Out Of The Ashes – Chapter One

Roland Burke was a broken man.  Not because of a failed marriage or a relationship that had soured.  Not even because he had lost his job.

He had never really returned to work.  Captain Meade and Powell had tried to engage him but the Burke they had known didn’t exist anymore.  He was sullen and defiant.

Even though Captain Meade told Burke that Pittman had been cleared, Burke was obsessed with the idea that he had something to do with Slaughter’s death.

He seemed to have taken on parts of Pittman’s personality.  When he did come to work, he came when he felt like it and he started treating people like they were less than human…and people started complaining.

Captain Meade finally had to let him go but with the promise of a revisit of his decision, should Burke get himself together.  Although their friendship had basically ended, Powell had tried to reach out to him but his efforts were futile.  He stopped by Burke’s apartment with frequency and although he knew Burke was there, his knock was never answered.

Burke had allowed himself to become too attached to Slaughter.  She was not the love of his life nor was she likely to have ever been but she had left an indelible mark.  It was almost as if she had been seared to his very soul but now she was dead and her death had left him devastated.

He felt responsible somehow and his guilt was overwhelming.  He had never disclosed the extent of their relationship to anybody but from his actions, it was clear that it had progressed far beyond friendship.

For three months, he had been lost in a world of self-destruction and self-loathing.  Booze had become his best friend and seemed to be the only comfort he could find.  He gradually retreated into a life of a self-imposed solitary confinement.

His nights were spent fitfully sleeping for a scant few hours and his days were spent in a hungover, hazy fog.  During the few hours he was sober, he cursed himself.

Untouched mail had piled up in front of the door and his power had been turned off two weeks earlier but he didn’t seem to care.  Darkness was his friend and made it easy to hide from the outside world.

Powell made the decision to stop by once more and in an uncharacteristic gesture, Burke opened the door.  The sickening smell of stale booze permeated the air.  Powell could tell that Burke was inebriated.  In an unapologetic voice, Burke said “I’m having breakfast.  Want some?”

Powell politely declined.  He was taken aback when he saw that Burke was as unkempt as his apartment.  Burke was holding a piece of paper in his hand and sat down in his favorite chair.  He showed it to Powell and said “isn’t this some kind of shit?”
Powell looked at the “final eviction notice” and asked Burke what he was going to do about it.
“Nothing,” said Burke.

Powell looked around, as if assessing a crime scene and just shook his head. There were half-eaten pieces of pizza and empty fast food bags and boxes scattered all over the room.  Beer and liquor bottles decorated the table tops, counters and even the floor.

Dishes were piled up in the sink and Powell recoiled as he watched a roach scurry by.  He said “Jesus, Burke. You’ve got bugs crawling around.”
Burke said “that’s Charlie.  He’s my buddy.”

Burke was in his pajamas and when Powell asked him how long it had been since he bathed and got dressed, he smiled, popped open another beer and said “I don’t even remember.”

This 6′ 4″ man who had been such an imposing character was now just a shell of his former self.  He was rumpled and slovenly.  His face was puffy from all the booze, his hair looked like it had been coiffed by Albert Einstein and his once well-groomed mustache looked like he was ready to audition for Duck Dynasty.

Powell asked Burke if he realized what was happening to him.  “You’re obviously not paying your bills.  Your apartment’s a wreck.  You’re a wreck. What are you going to do, just sit around here until you die?”
His questions were answered with “my life is none of your fucking business.”

Powell clearly made a mistake when he asked Burke what he thought Slaughter would think if she knew what he was doing.  Burke unsteadily stood up but still towered over Powell.  He snarled when he said “she isn’t thinking anything because she’s dead!  Now get the fuck out of here.”

Powell begged Burke to let him help but his offer was met with hostility. Burke, in an almost scream said, “I don’t need your help.  I don’t need anything from you.  I don’t need anything from anybody.”

He sat back down, opened a pint of Vodka, raised the bottle and said “cheers.”

 

To be continued________________

 

 

The Ice Pick Killer – Chapter Fifteen

Burke was at the Lounge, anxiously awaiting Slaughter.  She had figured out who the killer was and he was wondering just what the “cause for celebration” would entail.  He was hoping for a little more than a drink and an exchange of information.

She had certainly lived up to her reputation.  She was everything he had heard she was but he had discovered a softer side…a more human side and he had acquired a tremendous respect for her.  She had left her mark on him.

