Don't confuse #The Lords of Discipline with #Discipline by Anikola Bitter.

Don't confuse #The Lords of Discipline with #Discipline by Anikola Bitter. 

Discipline is 

a sordid, sex-dripping murder mystery set in a snow-bound Philadelphia.

 

TRUMP THINKS LIKE SAVRINI

Savrini agrees withTrump 

       The media rant, TAX MORE! Support criminals’ ‎rights, illegals’ rights, plaintiffs’ rights, unions’ rights, uninsureds’ ‎rights, homeless’ rights, unemployeds’ rights.‎

          Who's blamed when there’s not enough money for police and fire? Conservatives--because they refuse to tax industry to death.

        Some Republicans are pro-illegal immigration. They laugh at secured borders; that jobs should be for our own citizens; that people should obey the laws on the books.

        They say, “Keep the illegals here! They represent the best. We need them. Industry, agriculture, business need cheap labor.” 

          How about our own poor? How about the workers on the bottom, flung aside, replaced by lower paid illegals?

          Our leaders say, if not for the low salaries illegals earn, there would be nothing affordable to buy. 

          The truth?

          And why are Unions complicit? Aren’t they concerned that our citizens are unemployed because illegals work for less? Savrini decides that union bosses care only about political power and their own personal gain.

       Is anyone offended that huge quantities of money are spent on illegal immigrants. The media would have you believe you are selfish because you want our own citizens protected.

          Savrini say the media wants more readers and pandemonium-- it's news.  Most readers don't know their own taxes pay for illegals' education, healthcare, welfare, food, incarceration costs, and capital losses. 

          

GENRE OF KILLER JOE

If you were captivated by #Killer Joe, you'll be swallowed whole by Discipline. Want to drown in depravity? This murder/mystery's for you.

http://www.amazon.com/Discipline-Anikola-Bitter-ebook/dp/B00O5D6PK2

FATHERS MISSING

#FATHERS MISSING

Mothers and aunts in ‎expensive “doos” and ‎three inch nails, lament the mistreatment of their “innocent young boys,” ‎whose crime was? “He jes got in with the wrong ‎crowd.”

          Bullshit! ‎

          The young men had no fathers, no male role models to emulate, no one to demonstrate how to be honorable law-abiding employed adults. ‎

          Our welfare system perpetuates the fatherless system. The ‎cycle continues. These ne’er-do-wells have no future unless ‎something drastic is done to secure a normal home life. ‎Not about to happen. Nothing will change because the underclass ‎respects their self-anointed leaders who refuse to focus on the ‎boys’ most dire need--trustworthy fathers. ‎

          Au contraire, admonishes Savrini to his imaginary audience, their people berate pro-family speakers accuse them of proselytizing a ‎diabolical racist concept antithetical to their society’s mores. How ‎impertinent that an outsider should suggest that the number one ‎need is an adult male and an adult female to forge the family ‎unit.‎

          “The community” foments anger at ‎the “system” because there are not enough hand-outs. All the ‎money in the world will not solve the problems caused by men reared by single mothers on welfare, by the dearth of good ‎men in their sons’ lives. ‎

          At the police station, before the rolling cameras and the ‎sympathetic news people, the Mamas protest. “Po’lices should do ‎mo to keeps our boys on the right track.” ‎

          Everyone forgets the youth programs sponsored and run by ‎these very same officers whom they accuse of brutality and a ‎substantial want of concern. ‎

From Discipline, 5 star murder/mystery by Anikola Bitter.

         

Philly allows a smidgen of safety to its police.

"(He) inches sideways against the brick wall, grasps and turns the knob, throws open the door.

          Nothing.

          Silence but for the driving music and the door that bounces back and bangs against the outside wall.

          He enters, praying that his back-up will be along soon...
          What happened to ‘partners’? Cops used to make calls with sidekicks. Eliminated because of cut-backs, he muses. Partners-- that was a good thing. He notices that every great idea is discarded."

From Discipline

Phillymystery

        #Phillymurdermystery 

Put on your overcoat, tuck in your scarf, check out the debauchery. Be titillated by perversions by dark characters, be sucked into the depths of depravity. A must read.

    Click here or look on my blog to get it somewhere besides Amazon.

DISCO BALL

    Strobe lights flashed pulsed on and off. Couples writhed ‎together arms in ‎the air, women in tight skimpy sequined dresses. Gyrating hips ‎rubbed against ‎buttocks. Music went b-bam, bam, ‎brum, brum.

     The faceted glass globe revolved igniting a rainbow on their face sparkling droplets of sweat on their cheeks.  

    Two men sandwiched her in the middle. Used her to get off. Her eyes were ‎closed.‎

    A couple came outside. She took off her panties. The man dropped his jeans and pushed her up ‎against a red Corvette. He hiked up her ‎short leather skirt…

This from Discipline by Anikola Bitter, a murder-mystery psychological thriller. Get it. Click here.

http://www.amazon.com/Discipline-Anikola-Bitter-ebook/dp/B00O5D6PK2 

          

TEMPLE U. GRADUATE WRITES PERVERTED PSYCHO-SEXUAL MURDER/MYSTERY

Temple University grad writes about a Philly buried in snow and spotlights its deviant characters. But are they deviants or are they you and I? Click here. to find out.

