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Burke Basile is a cop with nothing left to lose. Haunted by his partner's death, his marriage and his career over, he focuses on his nemesis, Pinkie Duvall, a flamboyant attorney who helps killers evade justice. Burke's shocking revenge centers around kidnapping Remy, the lawyer's trophy wife. But Burke hasn't planned on the electric attraction he'll feel for this desperate woman, who rose from the slums of New Orleans to marry a man she can never love. Nor can he predict the fierce duel that will explode as the ...
Burke Basile is a cop with nothing left to lose. Haunted by his partner's death, his marriage and his career over, he focuses on his nemesis, Pinkie Duvall, a flamboyant attorney who helps killers evade justice. Burke's shocking revenge centers around kidnapping Remy, the lawyer's trophy wife. But Burke hasn't planned on the electric attraction he'll feel for this desperate woman, who rose from the slums of New Orleans to marry a man she can never love. Nor can he predict the fierce duel that will explode as the clock ticks toward midnight on Fat Tuesday, when all masks will be stripped away—and Burke must confront his own terrifying secret.
Burke Basile is a rare commodity in present-day New Orleans—an honest cop—and when his partner (and closest friend) Kevin Stuart dies during an investigation, his life falls apart. In rapid succession, he leaves his wife Barbara (with whom he's never really been in love), quits his job at the NOPD, and vows to seek revenge on the man he blames for Kevin's death: prominent defense attorney/crime-lord Pinkie Duvall. Basile decides that the surest way to get at Pinkie, who's probably the best connected, most protected hard-core criminal in the Big Easy, is through his beautiful wife Remy, whom Pinkie rescued from a life of squalor and poverty and transformed into his own private plaything. But behind the facade, Remy has a mind of her own and a reason for tolerating her husband: As long as she's with him, she can care for the only person she's ever loved, her younger sister Flarra. After a crazy hoax—involving a child molester named Gregory who owes Basile a favor—Basile ends up in hiding with Remy, whom he's kidnapped, at his secluded, rustic cottage. Meanwhile, back in the city, Pinkie and his stooge Wayne Bardo are on a rampage, determined to find Basile and Remy and, now that Remy's been "tainted" by her association—even against her will—with another man, to kill them both. In isolation, Basile and Remy find that they have a lot more in common than a hatred of Pinkie, and by the time the situation comes to its inevitable conclusion, plenty of heads have rolled.
No surprises here, but Brown's readers will find this Mardi Gras extravaganza more than satisfying.
"He'll walk." Burke Basile extended the fingers of his right hand, then formed a tight fist. This flexing motion had recently become an involuntary habit. "There's not a chance in hell they'll convict."
Captain Douglas Patout, commander of Narcotics and Vice of the New Orleans Police Department, sighed discouragingly. "Maybe."
"Not 'maybe.' He'll walk," Burke repeated with resolve.
After a moment, Patout asked, "Why did Littrell assign this particular assistant to prosecute this case? He's a newcomer, been living down here only a few months, a transplant from up north. Wisconsin or someplace. He didn't understand the ... the nuances of this trial."
Burke, who'd been staring out the window, turned back into the room. "Pinkie Duvall understood them well enough."
"That golden-tongued son of a bitch. He loves nothing better than to hammer the NOPD and make us all look incompetent."
Although it pained him to compliment the defense lawyer, Burke said, "You gotta hand it to him, Doug, his closing argument was brilliant. It was blatantly anti-cop, but just as blatantly pro-justice. All twelve jurors were creaming on every word." He checked his wristwatch. "They've been out thirty minutes. I predict another ten or so ought to do it."
"You really think it'll be that quick?"
"Yeah, I do." Burke took a seat in a scarred wooden armchair. "When you get right down to it, we never stood a prayer. No matter who in the D.A.'s office tried the case, or how much fancy legal footwork was done on either side, the sad fact remains that Wayne Bardo did not pull the trigger. He did not fire the bullet that killed Kev."
"I wish I had a nickel for every time Pinkie Duvall said that during the trial," Patout remarked sourly. " 'My client did not fire the fatal bullet.' He chanted it like a monk."
"Unfortunately, it's the truth."
