***Hello Everyone! I decided to write a vuglar-ish comedy to balance all the other fictions I've got going. I tried not too start another one but this one kept nagging at me saying: wriiiite meee. So I had to. I hope you like it. It's a bit fast and there's a lot of cussing and it will later feature sexual themes and situations. (Hence the R rating) But I still hope you like it and if you don't I will stop writing it and crawl under a rock and die! Joke, but I will stop. Well here's the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. ^_^***

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Listen little boy: I’M MARLO FUCKING HANSEN. DAUGHTER OF WILLIAM GRANT HANSEN AND WHEN I SAY NOW I MEAN IT. AND WHEN I SAY I WANT IT I GET IT AND WHEN I FUCKING SAY THAT I DON’T WANT FUCKING TOMATOES ON MY FUCKING CESAR SALAD I GOD-THE-MOTHERFUCKING DON’T WANT THEM!!!!”

Nina glanced wearily in my direction. “Marlo’s having one of her seizures again, and over tomatoes? Oh god if she brings her dad up one more time I’m going to puke all over my Armani suit.”

I snickered, swirling my flute, watching my noon-time martini splash out onto the very expensive silk table cloth. I didn’t care; I was done with it anyway. Frankly, after you eat the olive the entire drink goes down in value in my book.

“Marlo calm the fuck down already. He’s a new waiter for Christ’s sake.” I whispered, almost too loudly. The martini must have gotten to my head already. Marlo glared across the quaintly round table, her very blue eyes looking directly into mine. I rolled my head back in response to her glower. She swears like she can scare me with that “I’m Marlo Hansen” look. My father is just as powerful as hers.

“She’s right. Quit being a bitch already Marlo, it’s freaking one in the afternoon, it’s too early for this shit,” Nina chimed in her usual monotone voice. Nina had to be one of the iciest people I have ever met. She can be a real mean broad, I’m so glad she’s one of my best friends.

I tilted my head back to avoid the glare of the sun as I peered at the frightened waiter. Poor boy. He had to be what? At least eighteen? Nineteen? Marlo’s probably scared the poor little bastard for life with her wild temper. Willy has spoiled that girl to no end. He’s ruined her for society. Sure guys fucked her; I mean she’s a gorgeous blond. She was the definition of a California beach girl. But she’s also a bitch. Such a bitch. I cannot stress this enough.

Marlo settled back into her chair in a loud unsatisfied huff. The poor (and might I add yummy) waiter stood there frozen, his hand glued to the plate of Cesar salad with the evil tomatoesneatly sprinkled along the top. It was actually a nice little design they had going there. The color scheme of red against the romaine lettuce: very Martha Stewart. It’s too bad they didn’t speak Marlo. If they had, they would of known that “no red thingies,” meant: no tomatoes please, otherwise I’m going to chew your head off until you wished you were dead and you cursed the day your mother spread her legs for your horny daddy cuz now I’m sitting here humiliating you and I’m not going to stop until everyone is looking or you've peed in your pants in fear. Yes the longest sentence in history, and look, I didn’t even need to take a breath to say it. Yay me.

Marlo snatched the plate out of the waiter’s, practically trembling, hand. I felt so bad for the guy, I mean, wow—why did they send the green one to us anyway? Marlo must have scared all of our usual waiter’s away. A fifty dollar tip couldn't even bring them near us. Great, now we needed to find a new place to lunch.

Nina peered down at her platinum, diamond studded wrist watch (especially designed by Jacob. Yes you all know who Jacob the Jeweler is. No? Oh you guys or so out of my life.) “Ladies, it’s almost two now. Lunch is so over. I’m done. Let’s go.”

I clicked my manicured fingers to hail the waiter back over to our table. He approached so cautiously I almost had one of my own Alicia Polanski fits. I pulled my platinum express card out of my outdated black designer Louie Vuitton handbag and handed it to him, a polite smile adorning my face. “Charge the table please and hurry. Tip whatever you want. Double damage for the tomato fiasco.”

The waiter smiled appreciatively as he headed back to ring the bill.

“So what’s everyone doing today?” Marlo asked, trying to sound like she hadn’t lost (for once). Nina looked down at the table cloth and began to scratch at it with her pink-tinted nails.

“I have to go to dinner with the Thompson’s again. I swear those people are like the most vindictive ever.”

“I know, I totally hate Beth!” Marlo chimed as she ran her tanned fingers through her platinum blond tresses. “She always goes after the guys I want.”

“Honey, that’s because the guys you want already belong to her. Get your story straight.” I interposed, eliciting a giggle from Nina.

“She’s right you know,” Nina replied. “You’re just a man stealing slut.”

“I am not,” Marlo came to her own defense, “I’m not a slut. I don’t do anything for free.

Nina and I both laughed at that comment. At least Marlo was owning up to the title she had earned in high school.

“Excuse me, Ms. Polanski,” the waiter politely interrupted from my side. I gracefully turned to peer up at him, raising my hand to protect my eyes from the sun’s unrelenting glare. Why can’t it be five already so the sun can go away?