He smiled as he thought “never before have I met a woman who is so commanding, so intelligent, so driven and so beautiful.  She is certainly one for the record books.”

He knew he had become infatuated with her and somewhere deep down, he knew it was a mistake.  He also knew he had to face the reality that, just as Powell had warned, she would be going back home.

Did he dare think that she might entertain the idea of staying?  She was a big city player from the town some called “the Paris of the West” and he was a small town detective, living in a city that didn’t even appear on most maps.

Daydreaming made the time pass quickly and before he realized it, an hour had gone by.  Slaughter should have been there.  He gave her a call but it went straight to voicemail.  He didn’t give it much thought because it had happened before.

After a few minutes, his phone rang.  Expecting Slaughter, he didn’t even look at the number.  He was surprised when he heard Captain Meade’s voice.

“Where are you?” he asked.  Burke hesitantly told him that he was at the Lounge, waiting for Slaughter and asked “what’s going on?”  Captain Meade said “meet me at Slaughters’ place” and then abruptly hung up.

Burke felt sick to his stomach as he got up and headed toward the door.  His mind was racing as he lit up his car and sped over to her place.

When he arrived, Captain Meade and Powell were waiting for him.  He could tell by the expression on their faces, that something was wrong.  Powell told him he might not want to go any further but Burke pushed by him and walked up to Slaughters’ car.

Her head resting on the steering wheel.  A stream of blood was running from her left ear.

All Burke could think was “how?  How had this woman, a woman who could lay you all the way down with a single fiery glance, be dead?  How had a complete stranger been able to get that close to her…or had it been a stranger?”

Burke asked Captain Meade how he knew to come to Slaughters’ place. Captain Meade said “we got an anonymous tip.”
“When?” Burke asked.
“About half an hour ago.”

Burke’s thoughts immediately turned to Pittman.  Slaughter had in every sense of the word, turned him into a eunuch and he wasn’t the kind of man to let somebody get away with that, particularly when that somebody was a woman.

As he considered the possibility, he couldn’t help but think that somehow, he was responsible for Slaughters’ death.  If he had only gone to her instead of meeting at the Lounge, she would still be alive.

Burke could feel his rage almost reaching critical mass and it was showing. He was screaming like a caged animal and had to be physically restrained.

It didn’t take long for Captain Meade to understand that Burke’s reactions were more than just investigating another murder.  He told him to back off and leave the scene and that order infuriated Burke even more.

While scouring Slaughters’ car, the crime scene was the same as all the others.  Her purse was still in the car, along with her weapon.  Her files were still on the front seat.  The keys were still in the ignition.

The only thing they found was what looked like the burned remains of an envelope.  Powell gingerly picked it up and put it in an evidence bag, although he believed the chances were slim that anything was going to be found in the ashes.

Burke stood in silence as the coroner took Slaughters’ body away.

Quietly to Powell, he wondered aloud if she had thought about him before she died.  Powell put his hand on his shoulder and said “I don’t know which would make you feel worse…if I said yes or if I said no.”

It was a sleepless night for Burke, Powell and Captain Meade.  As dawn broke, the three of them walked to the lab to see if they had managed to find anything in the ashes.  The tech showed them the only thing he could salvage, which was a tiny sliver of paper.

On that tiny piece of paper, they were able to make out four words.  “They turned their backs.”  The tech asked Burke what he thought that meant.  Of course, their reports reflected that the victims had been killed, while supposedly having “turned their backs” momentarily but this piece of paper hadn’t come from a report.  It had been typed and Burke felt sure that it hadn’t been typed by Slaughter.

Where had Slaughter gotten this letter and more importantly, who had sent it?

Burke, in a fit of anger, threw up his hands and said “she knew who the fucking killer was.  Why didn’t I make her tell me?”

Powell tried to comfort him by saying he couldn’t have known what was going to happen.  Burke slammed his fist down on the desk and said “it was that goddamn Pittman!  I know it was that goddamn Pittman!”

Captain Meade shook his head and said “no it wasn’t.  We’ve already checked and he was out of town.”

Captain Meade patted him on the back and said “we’ve got a tough phone call to make and we can’t put if off any longer.”  Burke and Powell followed him into his office and sat down.  Captain Meade wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and picked up the phone.

Emotionless, Burke stared at nothing as he listened to Captain Meade.  He took a deep breath and started to walk out of the room, in an almost robotic way.  He paused and said “if it takes the rest of my life, I am going to find out who did this.”

