Author JB Lynn shows us how fun Fundies can be at a chilly beach seance with a slightly neurotic hitwoman #CMCon17 #FlashFiction #giveaway
Please help me welcome author JB Lynn!!
Just the title, Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman, makes me giggle. I figured any story bold enough to use that long and unique of a title must be born from a healthy sense of humor, and boy was I right! JB “Jen” Lynn is one of my 2017 Coastal Magic Convention Featured Authors, and when I sent her these prompts for her Flash Fiction post, I wondered how the Fundies would go over. But not to worry AT ALL, because Jen took every prompt I gave and worked them into a gem of a story!
Take a few minutes to read this one, folks: it’s hilarious! =D
- Length: 400-800 words
- Setting: At the beach, teeth-chatteringly chilly winds, a seance gone terribly wrong
- Item to include: The world’s tiniest gun
- Article of clothing to include: Fundies! (underwear built for two – image below for example)
- Tone: Humorous. Dry and slapstick and sarcastic, oh my!
My name is Maggie Lee. I kill people for money (only bad people, I swear!) to pay for my niece’s medical expenses.
I’ve done some weird things and met some strange people, but even I couldn’t believe that I was sitting on a bone-numbingly cold beach taking part in a séance being led by my psychic friend, Armani Vasquez.
Five other fools huddled together, trying to find closure, or at least the last will and testament of the dead man.
I mentally kicked myself for being a part of the ridiculous situation. Armani had roped me into it by claiming to need a seventh person to complete the circle. Since her bizarre psychic predictions had saved my butt on more than one occasion, I’d felt obligated to help her out.
Even though I can sometimes be a badass killer, like many women, I really need to learn to say “no” more often…or at least more convincingly.
At least I knew I’d have no problem saying no to skeevy Stevie. The brother of the deceased massaged my left hand with his sweaty mitt like he expected to get it on with me, right here in the sand the moment this séance was over. I’d have pulled free of his grip if I didn’t think Armani would blame me for interrupting her communication with the spirits.
Personally, I couldn’t understand how she could hear them over the crashing waves, whipping wind, my own chattering teeth, and skeevy Stevie’s heavy breathing.
“I see Siamese-twins!” Armani announced excitedly. Her usually beautiful tresses, caught by the wind, danced around like snakes. Fitting, considering I was pretty sure my frozen butt had turned to stone.
Morgan, the deceased’s nephew, asked, “Like Siamese twins in the circus?”
“The politically correct term is conjoined twins,” a haughty Englishman corrected in a deep, booming voice.
Of course no one else heard the words. To them, it sounded like my chest was squeaking. They all stared at me wide-eyed.
Did I mention that I can talk to animals? Sometimes it’s a blessing. Often it’s a curse.
The voice belonged to God, short for Godzilla, the anole lizard, who was curled up in my bra, probably the only warm spot on the beach. “Ask her where they’re joined.”
“Sylvester wasn’t a twin,” Harriet, wife of skeevy Stevie, argued.
“Ask her,” God urged.
Knowing if I didn’t, my chest would never stop squeaking, we’d never finish the silly séance, and I’d never get to defrost my body, I cleared my throat. “Where are they joined?”
“At the hips,” Armani replied as though I’d asked a perfectly normal question.
“Omphalopagus,” God declared. “Only 10% of conjoined twins are omphalopagus.”
He’s such a know-it-all.
“Maybe it means that Uncle Sly’s fortune is tied to someone,” his niece suggested.
“To me,” his business partner said forcefully.
Stevie, Harriet, Morgan, the niece, and the business partner all began to yell at one another about how each deserved the inheritance and what awful people all the others were.
Personally, I thought they were all pretty awful.
“Shoot them,” God begged. “You’ve got the gun Patrick gave you.”
I chuckled. The weapon Patrick, my red-headed murder mentor, had given me was the world’s tiniest gun. It too was tucked into my bra. Less than two inches long, it couldn’t even shoot through an empty soda can. Still, I considered using it to shoot Stevie in the eye, when his hand landed high on my thigh.
Instead, I karate-chopped his throat. A move that left Stevie gasping me for air, Armani glaring in my direction, and me explaining, “Sorry. My self-defense training kicked in when he groped me. That whole eyes, nose, throat, groin thing.”
“Groped?” Harriet shrieked. She swung her oversized purse at her husband’s head and he cowered against the sand.
“Get ‘im, Aunt Harriet,” the niece urged.
“Sock it to him,” the nephew agreed.
“Stop!” Armani yelled.
All eyes turned toward her. I tried to hide my disappointment that she’d interrupted Stevie’s walloping.
“They’re not twins,” Armani gasped. “They’re wearing Fundies.”
My aunt with nymphomaniac tendencies, Loretta owns a lingerie/sex toy shop, so I know what Fundies are.
Obviously the business partner did not have the same knowledge because he asked, “What the hell are Fundies?”
“Underwear built for two,” Armani explained. “The tandem bicycle of clothing items.”
“What does that even mean?” Harriet huffed.
“It means I know where his Will is,” Armani said slowly. “You’re not going to be happy about it.” Her eyes met mine. “Especially you.”
“I’m not even part of this,” I protested.
“But Loretta is,” Armani said solemnly. “I’m pretty sure she’s Sylvester’s beneficiary.”
I shivered. Not because of the cold this time, but because I knew this could mean only more trouble and chaos for my dysfunctional family.
Maggie Lee is not your average hitwoman. For one thing, she’s never killed anyone. For another, after hitting her head in the car accident that killed her sister, her new best friend is a talking lizard—a picky eater, obsessed with Wheel of Fortune, that only Maggie can hear.
Maggie, who can barely take care of herself, is desperate to help her injured and orphaned niece get the best medical care possible, so she reluctantly accepts a mobster’s lucrative job offer: major cash to kill his monstrous son-in-law.
Paired with Patrick Mulligan, a charming murder mentor (who happens to moonlight as a police detective), Maggie stumbles down her new career path, contending with self-doubt, three meddling aunts, a semi-psychic friend predicting her doom, and a day job she hates. Oh, and let’s not forget about Paul Kowalski, the sexy beat cop who could throw her ass in jail if he finds out what she’s up to.
Training has never been so complicated! And, this time, Maggie has to get the job done. Because if she doesn’t … she’s the mob’s next target.
About the author
A Jersey Girl transplanted to the Sunshine State, JB Lynn (you can call her Jen) writes the laugh-out-loud CONFESSIONS OF A SLIGHTLY NEUROTIC HITWOMAN series and is currently working on a new paranormal mystery series.
She also guzzles coffee, spoils her dog, loves improv comedy, tries to meditate regularly and wastes endless hours daydreaming.
Author JB Lynn is giving away an ebook copy of CONFESSIONS OF A SLIGHTLY NEUROTIC HITWOMAN (or any of the other Hitwoman books if you’ve already read that one) to FIVE readers on today’s post! To enter to win, fill out the prize widget below and comment to tell us….
- Do you believe in ghosts?
- Why or why not?
Still not registered for Coastal Magic?
Join Jen and a TON of other truly fantastic authors and readers at Coastal Magic Convention in Daytona Beach next February! This is my very favorite reader-focused convention because we have so many opportunities to meet and hang out with our favorite authors and to meet new ones who are sure to become new favorites. If you can only make one convention next year, go to this one! Clicky below for registration and travel info!
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