The Housewife Assassin's Killer App (20 page)

“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.

Hell yeah, they
are
the Housewife Assassin.

“And right here, right now on this stage, you’ll see her in action—playing little old me.” Hearing the laughter rippling through the crowd, he shrugs modestly. “We’ll be wearing Rifts.” He points to the Jumbotron—“Right here on this screen, you’ll see what we see, and hear what we hear”—he pauses dramatically—“and when the loser dies, you’ll watch it happen too.”

His grand pronouncement is met with awed silence, followed by a thunderclap of applause.
 

I’m standing just offstage. But now that he throws out his right arm to include me, I steel myself with a deep breath, turn my frown upside down, and force myself to move forward until I’m side by side with him, arms raised in welcome, like some sort of magician’s assistant.

More like the ventriloquist’s dummy, seeing how I stiffen at the thought of what awaits me should I fail.

When he hands me the Rift headgear, the mob goes into a frenzy.
 

Before putting it on my head and over my eyes, I scan the audience for Jack. Finally, I find him, front and center. When our eyes meet, he blows me a kiss. Abu is there, too, standing over to one side, but close to the stage. He rewards me with a wink.
 

And then I see him, a few rows back from Abu—

Carl.

What the hell is he doing here?

He smiles at me.

Then he throws me a kiss and walks away.

What if he’s headed to the house?

Frantically, I seek out Jack again. When we see each other I shout, “Carl! Carl!” again and again, pointing in the direction I saw him last. But by the quizzical look on Jack’s face and the way he holds his hand to his ear, I realize he can’t make me out over the crowd, which is chanting, “
Play! Play! Play!”

Roger puts his arm around my waist. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got a reservation for the Mount Whitney suite at Disney’s Grand Californian, an Elsa costume—you know, from
Frozen
—and a flogger with your name on it. Walnut.”

He presumes too much.
 

I’m not into BDSM or cosplay.

And, if I were, I’d be Anna, not an Elsa.

As Virtual Donna, I awaken to the sound of the doorbell.

My God, he’s already here.

Not good. Here in Virtual Hilldale, the doorbell’s Big Ben chimes announce the arrival of guests bearing gifts: baskets of fruit, homemade cakes, pies, and cookies.

Poisoned, perhaps.

Today, there will only be one visitor, and whatever he carries will be lethal.

My guess is that he’s elected something more deadly than tainted fruit.
 

He wants a showstopper—something gory, since we’re live, life-size, in 3-D, and in front of an auditorium filled with rabid gamers.