The death of Slaughter changed Burke.  He lost focus and became almost insanely obsessed.  He started showing up late for work, if he showed up at all and was often seen sitting at the Lounge, staring into his drink.

Powell tried everything from the soft approach of offering a comforting shoulder to cry on, to the school of hard knocks prediction of becoming a homeless alcoholic.  Burke resented Powell’s attempts and his response was hostile when he accused him of interfering in his personal life.  It wasn’t long until their friendship basically ended.

Captain Meade eventually had to call Burke into his office and order him take an extended leave of absence.  The man Captain Meade and Powell had known was no longer there.  Only the shell of a broken man was left.

As Burke slowly walked out of the station, Captain Meade looked at Powell and said “kiddo.  We’re going to have to keep an eye on him.  The only thing more dangerous than a man who has everything to gain, is a man who has nothing to lose.”

 

Endirinn.

 

I Have A New Name – Given By Hitler 88

Okay, this is the last audience this scumbag is going to get…but he’s just so damn pathetically funny.  Let’s see…where do I begin?  What has he been up to?

He attacked my friend Deb (learningtolivelikewater) and Sam (SDCtheriverrunners) and Juan (omtatjuan3.)

Then, me.  He even gave me a new name.  He wrote a post about me, titled “Hitler88 attacked by Herpes N****R Loving Antifa.”  I had to look up the definition of Antifa.

An Antifa is “an abbreviation for ‘anti-fascist.’  They are a group of people belonging loosely to a series of interconnected anonymous cliques; adherents to a simplistic and thus very charming view of the world.  To them, everything that isn’t far left or collectivist…is fascist, racist or nazi.”

Well, chop me off at the knees and call me shorty!  I had no idea. (Frankly, I think he has me confused with his inbred sister/mama.) Which one is she?  Is she his sister or his mama?  Or is she his sister AND his mama?

Oh, and I’m a “communist and free speech hater.”  (I’m guessing he can’t read….either that or he can’t comprehend what he reads, since I stated that I was a supporter of the first amendment.)

Obviously he is confused and can’t decide exactly what to call me.  Next, I’m a “crazy Marxist brainwashed chick.” Then, I’m a “piece of maggot shit communist.”  Come on, you idiot.  Didn’t you already call me a communist?  Get with the program.  Are you impaired in some other obvious way?  We all know you’re a fucking loser and now we know you’re a fucking redundant loser.

Then, it’s “she would throw you in jail if she could because all speech that she disagrees with would be ‘jailable’ hate speech.”  Um…I can’t respond. I’m laughing too hard.

I’m also a “libtard.”  Did you mean to say I look good in a leotard?

I will say that I am impressed with his extensive vocabulary.  It consists of four or five WHOLE words.

Of course, he mentions that I use a pen name to hide behind and if he knew my true identity he would NEVER say what he said.
Seriously?  You want us to believe that a maggot infested, discarded penis foreskin like you..is sensitive?  Are you fucking kidding me?  I can hardly finish typing this without laughing.

Onward to more about me.  “That is why these people are HILARIOUS TO TROLL. They literally lose their minds like a Jew does with the Heolohoax.”
You fucking idiot.  There is no such word as “healohoax.”  Misspelling that word, shows that you are ignorant in more ways than one.  Go back to school (if they let flea-bitten vermin like you in.)  Learn about history and learn how to spell.

He also calls me a “bimbo” and “Mrs. Herpes.”

You think I’m a bimbo?  Well, bless your heart.  (In case you’re not clever enough to know what that means…look it up…and I don’t mean the bimbo part.)  Given your heritage, you already know what a bimbo is. You just need to learn the art of proper application.

You can keep trolling and you can keep spewing out your hatred…and you can keep being proud of being nothing more than a pile of shit, but you will be blocked every time…after everybody laughs at you.  You might want to hold onto those TWO followers.  I’d bet one of them is you and the other one is obviously your sister/mama.

I do owe him a big thank you, though.  I haven’t laughed so hard in a while. I know there are ignorant people out there but I’m not sure if this guy is hilarious, pathetic or pathetically hilarious.

By the way, Mr. Hitler 88.  When you re-blog someones’ post, you should be a polite little fucker and ask permission…but given what you are, plagiarism doesn’t seem to be above you.

