“Sweet baby Moses in leather and a ball gag, I pray daily for Shoshanna LeHump to switch teams and come over to the dyke side,” Edith shouted in full agreement of the sexual magnetism of the infamous LeHump.
Stunned to silence and having no comeback for that one, I stared at them while debating my next move. Taking them down might set me back medically and running meant I really was a pussy. So I tried the next best thing.
“You guys wanna go shoot some stuff? I’m about to implode and I need to find something inanimate to kill.”
“Now your talking, sister,” Edith said yanking me off the treadmill and out of the gym.
The gun range was empty. After signing in, the old gals announced that the targets were insulting and had just what we needed to spice it up. They set up targets that made Mel, the owner cringe and threaten to ban us for life. Edith had a couple of words in private with Mel and to my great surprise, he turned a blind eye. Those crazy women set up an old computer, two toasters, a vacuum and a mini-fridge that they just so happened to have in the back of their car. They drew tiny bull’s-eyes on the appliances and started making wagers. Color me impressed. Maybe these gals weren’t so bad.
“Youth before beauty,” Mrs. C grunted, getting into her zone.
Laughing, I put on my ear protectors and goggles. Holding my Glock in my hand made me go to my calm happy place. I aimed and I fired—over and over and over.
“What the fuck?” Mrs.C gasped. “Guns down.”
We holstered. She walked over to the appliances and whistled. “What?” Edith shouted, still wearing her hearing protection.
“Clean bull’s-eye on every one.”
“Clean a bull’s what?” Edith yelled.
“Take your goddamned head gear off and get a look at this shit,” Mrs. C said, squatting down to get a better view.
Both women eyed my handiwork silently, crossed back over to me and stared.
“Do it again,” Mrs. C demanded. “Do it right now.”
“No prob.” I grinned and reloaded. And I did it again—and one more time for good measure.
“Jesus Christ in a corset, you should have sniped with us in Nam,” Mrs. C whispered reverently.
“Wasn’t born yet,” I said enjoying myself for the first time in a while.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. I think I came in my shorts,” Edith added, saluting me.
“Gross,” I groaned backing away.
“Don’t worry yourself,” she cackled. “You’re too young, too skinny and too straight. It’s your shooing that gave me a woody.”
“Guys, enough. I’m a good shot. I’m supposed to be. I’m an undercover DEA agent, for God’s sake.” I rolled my eyes and debated if they needed an anatomy lesson. Although who knew? Maybe they had dicks . . .
“She the best I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. C muttered.
“Not better than Mag the Hag,” Edith insisted.
Both women dropped to their knees, genuflected and quietly murmured Mag the Hag repeatedly.
Fuck, just when I was beginning to think they were kind of normal.
“Do you think it’s possible?” Edith asked her sister, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Could be,” Mrs. C said rising to her feet.
“Um, guys you’re kind of freakin’ me out here.” Maybe it was time to go. Mrs. C’s iron grip on my arm made escape impossible.
“She died in my arms. She was the best sharp shooter that ever lived.” Edith’s eyes welled with tears making me notice her glittery yellow eye shadow. How had I missed that?
“I’m sorry, I know how it is to lose someone you love.”
“I didn’t love her,” Edith laughed. “I hated her fucking guts, but I admired the hell out of her and would have done her if she was a dyke.”
“Okay, then—gotta go,” I told them removing my goggles and peeling Mrs. C’s claw off my arm.
“Mag the Hag, are you in there?” Mrs. C screeched in to my ear, definitely damaging my hearing.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re insane and a menace to society. Not to mention, your dress sense is vomitous,” I shouted and put my hand to my ear to check for blood.
“It’s her,” Edith said dropping to her knees in front of me.
“Who’s her?” I asked glancing around in alarm.
“You. You’re Mag the Hag reincarnated,” Mrs. C rejoiced trapping me in a bear hug. “God, I’ve missed you, you stinky bitch.”
“I’m not Mag the Hag,” I said, but being wedged in Mrs. C’s armpit it came out a little muffled.
“Of course you are,” Edith tsked and bent to kiss my feet.
“This is the most glorious and fucked up thing to happen in at least three weeks!” Mrs. C claimed, hugging me tighter.
“I really think you ladies need some help,” I squeaked trying to get some air into my squashed lungs.
“I’m gonna call Homer in DC. This will blow his mind,” Edith giggled after she’d finished adoring my feet. “He’ll offer you a job so fast it will make your head spin.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I gasped, miraculously breaking away from Mrs. C. “I have a job already and I’m not Madge or who ever you whack-jobs think I am. I’m Candy and you’re bat shit crazy.”
“Exactly what Mag the Hag would have said,” Edith shot back, secure in her debatable sanity that I was their reincarnated buddy.
“Okay then, I’ll just be going.” I grabbed my gun and quickly stowed it away. “I’ll see you guys when hell freezes over and I hope you have an interesting rest of your lives.” I made a run for the door.
“Hell froze over last Tuesday,” Mrs. C shouted joyously as I hustled away. “We’ll see you this weekend. We have a lot of catching up to do. You’ve been dead for years!”
“Not gonna happen,” I muttered as I slammed the door behind me only to be followed by their laughter as I hightailed it out of the building.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robyn Peterman writes because the people inside her head won’t leave her alone until she gives them life on paper. Her addictions include laughing really hard with friends, shoes (the expensive kind), Target, Coke with extra ice in a Styrofoam cup, bejeweled reading glasses, her kids, her superhot hubby, and collecting stray animals.
A former professional actress with Broadway, film, and TV credits, she now lives in the South with her family and too many animals to count. Writing gives her peace and makes her whole—plus having a job you can do in your PJs works really well for her. You can follow Robyn at robynpeterman.com. She loves to hear from her fans.
eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 Robyn Peterman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
eKENSINGTON and the k logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: December 2013
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3063-0
ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-219-1
ISBN-10: 1-60183-219-2
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