They'd tramped this ground at least ten thousand times--ruminating, speculating, but always returning to that one irreversible, unarguable, unpalatable certainty: The accused on trial, Wayne Bardo, technically had not shot to death Detective Sergeant Kevin Stuart.
Burke Basile wearily massaged his shadowed eye sockets, pushed back his unkempt wavy hair, smoothed down his mustache, then restlessly rubbed his palms against the tops of his thighs. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. Finally, he set his elbows on his knees and stared vacantly at the floor, his shoulders dejectedly hunched forward.
Patout observed him critically. "You look like hell. Why don't you go out and have a cigarette?"
Burke shook his head.
"Coffee? I'll go get it for you, bring it back so you don't have to face the media."
"No, but thanks."
Patout sat down in the chair next to Burke's. "Let's not write it off as a defeat yet. Juries are tricky. You think you've got some bastard nailed, he leaves the courthouse a free man. You're practically assured an acquittal, they bring in a guilty verdict, and the judge opts for the maximum sentence. You never can tell."
"I can tell," Burke said with stubborn resignation. "Bardo will walk."
For a time, neither said anything to break the heavy silence. Then Patout said, "Today's the anniversary of the Constitution of Mexico."
Burke looked up. "Pardon?"
"The Mexican Constitution. It was adopted on February 5. I noticed it on my desk calendar this morning."
"Didn't say how many years ago. Couple of hundred, I guess."
That conversation exhausted, they fell silent again, each lost in his thoughts. Burke was trying to figure out how he was going to handle himself the first few seconds after the verdict was read.
From the start he'd known that there would be a trial. Pinkie Duvall wasn't about to plea-bargain what he considered to be a shoo-in acquittal for his client. Burke had also known what the outcome of the trial would be. Now that the moment of truth was--if his prediction proved correct--approaching, he geared himself up to combat the rage he knew he would experience when he watched Bardo leave the courthouse unscathed.
God help him from killing the bastard with his bare hands.
A large, noisy housefly, out of season and stoned on insecticide, had somehow found its way into this small room in the Orleans Parish courthouse, where countless other prosecutors and defendants had sweated anxiously while awaiting a jury's verdict. Desperate to escape, the fly was making suicidal little pflats against the windowpane. The poor dumb fly didn't know when he was beaten. He didn't realize he only looked a fool for his vain attempts, no matter how valiant they were.
Burke snuffled a self-deprecating laugh. Because he could identify with the futility of a housefly, he knew he'd hit rock bottom.
When the knock came, he and Patout glanced first at each other, then toward the door, which a bailiff opened. She poked her head inside. "They're back."
As they moved toward the door, Patout checked the time, murmuring, "Son of a gun. Ten minutes." He looked at Burke. "How'd you do that?"
But Burke wasn't listening. His concentration was focused on the open doors of the courtroom at the end of the corridor. Spectators and media streamed through the portal with the excitement of Romans at the Colosseum about to witness the spectacle of martyrs being devoured by lions.
Kevin Stuart, husband, father, damn good cop, and best friend, had been martyred. Like many martyrs throughout history, his death was the result of betrayal. Someone Kev trusted, someone who was supposed to be on his side, furthering his cause, backing him up, had turned traitor. Another cop had tipped the bad guys that the good guys were on the way.
One secret phone call from someone within the division, and Kevin Stuart's fate had been sealed. True, he'd been killed in the line of duty, but that didn't make him any less dead. He'd died needlessly. He'd died bloody. This trial was merely the mopping up. This trial was the costly and time-consuming exercise a civilized society went through to put a good face on letting a scumbag go free after ending the life of a fine man.
Jury selection had taken two weeks. From the outset, the prosecutor had been intimidated and outsmarted by the defense attorney, the flamboyant Pinkie Duvall, who had exercised all his preemptory challenges, handpicking a perfect jury for his client with hardly any argument from the opposition.
The trial itself had lasted only four days. But its brevity was disproportionate to the interest in its outcome. There'd been no shortage of predictions.
The morning following the fatal incident, the chief of police was quoted as saying, "Every officer on the force feels the loss and is taking it personally. Kevin Stuart was well respected and well liked among his fellow policemen. We're using all the resources available to us to conduct a complete and thorough investigation into the shooting death of this distinguished officer."
