Writers Over The Edge: The Hook

From the wandering mind of Tamela Buhrke

The tips of her high-heeled shoes inched past the edge of the window sill. If she hadn’t been so busy fighting against the movement of her body, she would have found the view below quite lovely. Like a pastoral painting.

Soon, it would be a scene from a horror movie. Her body impaled. Her blood dripping down the black rod-iron fence, soaking the Louisiana earth.

“It doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think,” the ghost whispered. The sound slithered across her skin, making it tighten with goosebumps.

It didn’t have to hurt at all, she tried to yell. Her throat constricted. Her jaw convulsed. But her mouth, like the rest of her body, was under the control of someone else.

How? How had she missed the signs?

Cassy knew how.

The last two novels she’d sent to her agent had come back scrawled in pen, red and angry. She was losing her edge. So when she’d heard the stories of this abandoned old mansion, she’d gone. She'd thought she'd find inspiration for her latest Southern romance. The local folklore had painted a particularly dark story of love, misunderstanding and betrayal—ending with a suicide. A woman throwing herself from the attic window.

This window.

Cassy thought she'd write it with a happier ending. A tension-filled romance was just what her career needed.

Imagine her delight, when she’d discovered the ghost. Her frail form hovered near the window. The ghost had been relieved. Relieved to have someone who could listen to her tragedy.

Cassy had spent weeks talking to the ghost. Writing the details in her laptop. The story was even better than she’d hoped. The family had practiced voodoo. Evidence of it was packed in several of the trunks she’d unpacked in the attic. Feathers. Bones. Blood. With each trunk opened, the ghost had become more agitated.

“At first, I thought it would be nice to have company."

Cassy's hand gripped the window frame. She barely heard the ghost's mutterings as she concentrated on how to stay alive.

"But then I realized what would happen.... Why didn’t you leave it alone? I begged you,” the ghost whined like a teapot on high boil. “I warned you.”

She had indeed. After every writing session the ghost had told her not to come again. Warned her that the house held danger.

Cassie’s toes inched farther off the edge. A bead of sweat curled it’s way down her spine. The pounding of her heart filled her ears, making rational thought impossible. Her head looked down. The ground seemed so far away. Filled with too many sharp objects. The blood-stained dress caught the breeze, pressing itself against her trembling legs.

The damned dress.

Her stomach clenched, pushing a shriek of laughter up through her heart, causing her whole body to convulse until it finally vomited from her mouth like gun fire.

She’d found the dress in the last trunk. Impulsively, she pulled it out. The flowing fabric was stiff with blood, yet still it was lovely. Red and bright as the dress Rhett had been forced Scarlett to wear—a symbol of her impropriety.

Cassie was overcome with the need try on the tattered gown. For her book. For research.

The ghost hadn’t even protested. She just stood silent. Still.

Pulling on the dress, she’d been seized by inspiration. By the end of the afternoon, she had typed the final words. The excitement had caused her to jump up with a Whoop!

Then a scream.

Pain bit through her side. A hook in the dress stabbed like a tiny knife. The more she struggled, the worse it tore her skin. Then there was more than just the prick. Something flared and spread like a wildfire through her veins. She’d struggled to get the dress off, tearing at the buttons, but her fingers weren’t working properly. They looked fuzzy, far away. Her breath came shallow and fast.

That was when the man walked out of the shadows.

He looked just as she had written him. Tall, chiseled and very, very dark. Even his ghostly form was shades of gray. His hooked nose sat beneath blue eyes that spread like frozen pools on his icy face.

A glance at the woman told Cassy that her silence was forced. This man controlled her in death, even as he had in life.

He gestured toward the window. Cassy’s feet moved. She’d tried to stop them. Even now she tried to make them obey. But some sort of poison had taken over her body. No. Not just poison.

Voo doo.

The blue of the sky. The bright green of the grass. Why had she never really seen them before? She'd just taken them for granted. Now the colors called her name. The breeze caressed her face, brushing away her tears. The soft movement of silk murmured like leaves fluttering on an autumn day.

Then she knew the ghost had lied.

Because... oh, how it hurt.

