Roberta Jean's jeans were so tight that they had to be peeled on and off. The muscular and super tough blonde bombshell's jeans were so tight that they looked as if they had been applied with a can of dark blue spray paint.

They were not designer jeans, but cheaper imitations of the same.

Roberta Jean did not have money for fancy clothes. She had been born poor and she had stayed poor. Roberta Jean Richardson was hardly a little girl who had been born with the silver spoon in her mouth.

The spoon in Roberta Jean's mouth had been copper – and reeking of poverty. Roberta Jean Richardson was poor white trash.

"You feeling okay?" The blonde bombshell's heavily tattooed buddy asked, leaning toward the blonde a bit as she spoke. Joey served up the beers and took the money out of the pile that had already accumulated in front of the pair of tough broads on the bar.

Joey pretended not to listen as he served the drinks.

But the tops of the bartender's ears were burning, and he couldn't help himself. He had to listen.

"Take a hike," Bertha said.

"I'd rather kill you than look at you," Klemmer said to the bartender, and he quickly retreated.

"Yeah, I feel okay. Why wouldn't I feel okay?" Roberta Jean said.

"I thought maybe you were still upset about Harv…"

"Shit! I don't fucking want to talk about him, Bertha!"

"Right."

"That motherfucker is going to pay one day," Roberta Jean Richardson said, hammering a clenched fist onto the bar so hard that it made the head of her beer spill over the side and roll down the glass.

"Easy."

"I have never been so mother-fucking humiliated in all my mother-fucking life," Roberta Jean Richardson said.

"You're getting loud," Bertha Klemmer said in a soothing tone.