"It should be an open-and-shut case," one pundit had editorialized in the Times Picayune the day the trial commenced. "An egregious mistake on the part of the NOPD has left one of its own dead. Tragic? Definitely. But justification to pin the blame on an innocent scapegoat? This writer thinks not."
"The D.A. is squandering taxpayers' money by forcing an innocent citizen to stand trial for a trumped-up charge, one designed to spare the New Orleans Police Department the public humiliation that it deserves over this incident. Voters would do well to take into account this farce when District Attorney Littrell comes up for reelection." This quote was from Pinkie Duvall, whose "innocent citizen" client, Wayne Bardo, ne Bardeaux, had a list of prior arrests as long as the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway.
Pinkie Duvall's involvement in any court case guaranteed extensive media coverage. Everyone in public service, every elected official, wanted to hitch a ride on the bandwagon of free publicity and had used the Bardo trial as a forum for his or her particular platform, whatever that might be. Unsolicited opinions were as lavishly strewn about as colored beads during Mardi Gras.
By contrast, since the night of Kev Stuart's death, Lieutenant Burke Basile had maintained a stubborn, contemptuous silence. During the pretrial hearings, through all the motions filed with the court by both sides, amid the frenzied hype created by the media, nothing quotable had been attributed to the taciturn narcotics officer whose partner and best friend had died from a gunshot wound that night when a drug bust went awry.
Now, as he tried to reenter the courtroom to hear the verdict, in response to the reporter who shoved a microphone into his face and asked if he had anything to say, Burke Basile's succinct reply was, "Yeah. Fuck off."
Captain Patout, recognized by reporters as someone in authority, was detained as he tried to follow Burke into the courtroom. Patout's statements were considerably more diplomatic than those of his subordinate, but he stated unequivocally that Wayne Bardo was responsible for Stuart's death and that justice would be served only if the jury returned a guilty verdict.
Burke was already seated when Patout rejoined him. "This can't be easy for Nanci," he remarked as he sat down.
Kev Stuart's widow was seated in the same row as they, but across the center aisle. She was flanked by her parents. Leaning forward slightly, Burke caught her eye and gave her a nod of encouragement. Her return smile was weak, suggesting no more optimism than he felt.
Patout waved to her in greeting. "On the other hand, she's a trouper."
"Yeah, when her husband's gunned down in cold blood, you can count on Nanci to rise to the occasion."
Patout frowned at Basile's sarcasm. "That was an unnecessary crack. You know what I meant." Burke said nothing. After a moment, with forced casualness, Patout asked, "Will Barbara be here?"
"I thought she might come to lend you moral support if this doesn't go our way."
Burke didn't wish to expound on why his wife chose not to attend the proceedings. He said simply, "She told me to call her soon as I know."
Vastly different moods emanated from the camps of the opposing sides. Burke shared Patout's estimation that the assistant D.A. had done a poor job of prosecuting the case. After lamely limping through it, he now was seated at his table, bouncing the eraser end of a pencil off a blank legal tablet on which was jotted not a single notation. He was nervously jiggling his left leg, and looking like he'd rather be doing just about anything else, including having a root canal.
While at the defense table, Bardo and Duvall seemed to be sharing a whispered joke. Both were chuckling behind their hands. Burke would be hard pressed to say which he loathed more--the career criminal or his equally criminal attorney.
When Duvall was distracted by an assistant from his office and turned away to scan a sheaf of legal documents, Bardo leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and gazed ceilingward. Burke seriously doubted the son of a bitch was praying.
As though he'd been beckoned by Burke's hard stare, Bardo turned his head. Connecting with Burke's gaze were flinty dark eyes, which he doubted had ever flickered with a twinge of conscience. Lizard-thin lips parted to form a chilling smile.
Then Bardo dropped one eyelid in a wink.
Burke would have come out of his chair and lunged toward Bardo if Patout, who'd witnessed the insolent gesture, hadn't grabbed Burke by the arm and restrained him.
"For chrissake, don't do something stupid." In a tense undertone he said, "Fly off the handle, and you'll be playing right into the hands of those bastards. You'll lend truth to every negative allegation they made about you during this trial. Now if that's what you want, go ahead."