Writers Over The Edge: Ghost Writing Can Be Murder

from the warped mind of Tamela Buhrke

Okay, let’s get started. What? My death? Well, it was just plain tacky. The town gossipers had a field day. What? Oh... gosh, I hate thinking back on it... it really was so long ago. Though I think in today’s world they would say I had alcohol poisoning. I did so love fraternity parties. I loved beer almost as much as I love brains now.

...brains mmm...

Where was I? Oh, yes! After such an unseemly death, you can imagine my utter horror when I “woke up” a few moments later—without a pulse. It was ghastly. No one in the history of my family had ever come back as a zombie. We’re good Southern stock. My Daddy used to brag that when you planted a Cartwright in the ground, he stayed there.

And trust me, I tried everything to make that happen. That’s why I’m such a mess. I planned on going back to being dead, and damn the consequences. So I slit my wrists, but they just leaked a bit of goo. I threw myself off a building. It caused my right eye to pop out when I lean too far forward—see!

Goodness knows what would have happened if I’d chosen a taller building. You may not have noticed (I’ve learned to hide it well), but my bones stick out of my skin here and there. It is so embarrassing!

Thank the Lord, I didn’t think to put Mr. Smith & Wesson to my head or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. And wouldn’t that just be a shame? Because this project is so much fun!

Hmm? Well, if I’d shot myself, I suppose I’d be in the zombie sanitarium, with some sweet young volunteer zombie spitting regurgitated brains into my mouth like a baby bird. Those people are just so sad! I shudder every time I see a zambulance cruise by with it’s blue lights flashing. You just know it’s filled with some young zombie who tried to off themselves. Or a rot victim. Zombie rot gets us all in the end, doesn’t it?

What? Oh, of course, not you. Don’t be silly!

Hmmm? My family? Well, as you can imagine, they were quite miffed with me. My Momma cried and Daddy turned several shades of purple. I thought for sure he was going to join me in the afterlife. He finally calmed down when I promised that I would take care of the problem. But when all my attempts proved fruitless, I guess Daddy felt the need to take matters into his own hands.

Some days I really miss his kind heart.

In fact, it was him chasing me with that ax that finally helped me realize just how precious life was—even a zombie life. Right then, I decided to keep on living. It was like being struck by lighting. Being a zombie didn’t mean I couldn’t be a productive member of society. I had experience. I was a reporter for my college paper. Well, maybe not a reporter—I did the wedding announcements—but I knew enough. I could stay at home (where no one would see me) and be a writer.

So I dodged the ax and ignored my Momma’s pleas that I just stand still and get it over with fast.

Now, you have to understand, I wasn’t trying to rebel against my parents. I just wanted to live. So when I ripped that ax right out of my Daddy’s hands, (I had no idea how strong being a zombie had made me) and I swung it back at him, that was just a reaction. Self-preservation, I think they call it. I just wanted him to stop screaming those horrible things at me. I’d never heard him utter words of that nature before. It was... disturbing.

But when the blade cracked open his head like a pistachio and the heavenly scent of brains hit me... well, I am ashamed to say that I lost control.

Daddy would have been real proud to know that he did indeed stay planted... you know... after I ate him.

Afterward, Momma said she reckoned I must have got my zombie genes from her side of the family. But she stayed planted too. I guess we'll never know why I turned.

What? No. My mother was a kindly person. We lived together for years. She even stitched up my wrists real nice for me—see?

What? NO! Well, yes, but it wasn’t like that. Momma got cancer. She told me she’d rather feed me than it.

She tasted sweet as pecan pie.

But enough about me! Your sister’s family has paid me a lot of money to write down your life stories. Why? Well, I suppose they want them for posterity. People call me the best ghost writer this side of the Mississippi. What? Oh, go on now! Nobody’s life was that boring. Surely, you had some adventures before you passed... oh, they think you hid some treasure?

Ha! You rascal! Where did you bury it?

Why won’t you tell me?

What? No, sir! That would be bad business, not to mention bad manners.

Stop it! I will not eat your brother-in-law. He hasn’t even paid me for the writing yet.

Really? You hid how much?! Hmmm... true. That is quite a lot more than he planned to pay me.

Well, I wouldn’t call him cheap but he... oh, really? Stiffed people? That’s just plain rude.