“Yes,” I casually replied.

“Your card was declined.”

I sat up, easing myself closer to the waiter. “What?”

“I said: your card was declined.”

Nina and Marlo turned, their conversation interrupted as I stood to face the waiter, who was only a little taller than me. Someone hold me back.

“WHAT?!”

He cleared his throat nervously.

“Honey I got this one.” Nina interposed as she pulled her platinum whatever (by this time I’m too mad to be more descriptive) out of her Gucci bag. “Here,” Nina purred as she handed her card to the very confused waiter. “It’s on daddy.”

*****

I burst into my daddy’s townhouse in a blind rage. I knew this is where he spent most of his weekends. He brings his whores here; no sluts in L.A. (No one does anyone for free here). He and my mother have this back and forth thing going on. I suppose it’s kind of like the army’s “Don’t ask, Don’t tell,” rule. You ‘don’t ask’ daddy why there’s lipstick on his shirt collar and women’s thongs in his Lexus’ glove compartment and he ‘won’t tell’ you. Very great communication lines in my family.

“DADDY!” I yelled at the top of my lungs as I headed upstairs toward the master bedroom located on the second-story of the three-story townhouse. I push the double doors open to see my father: Mr. Leonardo Jordan Polanski, screwing some waitress or secretary. Catching your parents having sex is like your worst nightmare right? Well, imagine catching them doing ‘it’ at the tender age of six and with different people. Yeah. Gross. My parents never do ‘it’ with each other. No. That’s just crazy talk.

The bimbo pulled herself off of my father and slid down under the sheets of his very expensive king-sized bed. My dad pulled on his silk boxer shorts (yes in front of me, but I looked away as he did it) and took a seat on the lush arm-chair located in the corner of the room. This is his ‘you want to talk? Come sit next to me,’ indicator.

I marched over to my father, I’m flaming mad as he lazily sat in the leather arm chair, his fleshy body spilling over the rim of his boxers. I’m about ready to launch into him but as I part my lips to speak his voice suddenly stirs my attention.

“This is about your credit card right.”

I glare down at him. He knew about this? He knew?

“So are we having some kind of family crisis or are you just being an ass?”

He sighed and he scratched his, nearly bald, head.

“I’m not being an ass, I’m being realistic.”

“Realistic about what?!” I demanded to know as I shifted my weight over to one leg. Daddy heaved another sigh and rubbed the stubble on his chin.

“Your mother and I are in the process of getting a divorce--”

“YOU ARE?! No you’re not!! When was this decided this morning? How come I wasn’t informed of this?!!”

Daddy sighed for the third and most dramatic time. “We did tell you, months ago. You were just caught up in your own life to hear us.”

Totally stunned, I dropped down into the matching arm chair directly in front of my dad, for once, I was speechless.

“You’re twenty-two honey. You’ve dropped out of college, barely finished high school and you’ve never had a job in your entire life. All you’ve ever done is party, spend your parent’s money and do whatever you want.”

And? Your point?

“And we let you. It’s our fault you’re like this. But no more.”

What?

“Your mother and I, since going through this divorce, have grown up a little. Yes, even parent’s can grow up. And we realized that we spoil all of you too much. You, Michael, Tristan, and Annabelle, all you kids are spoiled rotten. But your brother’s and your sister is still in school. Michael the second oldest of you four and he just started high school.”

“What’s your point daddy.”

“My point is, your being cut off.”

I stood so forcefully that the leather armchair fell on its side.

“YOU'RE--I'M WHAT?!”

“Not completely. I’ve given you some money to help start you off. But I want to—we both—want to see you try it on your own. You need to set an example for your siblings. We want them to take school and life seriously; they’re not going to do it unless you do it first. They’ve always followed your lead.”

He had a point.

“This is outrageously unfair!! Why now?! All of a sudden?! Why was I not given a warning or anything?!”

“Honey, we told you about this. We’ve hinted about you moving out and getting a job but we've always gotten the brush off. It’s not that we don’t tell you anything, it’s that you never listen.”

I was speechless again and again: my legs gave out from under me. But this time my body collapsed to the ground as I fought back tears I would never admit to. This was happening way too fast and this twisted punishment for being the semi-spoiled daughter of a wealthy businessman was entirely too dramatic. He’s got to be kidding me. Right?

“Are you serious about this?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Where’s mommy. I want to ask her.”

“Mommy’s left for Venice. She didn’t want to be here when I cut off your cards. We knew it’d be ugly.”

“So can I go home?”

“Only to pack you things; I’ve opened an account for you and deposited a little money into your savings.”

My life, as I knew it, was over. Any other person getting this type of news would die of complete and utter shock. But I’m a resilient girl. I’m strong and tough. And dammit no man, not even my father, is gonna break my spirit!

“Can I at least keep my cell phone?”

“Only if you’re going to pay for it yourself.”

Okay, well, that may have cracked me a little.