Tramps.

Chapter One.

WARNING: This story contains foul language, sex, drugs, and extreme violence. In other words, its fucking cool. Many people in this are real people, but Mr. Robert Tate is not one of them. Thank you.

1957.

The women laughed and clinked glasses. They sat themselves down on the bar stools and crossed their ankles as the bartender refilled their martini glasses. The bar was dimly lit and other men and woman sat around them, sipping at their drinks quietly. The woman sipped at their martini’s, smiling at one another. They were friends.

            “My dear, that’s a funny story. Did the Robert stand back up after his fall?” asked Mrs. Rutherford. She giggled, feeling light and soft from the alcohol. Mrs. Rutherfords light brown hair was pinned back into a short bob. The bar's low lighting made her fair skin and light brown eyes shine. Her friend who sat across from her, Mrs. Tate, raised her glass in her right hand and waved her left up in the air. The women were feeling lucky and free. How far from the truth.

            “Well, what would you do? He got up, with my helping hand of course, and finished talking to the ambassador.” Mrs. Rutherford leaned forward, laughing too much to stay still, and grabbed Mrs. Tate’s hand lightly. Mrs. Tate chuckled as well and downed the rest of her drink. Mrs. Tate had black hair that was pinned back like Mrs. Rutherfords. Her eyes were a venomous green and her lips a cherry red. She could have been mistaken for Snow White.

            “I can’t even imagine! The ambassador of India? What must he of thought?” Mrs. Rutherford giggled. Mrs. Tate turned to the bar tender, and tapped the bottom of her drink. The man smiled, came over to her glass and filled it to the brim. Mrs. Tate shakily took the glass in her hand and sipped it. She wasn’t as much of a fan of martinis rather than how she looked when drinking out of one. Sexy. Intelligent. Mysterious.

            Sophisticated.

            Just then, the women’s husbands came over to the bar. Mrs. Rutherford’s husband, William, pecked her on the cheek and called the bartender over to order a glass of scotch. Mrs. Tate’s husband, Robert, ordered the same and rubbed his wife’s back. Mrs. Tate loved Robert.

            Marjorie Estelle became Marjorie Robert Tate on 1954, April 23rd. They had met while she was interning at his law firm. He had a beautiful smile, she had a nice behind. They were both intelligent. It was true love, and everyone around them agreed. Perfect.

            “What have you ladies been up to while we were out?” Mr. Tate piped up, thanking the bartender for his drink before taking a long sip out of it. Mr. Tate was a tall man with a strong build. He was very handsome man, something Mrs. Tate took pride in. He smiled to Mrs. Rutherford.

            “Not shoes, I hope. Money doesn’t grow on trees!” Mr. Rutherford said. Mr. Rutherford was short and pudgy. The group laughed. The bartender remained silent.

            Quite the contrary, Mr. Rutherford. Money had never been a problem for either couple. Mr. Tate’s father had owned a large oil plant in Texas. After his parents had both died, the money was left to their only son. Him. Mr. Tate would have a meeting or an appearance in China, a place Mrs. Tate simply detested, so she would go off to Spain or France to enjoy some shopping. She didn’t care for Mr. Tate’s work, other than the money it brought them. And that it made him happy, of course. Something she doubted. Mr. Rutherford was Mr. Tate's political advisor.

            “Well we did walk around for a bit, but we ended up just having drinks here.” Mrs. Rutherford told Mr. Tate.

            “Cheryl, you know that is not entirely true. I did buy something.” Mrs. Estelle gushes, looking up at Mr. Tate mischievously.