The ashtray was a porkchop.
Probably two bites out of the porkchop, with ashes on the desk in the mouth shaped half circle that was one of the bites.
The porkchop was good three days ago.
Might have been starting to smell, but Camels had stomped all over whatever olfactory sense left behind after the typhoon of cocaine that had a few decade long seasons in Burt Royster’s life.
He didn’t know where Chantelle was.
She had cooked the pork chop three days ago, then left.
Burt called to ask where she was going before she could have possibly gotten to her car, but she didn’t answer.
She didn’t answer the subsequent forty plus phone calls.
Her voice mailbox was full. Burt had filled it.
His second message was: “I assume the store. Get me Twinkies and Squirt.”
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