Okay.  Play time’s over.  Tuck your tail between your legs (because I seriously doubt that anything else is long enough) and run along home.

Love,

Laurel

Response From WordPress About the Racist Comment

Before I post the fifteenth and final chapter of “The Ice Pick Killer,” I thought I’d share the response from WordPress, after I contacted them about the racist comment on my blog.


“Thanks for your report. 


The quoted text is included in this post for the purpose of criticism and, as such, is not a violation of our terms of service.

Best,

Emilia L. | Community Guardian | WordPress.com”

The “quote text is included in this post for the purpose of criticism.”  Seriously?

Okay.  Exactly what is Hitler88 “criticizing”?

At no point in the story, do I apply a label as to race, color, religious affiliation or the sexual preference of the characters.

His comment to me, reads as a “suggestion” of what should be done to certain people and certain “friends.”  THAT is not a “criticism.”  That is blatant racism in its purest form and if WordPress does not find this offensive, it baffles me as to their reasoning.

I understand that he is now targeting several readers who commented on my post about him.  Again, by doing that, he just proves what a fucking coward he is.

To those readers, I apologize.  You didn’t deserve to be a victim of this animals’ vomit.

Hatred is a cowards’ revenge for being inadequate.”

 

WARNING – Racist, Incendiary Comment

This is a comment that was left on my blog this morning.

 

Hitler88.com
vikingstrongman.wordpress.comx
vikingdeadlifter@gmail.com
146.185.182.174
This ice pick guy needs to get his shit together and start stabbing niggers. A public service. PS: give your nigger friend Aunt Jemima my best.

To Hitler (aka/vikingstrongman/vikingdeadlifter):

This is not a validation of your pathetic existence nor is my response in any way, an indication that I am dignifying this horrific, sickening comment.

You are an ignorant, racist, scumbag, bottom-feeding, mouth-breathing, low-life, chicken-shit, piece of trash.  I’d be willing to bet that you are a sniveling mamas’ boy coward, trying to use bullying tactics in an effort to hide your inadequacies and most likely, your impotence.

Did your inbred mama by any chance, teach you to put on your panties by saying, “brown spot goes in the back, yellow spot goes in the front?”

A petition should be started, encouraging the castration of vermin like you. That would be a blessing for all of humanity so as to wipe out your vile, disgusting seed forever.

“This ice pick guy?”  How do you know it’s a guy?  It may be…it may not be. One thing is for sure.  The ice pick killer, no matter the gender, needs to find you.

Crawl back under your rock where you belong.

I am not A bitch.

I am THE bitch and you…you belly-crawling maggot… just fucked up.

The Ice Pick Killer – Chapter Fourteen

Slaughter had found a common thread.  Ten murders and all the victims were friends of Pittman.

The reasonable suspect would of course, be Pittman but this wasn’t going to be Occam’s Razor.  The simplest answer wasn’t necessarily going to be the best or the right answer.  That was far too easy.

It was pure speculation and hearsay about what their relationships really were.  If the test of a real man is measured by the way he treats those he has control over, then Pittman had failed miserably and true accounts would have to come from him or the victims.  He had already proven to be less than honorable and the dead don’t talk.

Had there been confrontations over the price of advertising that could have possibly resulted in harsh feelings?  Was Pittman jealous over the meager but nonetheless, obvious success of Ludlow?  Had he harbored ill feelings toward his mother for divorcing his father?  Had somebody told him what Mulder said about him?

Had any or all of these victims at some point, diminished Pittman or assaulted his manhood, as Slaughter had so effectively done?

Some might believe that even with a man like Pittman, those scenarios would seem far-fetched but in Slaughters’ experience, she had seen people murdered for motives far less ridiculous.

Karl Pittman was clearly a psychopathic narcissist but he didn’t strike Slaughter as the type to “get his hands dirty.”  Still, because he thought the majority of people were “children of a lesser God,” there was something about him that led her to believe that murder to him, would be tantamount to swatting a fly.

Could Ellison Caldwell figure somehow figure into the equation?  It was a well known fact that he had a burning hatred for Pittman.  Their rivalry had spanned decades and although neither were still in the business, there’s the old adage, “revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Why didn’t Caldwell kill Pittman?  Killing his friends and mother made no sense and apparently had no impact, given Pittman’s insouciant attitude about the murders.  It was also abundantly clear that the only person who was important to Karl Pittman, was Karl Pittman and of course, his numerous “parasites.”

