Mr. Gurky's family vacantion

Mr. Gurky lay back in a semi-comfortable reclining beach chair. He cursed the day he ever agreed to take his hideous wife and their seven god-awful children on this nightmare of a holiday. He had been 'peacefully coerced' into marrying his wife after spilling his pickle juice into her lady-gurkin parts one drunken Saturday afternoon behind the local pub, and in doing so even more accidentally filling her sour uterus with tiny baby-pickles.
He had been stuck in the same tiny pickle jar ever since.
He was delighted at first when Mrs. Gurky suggested a nice mid summer getaway, prompted mostly by a booklet of coupons she had been collecting, thus accumulating a handsome reduction on a family vacantion to sunny Sicily. The prospect of not having to spend every grueling second of every horrible day stuck in the same confining space with that woman seemed like a dream come true at first. In Mr. Gurky's fantasies they would finally rekindle whatever small sort of flame type situation there had been between them, hell, all they needed was the back wall of some building and about 27 euros worth of peppermint schnapps and cider. He would get a nice tan and maybe even get rid of some of those gigantic pimples he had all over his body.

But when he had come home to the jar after having bought a new pair of sunglasses especially for this joyous getaway, he was hit with the ugly truth: the kids. Those seven deformed pieces of shit. Between the bunch of them they shared all the annoying and embarassing character traits known to pickle; from awkward to rude and from cringe inducing amoral to downright autistic. Mr. Gurky tended to position himself as tight as he could against the glass of his jar, keeping all of them out of his sight as far as possible. His wife had however insisted on them joining, and before he knew it they were on the flight with them, in the hotel with them, and in his dreams with them.

Mr. Gurky sensed a burning sensation in his lower back, but could not tell if it was his pickle skin being sun burnt, or the plastic upholstery of the beach chair chafing his skin. His nose hurt from wearing the sunglasses all day, but the sun was too bright to take them off. He looked ridiculous, his face all red with the exception of al yellow greenish pickle skin pair of sunglasses that the sun had left on his face; a semi permanent reminder of his own stupidity. He decided to go and try to get some beer somewhere, seeing as he needed to get into the shade and could use some liquid relaxation. He walked down the length of the tiny beach and found a small confection type stand, wich sold bottled beer to drink while standing at the counter. As he proceeded to order one, his eyes met the gaze of a young and voluptuous olive, clad appropriately yet scantily, nursing a glass of what looked like white wine. As Mr. Gurky received his order from the stand, he drawn towards the young olive in an inexplicable magnet-like manner. He reached out and gently took one of her hands, kissed them politely and offered his name: 'Mr. Gurky, but friends tend to call me Franz-Weimar.' 'Well, Franz-Weimar,' the olive returned, keeping her gaze firmly locked on his pickle eyes, 'friends tend to call me Olive.'

While Mr. Gurky held both Olive's hands tight, they continued their small talk for about an hour, never losing sight of each other's eyes. There was sort of a raw sexual attraction between the two, which Mr. Gurky had never before experienced in his life. And so, when Olive invited him to come up to her apartment just across the small town square, he whole-heartedly agreed.

She looked like she could barely contain herself and her sensual olive body, while he hastily paid for their drinks. Hidden behind his shades, Mr. Gurky couldn't keep his hands of her and couldn't believe his luck. As they traversed the town square his cell phone, wich had been ringing profusely for the last hour, signaled that he had received a text message; 'Going 4 ice cream w/ the kids, where r u?' As if her physical appearance wasn't revolting enough, his wife had now resorted to something banal as using single letters as though they were entire words. Mr. Gurky shook his head and switched of his cell phone. As they reached her appartment door, Olive fished the keys out of her bag and they began up a bunch of stairs towards her appartment, and hopefully her bedroom. Mr. Gurky leaned towards Olive, trying to initiate the first kiss and whatnot, when the lights suddenly went on and Mr. Gurky found himself in a room with not one, but three olives. The other two were mean looking, stubble having smoking, knife wielding male olives. They started to shout at Mr. Gurky in what he presumed was Italian, while Olive translated in the same loud screams. They wanted all of his money, as soon as possible. As Mr. Gurky tried to run for the door, the two mean looking olives managed to get a hold of him for a second. But since he was all suntanlotioned up their grip didn't hold an he shot free with a ferocious speed. He fell backwards through a big ass window, screaming like a girl when he fell down seven stories. He was all splattered all over the ice cream parlor's outside seating area whe his wife and seven children were sitting, all of them killed that instant as well. The world never knew their story. Until now.