BETTY

Betty’s hopped up on Ritalin. Her long breasts alive inside her teal turtleneck, dog-snout nipples erect. The pill box is embossed with grapes, a gift from the old man. She tosses it out the window, maybe he’ll die today. The Ritalin is prescribed for one of her step-grandsons, only he doesn’t know it. Nor do his parents.
Betty likes pills. She wants her reality enhanced and the Ritalin does this, it also helps balance the sedative effects of the alcohol she drinks every fucking minute of the day. Betty’s a functional alcoholic, no one knows her not drunk, even her husband.
I kill a bitch she said to herself, and she had. She’d shot Roxy, the crazy beach whore who had invaded the gallery. Shot her execution style right in front of the boys.
She knew she wouldn’t get arrested for it, those boys had her back. She had to kill someone and better it wasn’t her meal ticket, her husband, or her meal tickets meal ticket, Madonna. She would go down for that, a long time, but what fun it would be.