Detective Savrini Races Home

     The element of surprise arouses him, promises more. She hardly ever refuses, well not convincingly anyway. He knows she likes what he does.      

She used to squeal with delight like her mother did early on.    Now her face scrunches up to accentuate her deep dimple. He adores that dimple but the look of displeasure almost turns him off.       

Almost.       

He has his fun and no one’s the wiser. He assures himself that it can't be bad.

MISS KITTY

What a relief to be outside after that contentious bridge game. The stifling heat inside and the rudeness of pugnacious people was more than I bargained for.

I heave a sigh of relief bend my body into the wind and start out. The frosty air nips my cheeks and lips. I taste snow in the air. In Philly you always know when the weather’s about to change. Pretty soon the white stuff will begin its slow drift, gently at first and the sun will disappear. Until then I’ll enjoy my stroll along the pretty shop-lined streets.

I slide my silk scarf over and around my head to cover my ears, tie it at my throat and tuck the ends into the collar of my coat.

I inhale a gulp of frigid air and head east on Walnut and over to Chestnut toward the Benjamin where I’ll collect my granddaughters from school.

I’ve just passed Macy’s when I realize I’m too early. I’ll be shivering in front of the building waiting for school to let out.

I double back, pull open the heavy oaken doors and step into what used to be Wanamaker’s the ancient relic of Philly’s better days.

It’s cozy in here. The warm air flows throughout the store enveloping me in its comforting cocoon. Aromas of perfume float out and away from the cosmetic counters permeating the air swirling and vaporizing even to the far reaches of the first floor. I absorb the pleasant odors, smile and glance at the huge metal Eagle perched above the shoppers in the middle of the store. That old constant soothes me.

Music wafts down from above, from the mezzanine where the antique monstrous organ pumps out its melodic chords.

I feel a slight breeze and sense the rustle of fabric from somewhere above. I look up to see yards of pink silk draped around the feet of group of little-girl-manikins in pink tutus poised on a ledge circling around a pillar. Stiff tulle skirts jut away from the tops of the manikins’ slender thighs.

The exhibit draws my mind back to a time long ago to the years of tap, toe, and ballet classes; glossy black patent tap-shoes, pink tutus over tights, luminous satin pointes, pink satin ribbons‎ wound over the instep to crisscross and tie around the calf, toe shoes that blister even with the clump of lambs’ wool stuffed into the toe.

Miss Kitty…

What happened that last day?

No! I won’t think about that. Not now.

Today I’ll remember the pink fluff of her softness, the thrills elicited by my beautiful dance teacher. Not the bad stuff. No, not that.

Miss Kitty in pink--always pink, hugs infused with the warm sweet talc of her body. Her wee ones enraptured by her, pirouette gawkily, arms raised in triangles rather than soft arcs, lift up to “reach the sky.” Dance routines accompanied by the stern-faced, pointy-nosed, black-as black-haired pianist. As I think about then--I can’t recall what happened to her. I never thought about her. She was--just there--just furniture.

Miss Kitty’s miniature dancers follow her directions but are impatient for the delicious breaks to come, the reason we are here.

Rest time—best time.

We little ones descend the dark narrow wood-slatted staircase that leads into the basement darkness, a darkness broken only by a single yellow bulb dangling from the ceiling. Miss Kitty pulls the chain and a soft yellow light brightens this small area below.

We seat ourselves cross-legged on the floor a semi-circle around our sweet Miss Kitty who has perched herself on her tiny chair. We stare up at her with adoration while she gazes past us, face drooped with fatigue or boredom--expressionless, eyes focused off into the blackness, into the distant depths of the room. She dabs a fine linen handkerchief at the tiny droplets that glisten her face, arms, and chest. A glowing sheen of moisture covers her body. 

I hold my breath.

Finally she announces--“It’s time!”

We line up to take our turn to hug Miss Kitty to bask in her soft warmth to encircle her slender waist with our tiny arms to feel her body encased in the palest of pink silkiness.

My turn. I gather the material between my fingers crimping the folds of the creamy shiny fabric, fondle the silky soft pink of her costume caress her sensual body.

This basement is the wondrous place below her mirrored storefront studio, our secret place where no one else may venture, out of sight of the uninvited.

Our mothers wait upstairs, lips thin below scornful scowls, disheartened by our secretive, too-long breaks downstairs. They slouch seated on the bench, backs resting against the glass façade; our street clothes and their purses clutched in their arms.

End-of-year recitals, tulle and sequined-satin  costumes, shoes glued, silver-sparkled made beautiful for that one day. No loss, by September they’ll be too small for our fast-growing feet. The excitement of that day is too much for our little hearts. 

I picture Miss Kitty and my mind savors her baby-powder scent, her softness, her wan expression, her pinkness.

Back outside, the cold jolts me into reality. Dark now--the wind punches my face. A few soft snowflakes glitter my black coat.

The warm memories dissipate like smoke. I’m left without Miss Kitty--again. My dream is gone. Miss Kitty is gone.

Truth floods in. I see her in my mind. People told what they saw. It was as if I too saw her that day, the day she stepped into a pink Rolls Royce and was never seen again.

#caress #Miss Kitty #tulle #sequin #satin #talc
#snowflakes