers replied in a twisted smile. Booboo Kitty. A nickname he used when they first met at a strip club.
"So that means you take your hands and place them on my tits, then start kissing my neck and then we hit it on." She reminded him, giving directions with her hand like this was a traffic jam.
"Okay. I'll try," he agrees half-solemnly and half-pityfully. The way he moved himself was slower than a tortoise. It was like he was suddenly suffering from abdominal pains the minute Mrs. Summers asked for sex. He landed his left hand carefully on Mrs. Summers' left breast, then licked the nipple to try hardening it. To the other twin boob, he did likewise, but his wife realized it as well. There was no arousal.
"Your nipples aren't getting stiff," Mr. Summers alarmed, finding some form of excuse, but his head was shoved back in between both tits instead. The perfect place for every man's heaven whether straight, gay or bisexual.
"What're you doing?", he barked uneasily.
"Suck them," Mrs. Summers scolded him in the tone she used anytime she wanted Timothy to stop playing his virtual reality games.
He did so like a good boy, but he could she felt nothing.
"It's not working for either any of us," he reminded her bitterly but that didn't stop her.
"I said suck them. Suck'em!", she cried. Eyes already watering with tears of anxiety and more distress. It was like she was now actually suffocating him in between her twins.
He broke off but something diverted his attention. He saw her eyes marvel too.
"Your head is moving. It's literally vibrating," he observed again, and he didn't even need his glasses, "Are you experiencing some kind of fever now? Is this a stage of your borderline personality disorder?"
"I'm not sick. Just kiss me." She hurriedly thrusted her hands and grabbed him to her face, chewing and munching on his lips while acknowledging the rapid movement from underneath the pillow. Still, she felt nothing.
She pushed him back onto his position and with light speed, shoved her hand under the pillow and when it went out, this vibrant movement ceased.
"This is ridiculous," Mr. Summers finally breathed, "Kitty was right after all. We should quit therapy. None of that shit has worked out for us, lately."
A pause filled the room with silence for a while then Mrs. Summers voiced out.
"Does this mean our sex life is dead? Forever?", was the question.
"It might be, but that doesn't mean our marriage is," Mr. Summer replied with eyes shut in dismay.
"Bullshit," she snapped at once, "You think I don't see you when you and Austin are jerking off to that Japanese hoe by the pool?"
"Well you think I don't see you and Brianna get horny when you're at Sam & Kitty's gym, gazing at those muscle-flexing guys that you like?", Mr. Summers reminded her.
"What type of girls do you love to fuck when you lie that you're at work, honey? Tell me. Do you like them young? Do you like them old?"
"You're being paranoid."
She ceased talking at once. Given up, she landed her aching head on the pink soft pillow and turned her face away from him.
"Honey." He called, but no response.
The tears finally flowed, dripping from the edge of her eyes onto the bed sheet. Next was breaking into a loud sob.
"Honey." He called again.
"You don't love me anymore," Mrs. Summers sobbed deeply.
Nothing could contend with the amount of heartbreak Mr. Summers felt at approximately 2:02. The sound of his wife sobbing tearfully next to him, reminding him that the joyous moments they had was coming to an end.
"Oh, babe. I do love you," he whispered, stroking her dark hair tenderly and trying to bring back the smile on her face, "I don't care if we don't have to fuck for the rest of the miserable years. Without you, I'll just be the same loser I've been in the past."
"Do you even remember my name?", she got up to remind him, "What's my name? Tell me my name."
Hilarious as it was, Mr. Summers realized he did forget her name. He paused the same way Timothy left his video game.
"I....I don't remember."
"Well, neither do I even remember yours," Mrs. Summers realized immediately, " Oh, my God. This is serious. We don't feel like having sex anymore, now we don't even know each other's names? What curse is this? It's like...it's like we're.."
Restarting their relationship all over from the beginning.
