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Publisher Description

When Portia Simpson implemented tax on patty, it mad Dr. Bert Kemp, a psychiatrist. He then became a fat ninja, hell bent on murdering Portia Simpson’s head-crown, so every patty can be tax-free. His wife, Marjorie, decides to take care of her mentally-touched husband and hopes she has the strength to stick by him for better or worse. But as she unbearably loses everything and everyone because of Bert’s insanity, she crumbles, thinking she’s holding on to dead hope for her husband to regain his sanity, but will it ever happen? Scorned by her friends and family for living with a madman her only listening ear is the handsome, thick-bodied Dr. Arnold who wants her for himself. Bert grows jealous and goes to utterly unsound measures to keep his wife’s love but instead, is pushing her away. The ultimate question then is, “Will Bert ever get to take off the Right Honourable Portia Simpson’s head-crown?”


Marj looked at him and the wrinkles straightened out her face. “See how mi smart? You nuh see how fast mi mek you reach yah?” Bert asked, “You lucky you come quick though enuh, a light mi did gone light the gas cylinder and mi couldn’t find the matches, you think you coulda out it in time if mi did get fi put mi hand pon the matches? You stay deh, you woulda blow till you weak you couldn’t put out that deh big fire deh mi woulda set the house pon. A woulda bun dung the whole a in yah then claim insurance.”
She threw her hand up and slapped her forehead harder than she intended to. She wanted to be angry, but when she looked in his eyes she breathed out some of the fire out her chest and shook her head. Her voice lowered,
“Bert, that’s a boxing ring Hun, I can’t wear that.”
She repeated her mantra, “For better or for worse Lord, for better or for worse.”

Six and a half hours later, Marj came in the evening and was greeted by the Vybz Kartel, he was blasting in the house, ‘Cock it up pon the Dumper Truck’. Her ears hurt. But what was more alarming to her senses was a smell. She was smelling heat, stale heat like an iron left in fire. Something was burning. She charged into her living room. Bert still had the curling iron plugged in, until it was dangerously hot and red.
“What are you doing Bert?!”
Bert was reclined on his back in the sofa, he offhandedly answered,
“Clearlyyyy,” he dragged on the word ‘clearly’ for emphasis, because she must have been blind not to recognize what he was doing, “what I’m trying to do here Marj. I’m trying to master level seven of Ninja’s Thermatology, where my eyes can absorb the direct heat from the hot curling iron. Alsooo, . . . mi can absorb the heat wid the inside a mi bottom lip. Ain’t that obvious?”

Bert totally oblivious to the hill and gully in his chest that Clivey was talking about, Bert indifferently said,
“A suh mi chest stay. Mi a get thick from morning. No pills.”
“No Bert, mi know a nuh suh it stay. Mi know a sponge under deh fi buff up your chest. Mi a nuh idiot.”
Bert slammed down his fart tonic on the bench and said,
“You chat too much. A mi chest. A mi so-so chest.”
“A nuh your chest. Lift up your blouse mek mi see if a so-so chest under deh.”
Same time Clivey spotted the piece of sponge shifted up at the neck of his blouse. It was obvious now. A piece a sponge Bert have underneath deh. Bert replied,
“Weh mi a tell lie fa!” He kissed his teeth and blatantly said, “God kill mi right yahso ten time if mi a tell lie.

Fiction & Literature
October 19
Richie Drenz
Smashwords, Inc.

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