It was an 11-bar seat, 4 table tavern in a backwash town along the Mississippi River. With over 350 years of history, this fur trading town has seen the likes of explorers, missionaries, trappers, sailors, gandy dancers, fishermen, and tourists. A well-placed watering hole close to the marina and downtown area will guarantee a good cross section of Americana bipeds, as their journeys cross in front of an alcoholic beverage. Approaching the bar was the BS’er, a local gal in her rough 60’s, who was probably in her early 50’s but accelerated a decade ahead of her time by mental health issues and chemical abuse. As she walked through the parking lot, her entrance was pre-announced by the tattoo infested bartender and all patrons swung their heads towards the rear entrance. As she passed the threshold, the pendulum heads swung back to what they were doing so as not to get in a stare down with her. She immediately walked over to one of 5 one armed bandits that lined the opposite wall. She had her choice of 3 machines, as the other 2 were occupied by post-menopausal women, who flared their shoulders to prevent this stranger from entering their space. As she settled into the end machine, a $20 bill was inserted, and it was game on. The electronic chip that replaced the sprockets and pins of decades ago has but 1 goal: to extract wealth from people who do not have it. A mathematical design within, will throw a bone to the players at times, but when all is said and done, the ‘break box’ will give revenue only to the tavern keep and the machine’s owner. She started off calm, but in a short while, the BSer’s defective brain chemistry had her fist pounding out her namesake: the BUTTON SLAMMER. Asked to leave prior establishments on many occasions, this hurricane of hatred unloaded again. The only hope for this sad specimen of broken dreams and foul fate is for death to gently hug her and take this poor victim away from the misery that haunts her pathetic life daily.