conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first four paragraphs for a epub book with the title 'Ladies' Night'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Ladies' Night
  But we got no takers. Everybody was offended by the violence, particular the female editors, who thought I was misogynist in the extreme. One editor who shall remain nameless was kind enough to enclose her reader's report by mistake along with her rejection letter. I kept it. The report said, "I stopped reading every pearly word after the girls who work at the Burger King threw the would be (sic) hold-up man on the grill." Actually it's McDonald's. And the incident occurs only about a third of the way through so he or she didn't read much. Which is probably all to the good because considering what follows that scene's pretty mild. But the reader went on to conclude, "I hope the person who wrote this confines his aggressions to the page. This is pretty dreadful."
  The bottom line is, we never did sell it. Jack argued that I'd delivered an acceptable manuscript, which had followed the outline in every way. An understatement. And since it wasn't the writing — as I'd feared — it was the whole idea that bothered them at this point, I got to hold onto the advance. Ballantine sweetened the pot slightly in a contract for a third novel, the only caveat being that I was to hold down the bloodshed level on this one.
  But I could never really quit on. Looking back I still liked the damn thing, thought the premise pretty audacious. But I kept it in a drawer and went on to other things until 1988. That year my old friend Richard Christenson — a playwright — and I were sitting in a bar one night and he was bemoaning quite rightly how difficult it was to make a buck in the business of writing drama, almost as tough as it was to make a buck in poetry, hell you might as well have been trying to sell pet roaches in this city and I found myself urging him to try some prose instead. I wasn't getting rich here but I was still afloat, doing what I wanted to do. Maybe so could he. As we talked it became clear he was game. I said here's an idea, why don't you see what you can do to trim some of the fat off , whip it into shape and make it salable. We'll split the credit and the money fifty-fifty.
  Anyway, once more I let it lie for awhile. In 1990 I decided to try a screenplay version. Thinking low-budget horror movie I switched the locale from New York City to the suburbs to make for a far cheaper shoot but kept the mayhem basically the same. That script's still being shopped around now and then and I figure you never know. Especially with this yarn. Its voyage has been a long one.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In the distance down Riverside, a convoy of prowl cars spread from corner to corner and out of sight down the block. They could hear guns popping like a string of firecrackers and muted howls and screams. They hurried up 72nd like a pair of scared rats.
  The first one was alone across the street near the pastry shop and she was so damn old and fat it was impossible to take her seriously at first, half running and half waddling across the street with her arms held out to them, the flabby flesh of her upper arms bouncing, fingers clutching like mottled claws.
  By the time she stepped over the curb he had the tongs up. The old, frail skull split open like a melon tossed in the gutter.
  He felt his stomach heave. His legs felt rubbery. It was not the same as inside the bar. This was cold and brutal. This was execution. He stared down at her.
  There were four of them close by, all young girls — the oldest couldn't have been more than sixteen. They were dragging the man from the all-night deli out into the street, squealing delightedly as they threw him down over the double yellow line and two of them stepped on his hands while a third kicked him in the ribs and the fourth kicked his face.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They were dragging the man from the all-night deli out into the street, squealing delightedly as they threw him down over the double yellow line and two of them stepped on his hands while a third kicked him in the ribs and the fourth kicked his face. They could hear guns popping like a string of firecrackers and muted howls and screams. They hurried up 72nd like a pair of scared rats.
  The first one was alone across the street near the pastry shop and she was so damn old and fat it was impossible to take her seriously at first, half running and half waddling across the street with her arms held out to them, the flabby flesh of her upper arms bouncing, fingers clutching like mottled claws.
  By the time she stepped over the curb he had the tongs up. The old, frail skull split open like a melon tossed in the gutter.
  He felt his stomach heave. His legs felt rubbery. It was not the same as inside the bar. This was cold and brutal. This was execution. He stared down at her.
  There were four of them close by, all young girls — the oldest couldn't have been more than sixteen.In the distance down Riverside, a convoy of prowl cars spread from corner to corner and out of sight down the block.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But he'd loved his mother too. And Dan and Phil said that all of them were changed now. That was all they'd seen all night long.
  He felt so all alone. He felt it like a physical pain squeezing at his chest. He wanted to cry. He kept seeing his mom and dad. Not like they were but like they had been. Like they were still there somehow. He was just this close to crying all the time.
  He knew it was true. The man had lost a lot of blood and he was pale and you could hear his breathing.
  So he didn't insist or anything. He just began crying. He couldn't help it. He was thinking about Lizzy and about his mom and dad, and he did it as quietly as he could, not wanting them to think of him as just a kid — and after a while he guessed he just started to accept it, felt his sadness yield to something else inside because he'd seen what his mom was like and that was how they all were, all the women.
  On the Fort Lee side a pretty big crowd had gathered behind the Guard troops as the cars came across the bridge and some of the people standing there were waving and smiling as though they were heroes or something, which was pretty stupid. And some of them were women. And this one woman who was young and pretty with long dark hair, sort of like his mom had looked in some of the old photos they'd had, leaned in the window of the Buick and smiled at him, a sympathetic smile but like she was happy for him too, and of course by then they'd already surrendered up the pistol to the Guardsman at the entrance to the bridge, which was probably all for the best Andy thought — because more than anything else in the world he'd have liked to kill her.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And Dan and Phil said that all of them were changed now. That was all they'd seen all night long.
  He felt so all alone. He felt it like a physical pain squeezing at his chest. He wanted to cry. He kept seeing his mom and dad. Not like they were but like they had been. Like they were still there somehow. He was just this close to crying all the time.
  He knew it was true. The man had lost a lot of blood and he was pale and you could hear his breathing.
  So he didn't insist or anything. He just began crying. He couldn't help it. He was thinking about Lizzy and about his mom and dad, and he did it as quietly as he could, not wanting them to think of him as just a kid — and after a while he guessed he just started to accept it, felt his sadness yield to something else inside because he'd seen what his mom was like and that was how they all were, all the women.
  On the Fort Lee side a pretty big crowd had gathered behind the Guard troops as the cars came across the bridge and some of the people standing there were waving and smiling as though they were heroes or something, which was pretty stupid. And some of them were women. And this one woman who was young and pretty with long dark hair, sort of like his mom had looked in some of the old photos they'd had, leaned in the window of the Buick and smiled at him, a sympathetic smile but like she was happy for him too, and of course by then they'd already surrendered up the pistol to the Guardsman at the entrance to the bridge, which was probably all for the best Andy thought — because more than anything else in the world he'd have liked to kill her.