At that moment Roberta Jean Richardson was sitting on a barstool in THE GOLDEN GREEK'S BAR AND GRILL AND BOWLING LANES, a beer and shots joint on the southern-most edge of Painted Post, Pennsylvania.

Roberta Jean Richardson was a tall woman, standing close to five feet ten inches. She was a blonde bombshell, with all of her curves in the right places. Roberta Jean, as they say, was broad where a broad was supposed to be broad. She was an Amazon woman, tougher than most of the men in town, yet her face and her body were achingly beautiful. Her muscles, though well-toned and somewhat bulky, were not the slightest bit unattractive.

It was obvious to everyone who looked at Roberta Jean that she had put in a lot of work at the local spa to keep herself in fine shape.

She had grown up with a domineering father and a drunken mother.

She had learned how to fight early – since she had nothing but older brothers, and it was a skill that had gotten her in a hell of a lot of trouble during the twenty years she had been on the earth. Her tits were huge.

She had a chip on her shoulder, mostly because of the merciless teasing she had received from the other kids in grammar school and high school because of her mother's constantly inebriated state.

The teasing had stopped once Roberta Jean started kicking ass. The trouble was that Roberta Jean Richardson did not know when to keep her fists to herself.

It seemed that she was always starting a fight and there was more than one member of the community that thought it was pretty Goddamned amazing that Roberta Jean Richardson had never spent time in prison.