Melvin never had much luck with the ladies.
Everyone had been surprised by his marriage, but no one was surprised when his wife was caught being hammered to multiple screaming orgasms by the barely legal teen they paid to come over and mow the lawn. It seemed the front and back yards weren't the only lawns the kid had been mowing since he'd turned old enough to vote. The towheaded beach bum thought he'd died and gone to heaven when given the opportunity for afternoon delights a day every three weeks or so with a horny housewife, and if Melvin had been a more violent man, the kid may HAVE died and gone to heaven... literally... by way of the shotgun.
But Melvin was far from a violent man and not much more than a scrawny, stick-limbed individual with glasses, a timid nature, and a nose for money. He'd found success in accounting, enough so that he was in never in want of money and always carried a few extra bills to pass to the outstretched hand of a beggar or drop into the hat of a street musician.
Melvin had slowly climbed his way up the ladder of the financial world, working his way to the very top, and then rammed up against a cold-hearted bitch of a boss who liked to see him squirm for her own twisted benefit. By now he should have been a partner in his firm. Instead, Mrs. Olivia Crabapple (recently divorced, she kept the last name as she liked the sound of it) loomed over him, devouring him with her shadow and stalling his career with her greed. Why not take credit for the miracles that Melvin worked when he allowed you so readily?
It was common knowledge you could walk all over Melvin, and he'd simply stand up, wipe the grime off his suit, and apologize for standing in your way. Too many people took advantage of this. His wife, the screaming cream queen of lawn boys, got half of everything. Crabapple rode his wave to wealth. Melvin, he hated to admit, had become something of a joke.