THREE
Standing in front of her dressing table, toweling dry after a long relax in scented bathwater, Betsy Milton-Stewart relished her post-coitus feeling of fulfillment.
She'd been well-filled without doubt, as Kenny McBride was a very developed man.
She grinned thinking that if she were to have a permanently stretched mouth and vagina, she'd rather fancy carrying his stretch marks as souvenirs of their rather hot sessions. That reminded her, the bed base needed strengthening.
"Perhaps I'd better replace it with a steel reinforced base," she said aloud. "Now that's not the thought a nice lady should have, is it dear?"
Then, almost as if her life had braked to slow motion, Betsy's gaze fixed on her left breast, the chill of a possible breast cancer scare hitting her belly. She pulled up the somewhat heavy mass and stepped in closer to the mirror for a careful inspection.
Seconds later Betsy was grinning, and muttering "You bastard, Kenny."
What had scared her momentarily were his teeth marks!
Brushing her hair Betsy worked out her schedule for the day: Financially ruin a fucking Kennedy or two if the opportunity arises; send a big bouquet of flowers and a thank you card to Kenny's mother for being so supportive and go into the newspaper and find ass to kick.
The Sentinel looked lousy, it's content was average to put it politely and company profitability had been falling, so kick some ass right out of the door seemed a suitable option. But she modified that rush of adrenalin, conceding she should await the McBrides' recommendations before doing anything extreme.
Betsy wondered what Kenny was doing right now. Probably having mummy fill him up with oat porridge and re-fried beans to boost energy and give his drained balls the message that relief is on the way.
Kenny had been heroic in getting her car back from the Kennedy gang. But she she'd well-rewarded him – Christ she was having difficulty walking!
Pouring a coffee with a touch of milk and chewing a piece of lightly toasted bread smeared with the faintest trace of oil-based spread, Betsy called Dirk Hamilton, managing-editor of The Sentinel, a fat slob but a very talented journalist. Dirk was married to Mary who was equally fat and worst still was related to the Kenney's; though luckily for Dirk's future on the newspaper, the relationship was fairly remote – second cousins.
"Good morning, Dirk. It's Betsy, nice to find you at work instead of out fishing."
"It's a joke, Dirk. I know you are conscientious and I know you work hard. Yes, and long hours. Yes, and for fuck all. Still playing the old record Dirk, though I suppose these days I should refer to it as a CD.
"Listen, I want a meeting with the company's top ten – and only ten mind you – executives at ten this morning."
Betsy listened to a tirade.
"I know that it's you editorial conference time but 10:00 happens to be convenient for me, Dirk. So reschedule your bloody conference.
"I'm not being abusive Dirk, I just trying to talk in a language you journalists understand. If you get everyone seated and quiet when I walk in on the dot at 10:00, I promise to terminate the meeting fifteen minutes later.
"I know women are always late for appointments Dirk, but they do that because they feel the need to try to hold some power over men. I don't need to do that, do I Dirk? Even supremo jurno Dirk knows that now I am the boss and hold the power. But I won't abuse it, Dirk, at least not with loyal staff. And just to prove I still like you, lose twenty pounds and I'll be really nice to you just like I used to be when you first came on to daddy's newspaper almost eleven years ago.
"How can I remember that so precisely? Oh, I remember men who are exceedingly able with their bodies, Dirk and you were up there with the best.
"Why thank you, Dirk. What a charming thing to say to a lady first thing in the morning.
"Bye."
Betsy knew she'd trust fat man with her life, as his heart and mind had not changed. He needed a rev up as fat people tend to be lazy because too much of their energy goes into mass maintenance. She'd rattle some stones this morning and some of the problem people might evacuate.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our chairman of the board, Mrs Betsy Milton-Stewart."
"Thank you, Dirk. I'm just Betsy to everyone here. I'd like to thank everyone for supporting my late husband Royce during his time with this company. The Sentinel, sad to say, had gone downhill. I want it rejuvenated which calls for a new approach, and this is the introduction of things to come. The board has to provide more resources – I can say categorically our funding crisis is over, that finance is available to sweep with a new broom.
"Some sub-performers will go, even if they are senior executives. A strategic plan is being prepared and a management plan will be implemented with your assistance. I'm rushing this through so there won't be weeks of consultation with you, just quick meetings to harmonize on key issues. I want the Sentinel back where it was in my father's day, or near as possible as I know other media provide competition my father didn't face.
"Any questions?
"We share your loss, Betsy. I for one would like to see The Sentinel regain community respect."
"Thank you Allan, well said."
"What's the timetable?"
"Don't know yet, Ross. Everyone will be advised before the end of this month, I hope."
"Heads will roll you say. Does that include mine?"
"Loyal and effective contributors have nothing to fear, Dirk. We will have to recruit if we start up our own TV station."
"May I quote you on that, Betsy?"
"Yes, Lee-Anne, but attribute nothing in your column to us. Just quote it as a strong rumor that the Kennedy's station KENTV88 may be getting local competition from a new TV station linked to The Sentinel."
That created a buzz and Betsy said that's all she had to say and walked out. Passing Dirk she said, "Buy me lunch at 1:00 Dirk."
"That's prime production time and when I'm preparing to coordinate the handing over to the shift working the morning editions, Betsy."
"I know, but thought you might like to be confidentially briefed."
"I'll be waiting at the front door at 1:00 Betsy."
Betsy called a cab and Mike Street, her late husband's buddy, took the fare.
"Hi, Betsy, I heard about last night's explosion. I'll read about it in The Sentinel this afternoon with interest."
"No you won't be reading a word; I've issued instructions that I want no mention about the Kennedys in our news columns. They can continue advertising if they wish, as to deny them would land us in court over claimed damages and elsewhere in battles over ethical issues. This is war."
"The way to go, Betsy. Half the town will get behind you, believe you me."
"Why should I believe you, Mike?" she laughed. "Your hunk Kenny isn't the only one who's been in the forces."
