The Housewife Assassin's Killer App

by Josie Brown

  Does Roger recognize his own bullshit? Hope not.

  “Dude, the smartest thing you did was add an FPS component! Awesome!” Ichabod slaps him on the back.

  “It’s like La Femme Nikita meets Betty Crocker,” Wise Ass chimes in.

  “No, more like Lara Croft meets Donna Reed,” Bollywood counters, spewing chunky chocolate chips.

  “Hey, I like the new name he put on the game—The Housewife Assassin,” Zhao says thoughtfully. “And it tested through the roof!”

  Roger frowns at Fu Manchu. “You changed the name of the game? What the fuck, guy?”

  Fu Manchu’s mouth is open wide, but nothing seems to come out. Finally, he stutters, “I-It fits the theme. You know, kick-ass woman.”

  “In my office—now.”

  There is one big problem with glass offices within a loft space:

  No privacy.

  Everyone can hear your rant and rave (Roger) at someone whose ego is just as inflated as yours (Fu Manchu). They can see you shake your fist (Roger) to no avail, as your opponent stubbornly folds his arms (Fu Manchu), or when your back is turned goes so far as to flip you a bird (Fu Manchu), not realizing that you can see him do so in the reflected glass.

  Fu Manchu stalks out of Roger’s office, slamming the door behind him.

  “Where the hell is he going?” Zhao muses out loud.

  “Probably to rub one out,” Wise Ass snickers. “Hell, that’s what I’d be doing if I’d just got one over on Roger.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  He looks at me as if I’m a piece of dung clinging to his size-six flip-flops, all of which says a lot about him. (First, he has no sense of my worth; next, no one with visible toe fungus should be in flip-flops; and lastly, a man with small feet has a woman wondering about the size of his other appendages.) When he realizes I won’t melt under his withering gaze, he shrugs. “Fixing this piece of shit game was a real coup for us. Until we were all put on this project, we were currently unassigned.”

  I shake my head. “What does that mean?”

  Bollywood sighs. “It means, bimbo, that instead of putting us on projects that might burnish our resumes, Shazaaaam was riding out our contracts.”

  “But, now that we may have a hit game on our hands, we be dah man!” Ichabod shouts.

  “Don’t you mean, ‘we be dah men?’” I point out.

  He doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy chest-bumping with the other guys.

  “It doesn’t make sense. This was a suicide mission?” Emma murmurs into my ear bud.

  “I guess so,” I whisper. “And because of us, these jerks live to play another day.”

  “If you’re going to Wonder-Con, you’ve got to follow Fu Manchu and talk him into taking you.”

  I shudder to think what that will take.

  My best guess: more than what he presumes is a 32 C.

  If I thought it would be easy to find Fu Manchu, I’m poorly mistaken. He’s not in any of the fun huts, and I’ve nearly covered all fifteen acres of ShazaaaamLand.

  When I finally come across him, he’s high on the uppermost-level of the garage—the one that is closest to the glassed-in walkway going into the tower. He’s staring out at the structure. It’s hard not to, considering it looks like a living, breathing organism.

  Or I should say organ?

  He’s sitting on the hood of a Tesla. Despite the fact that it’s one of fifteen or so here, I don’t have to guess that it’s Roger’s.

  When he finally hears my footsteps behind him, he turns his head just enough to see who it is. The most I earn is a frown.

  He asks, “It was you, wasn’t it?” He sounds defeated.

  “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “You’re the one who fixed the bug, aren’t you?”

  I take a moment before nodding. I’ve hit plenty of men when they’re down—but only if they’re trying to kill me. Ridicule, I usually take in stride. “I didn’t do it to embarrass you.”

  He smirks as he crosses his arms at his chest. “Oh, no?”

  “If I had, wouldn’t I let Roger and the others know about it?”

  He knows I’ve got a point. He shrugs. “So, what do you want?”

  “Wonder-Con. I want to be our game’s booth babe.”

  “Our game?” A paper-thin smile rises on his lips. “You say that as if you truly had anything to do with it.”

