Denby’s life could not be described as unfortunate; it was a downright disaster.
Not long after he started to walk, he was hit by a debilitating disease. How difficult it was for him to learn to walk again with callipers on his legs, as he was shunted from one foster home to another because his mother had to work as a prostitute to pay for his medication.
Even when he lost all his hair, aged thirteen, he regarded it as nothing compared to the fact that he still wet the bed.
The list went on and on. His mother hated him. He was a blight on her freedom. He cost money. His misfortunes were legend. He had no real male role model in life; only his aunty (his mother’s cousin’s half-sister’s partner) who had had a sex change. It wasn’t that Denby was positive about his adversities; he was extremely negative about life. Everything in life was horrible. There was not an ounce of joy. Life justifiable sucked.
So it was a great blessing when he met Desdemona. He fell in love. Desdemona was rich and loved him for himself.
“Look at me!” he said, when at Desdemona’s luxurious beach house. “This is the first time in my life I have been happy! I have never been happy before today! At last! At last there is hope!”
Whereupon he tripped on a mat and fell headlong through a double-glazed window.
“At least the mutant died happy,” said his mother, jumping up and down with glee. “Now I can afford a trip to Honolulu.”
“That saves a hassle,” said Desdemona to her new boyfriend. “I didn’t know how to tell the loser he was about to be dumped.”