Refusing to honor the reprimand even with a comeback, Burke yanked his arm free of his superior's grasp. Smug grin still in place, Bardo faced forward again. Seconds later, the court was called to order and the judge resumed the bench. In a voice as syrupy as the sap that dripped from summer honeysuckle, he admonished everyone to conduct himself in an orderly "maunnah" when the verdict was handed down, then he asked an aide to summon the jury.
Seven men and five women filed into the jury box. Seven men and five women had voted unanimously that Wayne Bardo was not guilty of the shooting death of Detective Sergeant Kevin Stuart.
It was what Burke Basile had expected, but it was harder to accept than he'd imagined, and he had imagined that it would be impossible.
Despite the judge's instructions, spectators failed to restrain or conceal their reactions. Nanci Stuart uttered a sharp cry, then crumpled. Her parents shielded her from the lights of the video cameras and the rapacious reporters who swarmed her.
The judge thanked the jury and dismissed them; then, as soon as court was loudly and formally adjourned, the ineffectual prosecutor quickly stuffed his blank legal pad into his new-looking attache case and walked up the center aisle as though it had just been announced that the building was on fire. He avoided making eye contact with Burke and Patout.
Burke mentally captioned the expression on his face: It's not my fault. You win some, you lose some. No matter what, the paycheck comes on Friday, so get over it.
"Asshole," Burke muttered.
Predictably, there was jubilation at the defense table and the judge had given up trying to control it. Pinkie Duvall was waxing eloquent into the media microphones. Wayne Bardo was shifting from one Bally loafer to the other, looking complacently bored as he shot his cuffs. His stone-studded cuff links glittered in the TV lights. Burke noted that his olive-complexioned forehead wasn't even damp. The son of a bitch had known he had this rap licked, just as he'd beaten all the others.
Patout, acting as spokesman for the NOPD since the incident involved his division, was busy fending off reporters and their questions. Burke kept Bardo and Duvall in his sights as they triumphantly worked their way through the crowd of reporters toward the exit. They dodged no microphones or cameras. Indeed, Duvall cultivated and relished publicity, so he basked in the spotlight. Unlike the prosecutor, they were in no hurry to leave and in fact loitered to receive the accolades of supporters.
Nor did they avoid making eye contact with Burke Basile.
On the contrary, each slowed down when he reached the end of the row where Burke stood, right hand flexing and releasing at his side. Each made a point of looking Burke straight in the eye.
Wayne Bardo even went so far as to lean forward and whisper a hateful, but indefensible fact. "I didn't shoot that cop, Basile. You did."
Sandra Brown: Well, I'm delighted to be here and answer any questions that anyone might ask of me!
Sandra Brown: This is not the first time I've been asked that question. It seems as though many readers would enjoy seeing MIRROR IMAGE on the large screen, or as a made-for-TV movie, but at this point in time, it is not under an option. But who's to say that it won't be?
Sandra Brown: That is a very tough question, because I haven't studied either text. I think that any genre would be similar For instance, passages from a science fiction book might be similar to another, simply in the way they are written, and because the reader of that genre has certain expectations. The same might be said for mystery, or adventure, or western. I know both of these writers well. I know them to be talented writers. And I believe this is an unfortunate incident, but the fact that it happened between romance writers doesn't mean that it is representative of the genre.
Sandra Brown: You bet! Nothing over the Web, though. New Orleans is a city I have visited and loved for many years. I have friends and colleagues there, and it is one of my husband's and my favorite getaway spots. So doing the research for FAT TUESDAY and FRENCH SILK really posed no hardship for me.
Sandra Brown: I was an English major, but I never really took any creative-writing courses. I was more interested in the performing arts and never really considered writing until I turned 30. I appreciate the compliment about the talent, and consider it (if it is talent) to be an outlet for my creativity.
Sandra Brown: Well, I wanted to be a dancer, but I wasn't built to be a dancer. [laughs] I acted onstage and sang and performed in summer stock theater. Then I moved into television and had five years of broadcast experience, until it became evident to my employer, and then to me, that my talents lay elsewhere. [laughs] I was fired, and it was then that I started writing.
Sandra Brown: Actually, I don't know anyone as interesting as the characters I make up. Most of the people I know are boring, like me! So I invent people with more courage and ingenuity than I've ever had. There have been certain individuals from whom I've drawn characteristics because I've found them sunny or odd or interesting for one reason or another. But I can honestly say I've never based a character entirely on a real individual.