  “The numbers speak for themselves.” My tone is nonchalant. It is also deadly.

  Obviously, he’s tone deaf, because he sneers, “And you think you can buy your way in with brownies?”

  “I saved your ass. What more do you want?” Other than looking stupid for work, flip-flops are stupid for another reason—they make it so easy for an opponent to break your toes.

  “I’ll tell you what I want.” The next thing I know, he’s grabbed me and slammed me up against the car.

  I break his hold on me by grinding my stiletto into his foot. His howl echoes through the garage until I shut him up with a punch to the throat. As he gasps for air, I grab hold of his nutsack and twist it as hard as needed to get my point across. “So, what do you say, are we booth mates?”

  He’s nodding so hard that the tears streaming down his face are staining the front of his vintage nineteen ninety-eight MacWorld Convention T-shirt.

  “Go on and tell Roger the good news,” I whisper in his ear. “Oh, and congratulations! Looks like your game is going to be a really big hit.”

  I leave him bent over and heaving. Time’s a’wasting. I’ve got to start work on an adorable Housewife Assassin costume.

  But of course, it will be the chicest of geek couture.

  “I hear you’ll be joining us in the booth.” Roger leans in so close to my ear that I almost bump heads with him as I turn to see who’s looking over my shoulder.

  Thank goodness what he sees on my computer screen is innocent enough: I’m playing the game.

  He grabs the closest toadstool chair and scoots it so close that we’re practically hip-to-hip. “We have a little tradition when we introduce a new game at Wonder-Con. The booth babe and I play a live version of the game.”

  I clap my hands in mock anticipation. “Ooh! Sounds like fun!”

  He smiles. “It gets better. The winner gets anything they want.”

  Hmmm. “So, like, if I want a month-long all-expenses-paid trip around the world on a Lear jet, it’s mine for the asking?”

  He nods. “Sure, why not? Shazaaaam has its own Lear. It’s also got an open account with every hotel on the Condé Nast Traveler Gold List. And we were one of the original investors in Uber, so you’d always have a limo at your disposal.”

  “You’re telling me I can go away for a full month?”

  “Don’t look so shocked. The last booth babe who won took a whole year off, with pay, and got double stock options too.”

  Hell yeah!

  To tamp down the glow in my eye, I lower my lashes and ask, “Lucky lady! Was she a recent winner?”

  He laughs so hard that he almost falls off his toadstool. “Are you kidding? It was at least a decade ago! I’m always that good. Or they’re always that…bad.”

  His eyes roam over me, lingering on my lips. “How about you, Donna? Are you bad?”

  Bad? I am your worst nightmare.

  “Why don’t we find out?” I suggest.

  He swipes a screen on his iPad. “Just to be fair, I’ll give you everything you requested and sweeten the deal with a full one-year sabbatical. Sign here, on the company release form. Boilerplate stuff. You know, about holding harmless and indemnification. A mere formality.” He takes a stylus from his pocket and points to the last line.

  One year’s pay. A trip around the world, all expenses paid…

  I sign with a flourish.

  Just then, I remember to ask, “And, if I lose?”

  “You. At my beck and call. For a year.” I don’t like his leer.

  My heart is pounding in my chest. “
You mean, like your administrative assistant or something?”

  He rolls his eyes. “That’s the last thing I mean. Sure, you’ll still be on payroll. But you’ll be serving me in a personal capacity, if you get my drift.” He winks knowingly. “Considering where you started, it’ll be a promotion.”

  Um...What the hell did I just sign?

  “But…nonconsensual sex is employee harassment. It’s federal law!”

  “What you just signed says that you’ve agreed to the terms and conditions set heretofore, and that any physical intimacy between the parties is consensual and, therefore, out of the jurisdiction of company policy and venue. Not only that, but reneging on said terms constitutes compensatory reparations equivalent to a cash payment of the loser’s prize.”

  The equivalent of one year’s pay. A trip around the world, all expenses paid…

  Acme will never cover it, and it will bankrupt my family.