Could there possibly be another person in the mix, who also had a motive to kill the victims?

While still at the Lounge, Slaughter started reading everything in the files. Something had to be there, maybe hiding in plain sight.  She combed through Burke and Powell’s reports, looking for something…anything that could have been overlooked.

Ten victims.  Page after page of information and interviews.  There had to be a correlation, some connection, other than to Pittman and it had to be somewhere in those files.

Slaughter took the files to her place and spread them out on the floor as if she was trying to piece together a puzzle, which of course, she was.  She sat and stared, drawing mental lines and reading reports of conversations.  The word “unsolved” had never been in her vocabulary and she was determined that it was not going to insinuate itself into her flawless record.

After several hours, she took a break and began to open mail that had accumulated over a period of days.  An envelope with no return address caught her eye.  Inside were three pages that looked to have come from an antique manual Remington typewriter, complete with floating letters that were so common with those ancient machines.

She was mesmerized while reading.  Everything was spelled out in great detail…who, what, where, when and why…and to Slaughter, it made perfect sense.  Although unsigned, she immediately knew who the author was. How had this person been overlooked?  Had it been sloppy detective work? and yes, she included herself in that criticism.

She quickly called Burke.  As soon as he answered, she said “I know who the killer is.”  When he asked her who, she said “meet me at the Lounge and I’ll fill you in.  I think we have cause for celebration.”

Burke said “I’m on my way.  See you in twenty.”

Slaughter had just gotten into her car, when she heard a tapping on the side window.  She leaned forward to lower it, while hiding her right hand as it slipped into her purse and onto her service weapon.

A voice said “I think you’ve been looking for me.”

 

 

To be continued________________

 

 

The Ice Pick Killer – Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, the detectives met in Captain Meade’s office.  Burke gave his report on his visit to the upstate.  “Mulder’s ex-wife and son had air-tight alibis.  I gathered there was no love lost between them and Mulder.  The son thought his father was an asshole for what he did to his mother but said he didn’t want him dead…he just him out of their lives.”

Captain Meade turned to Powell and said “how about that warrant, kiddo?” Powell had a satisfied smile when he said he had obtained a limited warrant.  “That will allow us to search any work product or documentary materials but that’s all.  Due to the Privacy Protection Act of 1980, unless we have reasonable suspicion of possible incriminating evidence or of course, suspicion of child pornography, our hands are tied as far as his computer or phone.”

“So, what we’re likely to find is a bunch of post-it notes with chicken scratch on it,” said Captain Meade.  “Alright, go on over there and start looking.”

“What about you, Slaughter?  What’s on your agenda?”
Slaughter smiled and said “I’m meeting with the inimitable Mr. Pittman. From what I’ve heard about him, I’m sure he’s going to whip it out…and I’m going to point and laugh.”
Captain Meade shook his head and said, “Jesus, Joseph and Mary.”  After he picked up his Bible and cigarettes, he looked at Slaughter and said “remember what I said.  Try to leave him intact.”

Slaughter had arranged to meet Pittman at the Lounge.  When he strolled in, she immediately recognized him.  His swagger was dripping with haughty, high-handed superiority.  She smiled as she wondered to herself, why she wasn’t hearing “hail to the chief.”  As she extended her hand and introduced herself, he gave her a broad smile and said “Karl Pittman.  I understand you want to talk about Stan Mulder.”

Slaughter immediately took the upper hand when she said “yes, but before we talk about him, tell me a little about yourself…which is something I imagine you like to do.”
Pittman was not amused and contemptuously said “I’m retired.”

Slaughter continued stalking her prey when she said “and that’s probably a good thing.”
Before Pittman could respond, she continued.  “I understand you had a sometimes rather rocky relationship with Mr. Mulder.”  Pittman gave his best sneer when he said  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  We were good friends.”
Slaughter said “well, I heard that you butted heads on more than one occasion and I also understand that you and Mr. Mulder shared, shall we say, certain qualities.”

Pittman said, “I don’t know what qualities you’re talking about but I gave him a job after he was fired and then I arranged for him to be elevated to the top position when I retired.  He’d probably be homeless now if it hadn’t been for me.  I saved his ass…and I saved his career.”

“Yes,” Slaughter wryly said.  “I’ve heard you are quite the humanitarian and consider yourself to be a true asset to the community.  I’ve also heard that you have…a rather unsavory past.”
With a snarl, Pittman started to get up and said “okay, I don’t know what you’ve heard but I’m not going to sit here and listen to anymore of your sarcastic bullshit.  We’re through talking.”