Sandra Brown: Not at this time, although I became incredibly attached to the Tyler family and hated to leave them. These books are a favorite with my children, because the setting and the characters are familiar to them, being Texas natives. I'd like to do another series if the opportunity presented itself, and if I thought I could deliver a collection of characters as endearing as the Tylers. These books continue to be reprinted, an indication to me that they are being enjoyed. Gosh, it must be ten or 11 years after their inception!
Sandra Brown: Well, I know Pat Conroy, John Jakes is a good friend of mine. I of course bond with Dean Koontz occasionally, but then I also have many friends in the romance genre. Barbara Glainsky and Jayne Krentz and Nora Roberts and -- I could name two dozen.
Sandra Brown: No, I would not. Although I brought with me into the mystery market an element that cultivated my reading audience. But for the past eight to ten years, I've been writing books which deal with subject matter, situations, and characters that would be prohibitive in genre writing. My style has also changed somewhat, in that it is written at a brisker pace, with many more characters, many more plot twists, and the plots contain more suspense and touch on controversial topics.
Sandra Brown: Absolutely, and it was delightful! It was the most fun five days I've ever had. My husband, my son and daughter, and their dates were also there, and our hosts, who are native New Orleanians, gave us the insider's tour, so to speak. So our experience was the best it could possibly be. We had to buy a suitcase to transport our beads home!
Sandra Brown: I have an office not inside my home to which I go everyday. My staff has the lower floor, I have a second-story loft. That's where I write. I also have a house on Hilton Head Island, and I love writing there.
Sandra Brown: [laughs] I think cops get a bad rap from everybody.
Sandra Brown: Well, I think I'd give these two people a break! I think love scenes are probably the most difficult thing to write. For one thing, you are approaching it from two entirely different perspectives, typically male and female. And, since sexuality is such a subjective thing, I try to appeal to the largest number of people I can, knowing all the while that it will fail to involve some people, disgust others, and leave others entirely indifferent. I suppose what I really try to do is maintain the integrity of my characters and do what is right for them.
Sandra Brown: I try to choose very, very carefully. In fact, I've gotten several chapters into a book before and changed the character's name, because the character exhibited a personality trait that didn't jive with the name. I also collect names particularly for the supporting characters, such as Pinky, Jigger Flynn, and Lucas Greywolf.
Sandra Brown: Probably the best compliment that I can receive is when my name is recognized by a stranger who feels that they know me through my work. What touches me most is when someone tells me, "Thanks for the hours of enjoyment that I derived from reading your book." Because if I entertain my reader, if I evoke an emotional response, be it tears, anger, laughter, whatever -- I've done my job as a novelist.
Sandra Brown: Hmm.... I think that the thing that surprised me the most is that I really came to like Gregory James. When I first devised his character, I thought he would be someone repugnant, and actually I felt sympathy for him in the way that Basile did. At the same time, like Basile, I wanted to strangle him. But the character provided some comic relief that I didn't expect, and he was very poignant.
Sandra Brown: I just completed an advanced reading copy of Megan Chance's THE WAY HOME. And prior to that, I read Ann Rule's POSSESSION, and prior to that, INTO THIN AIR. So, as you can see, my reading taste is very eclectic.
Sandra Brown: I don't presently, no. I have one through Warner Books and Bantam books. The reason I hesitate to have one of my own is I'm afraid of the time it would consume. When I'm at work in my office, I try to spend the time writing.
Sandra Brown: I give myself one year. It actually takes between eight and nine months. Sometimes longer, sometimes less, to do the actual writing. But when you factor in time for just plain living, it takes at least a year.
Sandra Brown: Well, I have to go back a little bit and talk about the authors who inspire me. The first is Taylor Caldwell, because when I was in high school and college, she was at the top of her craft. I don't think anyone wrote more engrossing stories than she. I also love Tennessee Williams, even though he wrote plays, instead of novels; no one was better at capturing the essence of southerners, in all their glory and depravity, than he was. He could also squeeze the most from every single scene. So I would have to say that these two were my all-time favorites.
Sandra Brown: I am working on a new novel for release next summer. It is actually three stories running concurrently that converge. And beyond that, I really don't want to talk too much about it, because I'm still writing it, and if I talk too much about it while I'm writing, it robs me of the compulsion to put it on paper.