  I try not to hyperventilate. I mean, I’m not really Donna Gray, so none of this is applicable anyway.

  “You seem a bit hesitant.” His pouty face is supposed to be his way of feigning sympathy. “Look, I never want it said that I forced you into this against your will. If you want, you can bow out of the bet right now.” He shrugs. “Of course, we’ll have to replace you in the booth. Can’t disappoint the fans, now can we?”

  “No, of course not,” I murmur.

  Remember, I practically wrote the game…

  Well, okay, I didn’t write it. But it is based on me, and the writer is one of my besties…

  He holds out his hand.

  I shake it.

  He stands up. “Oh, and to make things interesting, we’ll be playing the VR version—Rifting, as the case may be. Fun, huh? So glad it was programmed into the game, aren’t you? Not that any housewife will want to mess up her mascara with goggles. The Wonder-Con fans will love it, though.” He pats my head—for too long, and too longingly—before heading back to his office.

  “Get home as soon as possible,” Emma insists. “I’ll test you with Rift so that you know the game, backward and forward.”

  “I’m not you, Emma. There’s no way I can play as well as you.”

  She laughs. “I’ve got a contingency plan for that,” she assures me.

  I hope it includes enrollment in the U.S. Witness Protection Program.

  In any case, I’m putting all my assets in Jack’s name, in case I have to declare bankruptcy.

  Oh, hell, the house is not just in my name, but Carl’s too. If I lose it, it’s just what he’d need to declare me an unfit mother—betting a vacation against a year as a sex slave to a pervert.

  Or I can just kill Roger.

  Even Teslas can spin off the road, if a tire loses a bolt or two.

  Or three.

  A shame. It’s a beautiful car.

  “You did what?” Jack can’t believe his ears.

  “It was the only way I could get into the booth,” I explain. I’ve waited until the kids are upstairs in their rooms, finishing their homework, before breaking the news to him.

  “Donna, have you seen the file on this guy? He’s one sick puppy! We’re not talking just a sex-addict. The dude is into sadism in a very big way.”

  “A bottom?”

  “In your dreams.” Jack shakes his head. He doesn’t have the heart to look at me. Instead, he glances over at Emma, who sits at the kitchen counter, reading the agreement on her iPad.

  When Emma looks up from the screen, she’s not smiling. “Not only that, the paper you signed covers any aliases of the signatories as well.”

  So, Donna Stone is just as screwed—figuratively—as Donna Gray.

  “Why would anyone know to put that in?”

  “Either he knows you aren’t who you say you are, or else most of the booth babes work in porn, and this way he can hold them to their word,” Emma surmises.

  “And, either way, it’s binding,” Jack mutters.

  “I’ll just have to win, won’t I?” I sound more assured than I feel. I stare down at the Rift headgear. “Where do we start?”

  Chapter 11

  Wonder-Con!

  Welcome to Wonder-Con, where your favorite comic book characters have come to life!

  Predating, but later joining, the comic book convention behemoth known as Comic-Con, this (formerly San Francisco, but now) Anaheim-based event offers up just as many superheroes, great behind-the-scenes panels, and actors and writers of your favorite ’zines, movies, and shows!

  Flying your geek flag high and proud is always welcomed. In fact, it is encouraged. (Yes, rest assured, you, of all people, will fit right in.)

  However, there are still a few antics you may want to avoid, so that you aren’t the most uncool attendee there:

  Antic #1: Don’t break into hysterics when you see your favorite superhero in the flesh. Keep in mind, he is merely an actor who is being paid to embody the role, not someone who can actually fly when you chest-bump him off a balcony.

  Antic #2: Don’t break into hysterics when you see someone in a much better costume than yours. Every year, the conventions’ geek couture takes a giant leap forward. (Not at all unusual, considering that much of what you see on the Fashion Week runways would qualify, no problem.) Instead of sweating it (it, being your sad little attempt at a costume), snap a few pictures so that you can copy your favorites for next year (which is exactly what knock-off designers do, anyway).