Slaughter looked him dead in the eye and said “sit down.  We’re through talking when I say we’re through talking.  So, we can either talk here or we can talk after I haul your ass down to the station.  You choose.”

Pittman sat back down and said “okay.  Just what the fuck have you heard?”
“I’ve heard that you are ruthless, arrogant, volatile, supercilious, self-important, self-centered, self-serving and you treated your associates and employees like they were less than human.  I’ve also heard that you cheated on your wife numerous times.”

Pittmans’ rage was showing when he said “I am not going to discuss my wife with you.”  Slaughter said “funny you would refer to her as your wife.  I understood she divorced you.”

Pittman leaned toward her and said “you know, I don’t much care for your passive-aggressive, ‘queen of the bitches’ approach here.  That kind of shit doesn’t sit well with me.”

Slaughter said “well, you’d better get comfortable because you’re about to care a lot less for it.”

Pittman, struggling with the fact that Slaughter was not going to be intimidated, angrily asked, “what does any of this have to do with Stan?”
“Nothing,” said Slaughter as she smiled.  “I was just trying to determine if you had been accurately portrayed by your colleagues and I will say that I think you were.”

Pittman was seething when he asked which colleagues she was referring to. She ignored him as she said “okay.  Moving on.  Do you know of anybody who would have wanted to kill Mr. Mulder?”
“No,” was the succinct, abrupt answer from Pittman.  “And if you think I had anything to do with it, you’re wrong.”

Slaughter said “okay.  It’s been established that you knew Mr. Mulder but tell me this.  Did you know Marvin Jackson?”
“Yes.”
Slaughter was momentarily taken aback.  “How did you know him?  Was he a friend?”
“Yes.  He was a friend and he advertised in my paper.”
“How about George and Lisa Moore.  Friends?”  asked Slaughter.
“Yes.  We were friends.  George advertised in my paper, too.”
“And David Ludlow?  Did you know him?”
“Yes.  He came to several of my journalism seminars.  He fancied himself a writer, heard about me and sought out my expertise.”

Slaughter briefly suspended the questions and asked “you knew all of these people.  They were your friends.  Did it never occur to you to wonder why these people…these people you knew…these people who were your friends…were being systematically murdered?  I mean, these murders were not random and they were not without motive.”

“Never gave it much thought,” said Pittman.
Slaughter said, “I’m sure of that but did you ever wonder if you might be next?  I’ve heard that you are the most hated man who has ever been in the profession and I’ve heard you had enemies.”

“I’m not worried about it,” said Pittman.
“Because you’re so important?” asked Slaughter.
Pittman responded with a sarcastic “yeah.  Because I’m so important.”
Slaughter couldn’t help herself when she said “and that’s why you retired from a small town, no-name newspaper…the only newspaper that would give you a job after you were fired from the newspaper in the upstate?”
Pittman looked at her and said “you’re a real piece of work, you know it?”
“Thank you,” said Slaughter.

She continued as she asked if he knew Østergaard.
“Yes.  He sold the computer system to the paper where I worked at the time and yes, we were friends.”
“How about Mrs. Forney?”
“Yes.  She was my mother.”
“She was your mother?  And she had a different last name?”
“Yeah.  She and my daddy were divorced and she took back her maiden name.  You got a problem with that?”
“Not at all,” Slaughter said.  “If he was anything like you, I can certainly understand her reasoning.  Tell me something.  Were your parents by any chance brother and sister?”

Pittman was outraged by her remark and smirked when he said in his slow, Southern drawl, “now you tell me something, sweetheart.  Do you have penis envy?
Slaughter smiled as she looked at him and said “no.  Do you?”

Pittman drew every eye in the Lounge when he raised his voice and said “fuck you.”

Slaughter, laughing loudly said “fuck me?  Who are you trying to kid?  You probably can’t fuck anybody without the help of some little blue pills and I’d be willing to bet that before you needed them, you were about as satisfying as a leg cramp.”

She had just done to Pittman what she had been told he spent his entire career doing to other people.  She had systematically and publicly eviscerated him and now she was laughing while he left a trail of blood as he quickly stormed out of the Lounge, screaming “if you have any more questions for me, call my fucking lawyer.”

 

 

To be continued__________________________