Sandra Brown: It has been my distinct pleasure, and I wish everyone a very good evening.
Posted January 4, 2014
Wow, this book is terrific. I mean really, its possibly one of the best books that I have read. The characters were so intense that they literally jumped off the page. If you like shows like Law and Order, NCIS, or CSI you will love this book. I especially loved poor George. I think everyone was cheering for the poor fool. But the book wouldn't be the same without Remy and Burke. The good characters made uou love them and the bad guys made you love to hate them.
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I'd gotten away from reading thrillers. A friend gave me my first Sandra Brown and I was hooked. FAT TUESDAY delivered as well. Little by little her characters get under your skin and snuggle into your heart. Brown maneuvers seamlessly between character development and plot. Her unexpected twists and momentum keep you turning the pages, then has you wishing there were more.
5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 20, 2005
This is an AWESOME book! Out of all the Sandra Brown books I have read, this is one of the best! I just want to continuing reading to see what happens next in the plot! If you ever want to read a Sandra Brown book this is definitely the one to get.
4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 18, 2014
I loved and enjoyed reading the captivating, engaging, thrilling, intriguing story Fat Tuesday by Sandra Brown that I received free through Goodread First Reads.
Burke Basille is an upright, honest police officer who in the line of duty accidently shoots his best friend and partner, Kevin. His marriage ends when he finds his wife having sex. Burke wants revenge against Bardo and Pinkie Duvall for the death of Kevin and kidnaps Pinkie's drop dead gorgeous wife, Remy. Burke knows that this will end in his own death, but he doesn't care as long as this ends in Bardo and Pinkie's death. Burke finds himself instantly attracted and starting to care for Remy.
Read the highly recommended, wonderfully written, suspenseful story with romance, Fat Tuesday by the fabulous author Sandra Brown.
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Posted January 14, 2005
I really enjoyed this book. I kept turning the pages, wanting to know what happens next. It also increased my vocabulary alot to read one of Sandra Brown's books. I definitely enjoyed this author's tale.
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Posted November 15, 2013
Posted August 31, 2013
Another excellent Sandra Brown novel . . I couldn't put it down and there was suspense right up to the last. Check it out!
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Posted June 29, 2013
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Posted June 20, 2001
I have read this book about four of cive times within' a month. The action adn suspense never fails, I anticipate every moment that is to come. Truly this is one of the best
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Posted March 7, 2015
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Posted November 21, 2013
I wanna hear more about your sexy belly!!! Keep going!!! Also, everyone, rate the kids belly on sexiness after he writes hisc nexy chapter. Tis kid deserves it. Also Jeremy- describe your belly in crazy detail next chapter so we can vote. Thx! ~Sundawn
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Posted November 21, 2013
"Alright, honey, we're here," my mom called to me.<br>
I sighed. I was at the doctor's. My doctor, though, happened to be a creepy old man. He had gray hair, barely brushed, and a creepy smile that really made you want to sit with him forever.<br>
As I pushed open the glass doors of the hospital, my mom walked with me.<be>
"Honey, Dr. Marvin knows I'll be back. I have to go pick up your brother. He said you can sit in his office until I get back."<br>
"Whatever Mom. Bye. I love you." As she exited the building, I was faced to my doom.<p>
You may be thinking, 'Why doesn't this kid like the doctor?' Well, its because I'm fat. And everytime I go there, I get THE TALK. About obesity and My Plate? and healthy choices. But my doctor's specialty is bellies. And the most of the time is ent on my stomach. Kinda annoying.<p>
ROOM 148-B Dr, Martin, Doctor<br>
I opened the door to find the usual check-in lady. <br>
"Hi. Dr. Martin said I could stay in his room until my mom got here."<br>
"Your name Jeremy?" She spoke with a strong Spanish accent.<br>
She lead me down a hallway to Dr. Martin's room.<br>
"Jeremy, hi." The check in ladt closed the door behind me. He took a glance at my belly. "How are you?"<br>
"Busy. I'd like to get started," he said, reaching for my shirt.<p>
Thanks for reading! Hoped you liked it! This based on a true story. Need 3 supportive comments to keep writing.
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