  Antic #3: Feel free to make new friends! Will cosplay lead to foreplay? You betcha! Granted, some of those you meet will refuse to take off their masks, for a very good reason: they look better with them on.

  That being said, forego any pick-up lines such as, “Is that your laser sword, or are you just happy to see me…?” until you see with your own eyes that he’s worth wiggling out of all that spandex.

  The Housewife Assassin booth is the biggest hit at Wonder-Con.

  Based on one week’s word-of-mouth for the game, the line for our booth is the longest one in the convention hall. My mouth hurts from all the smiling I do, as Donna S., the heroine of the game. I’m shocked at how much cosplay—that is to say, costume play—the game has already inspired. Ninety percent of the women who stand in line waiting for a selfie with me could be spitting images of the game’s heroine. Like me, they wear a polka-dot sundress, accessorized with a necklace of white pearls, hair swept up in a French twist…retro and classy.

  Especially when holding a chainsaw.

  Trust me, it works.

  I can only imagine Fu Manchu’s hand hurts from autographing so many full-page ads of the game in the convention program. The first lucky thousand got posters tagged with beta keys, which allow them a free week of game play.

  I’d like to think that Fu Manchu hasn’t looked my way because he’s just too busy. But, in reality, he has ignored me all week. During the few times I found him staring at me, he’d smirk and wink.

  Maybe our little garage rendezvous is his idea of foreplay. Whatever his issue, I don’t have time to think about it right now.

  Whereas Fu Manchu and I may be working nonstop, Roger has it easy. Every now and then, he’ll reach into a valise where he keeps five specially made VIP beta keys of the game—the size of a thumb drive, but actually gold in color, and sporting a knob with the Shazaaaam logo. Supposedly, the select few recipients are movers and shakers in the gaming business, or film producers who may be interested in turning it into a movie.

  Almost been there, almost done that.

  Jack is here too, as is Abu. Both hang nearby, taking turns observing the interaction between Roger and the VIPs. They wear special contact lenses that feed whatever they see back to Acme, where Arnie and the tech-ops team run the VIPs through facial recognition software.

  If the last three days of practice have proved anything, it’s that my shooting skills are second to none. However, when I wear the WiFi lenses and the Rift headgear together, I’m subjected to a mild case of myopia. If I don’t wear them, Emma can
’t see what’s happening in the game from my perspective, so I just have to suck it up.

  I’ve adjusted my aim to account for it; but, admittedly, I’m off my mark.

  During the final practice session last night, Emma winced every time I missed a shot. “Worst case scenario, you can spray and pray,” she counseled. “Also, I’ve tweaked the version of the game that will feed into the booth. For example, you’ll play so that there is a built-in Fog of War, to keep you safe.”

  “Come again?”

  “A ‘Fog of War’ is a blind on the map. In this case, it’s specific to any player who isn’t identified as you.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I’ve also given your avatar a few combos that the other players can’t do.”

  “Combos?” I asked.

  “In other words, attack moves that will instantly immobilize him. In fact, I modeled the moves on real martial arts maneuvers—ones you use yourself, so that they’ll be second nature to you.”

  “When he can’t copy my moves, won’t he be suspicious that I’m cheating?”

  She laughed. “Are you kidding? He’s already accessed and memorized the cheat codes! I’m just giving you a level playing field.”

  Now that I’m minutes away from my showdown with Roger, I pray she’s right.

  Let the game begin.

  The crowd lets out a frenzied roar as Roger struts out onto the humongous stage in the convention’s main auditorium. He wears a wireless lapel microphone so he can open his arms wide—Made it, Ma! Top of the world!—or pace the stage like the best snake oil salesman in the Ozarks.

  “This is the game you’ve been waiting for!” he reminds the crowd. “You love the Housewife Assassin because she’s just the girl next door—and she’s a femme fatale! She’s every man’s dream, and every terrorist’s nightmare! She belongs to everyone—and she’s you!” His eyes sweep the audience, drilling in on those women for who cosplay is a way of life. At first, they blush but then they preen proudly.