Well, if he does stiff me... I’d have to see the treasure first, mind you. There’s the ethics of being a business woman. I’m a respected writer...

True, he did smell mighty tasty.

Writers Over The Edge: When Characters Get Downright Demonic.

from the wandering mind of Tamela Buhrke

“Knock. Knock.”

Charlotte jumped in her chair. Looking around for the source of the noise, she noticed that shadows had overtaken the small office she used for her writing. Only the glow from her computer lit the gloom. What time was it? She flipped on the desk lamp, revealing that she was indeed completely alone.

Charlotte let go the breath she'd been holding. Just in case, she peered out the window. Nobody was on the landing outside her door. Across the yard, she could see the lights on in her house. Her husband stood in the kitchen, warming up leftovers in the microwave.

She paused and listened to see if the sound would come again. She must have heard a tree branch banging or an odd squeak of some animal in the attic. Certainly not a voice saying "Knock. Knock." It was absurd.

The copy machine vibrated softly in the corner. Long-cold coffee sat in the automatic drip coffee maker. A potted plant wilted near the window. All was quiet.

She leaned back in her seat and rubbed at her tired eyes.

“You did hear me, didn’t you Charlotte?”

She jumped up from her desk, grabbing a ruler in one hand.

“See? Clever girl. You heard me.”

The voice had a ring of familiarity. Something about the wording....

“Sir George?”

“Yes, about that. What kind of name is Sir George? That doesn’t have much panache, now does it?”

She yanked nervously on her ear, willing away the sound of his voice. Across the room, she eyed the closet. Could it be? Was someone was trying to "punk" her, as the kids say?

“Okaaay, what would you like your name to be?” She asked, playing along.

Charlotte crept across the room toward the closet, gripping the ruler tightly. If she survived this, tomorrow she was going to grab one of her son’s old bats from the garage and store it up here.

Her hand trembled on the door handle. Yanking it open, she brandished her ruler. A black object fell on her head. Shrieking, the ruler snapped as she batted the object away.

Dark laughter filled the room.

Jumping back, Charlotte examined the scene. At her feet lay the remnants of the ruler and an old vhs tape of the 1994 trip to Italy she had taken with her husband, as a second honeymoon. There was no one in the closet. Just office supplies, a couple of sweaters and a pile of vhs tapes marking the passage of her life.

“Perfect!" The voice announced. "Something Italian! Baron Di Dannato, perhaps?”

“But you are not a Baron...” she said, examining the Italy tape.

“My dear girl, I can be anything.”

“But...”

“You are just getting started," he crooned. "And I’ve been going over the story. I must say, it won’t do. No, not at all. It’s all flowery bits and giggles. What we need is something new."

"New?"

"Something... darker.”

Goosebumps ran up her arms. Charlotte hugged the tape to her chest.

“But I write romance, not horror.”

Red lights danced across the walls. Tail lights, maybe? Was someone driving up the alley?

“No, not horror,” the amused voice answered, “but something with bite.”

Charlotte snorted. “Just what the world needs, another vampire book.”

“Tsk. Tsk. I wasn’t talking vampires my dear.”

The pause lasted long enough for Charlotte to worry that this shouldn’t be happening. Was she losing her mind? Talking to her character as if he were some sort of disembodied spirit?

“Demon,” the voice purred.

She shuddered. Red lights flickered along the walls again.

"My character, I mean."

Charlotte blinked rapidly. A demon? She padded over to her desk and looked at what she had been writing.

“Demons would add a whole new dimension,” she murmured distractedly.

“I thought you’d like that,” the voice crooned. “Let’s make my lady love a bit of an angel.”

“Yes!” Charlotte gasped. “Forbidden love—angel falls for demon. That's perfect.”

Laughter echoed and then faded. The red lights disappeared.

Charlotte coughed and waved a bit of smoke away. Her focus was on her manuscript. Sitting down, she began to type. The voice was already forgotten.

Only a whiff of brimstone remained.

Writers Over The Edge: For Real

Grumbles from the desk of Tamela Buhrke

I was about to start the 4th blog post in my series on Building Your Marketing Machine, when I stumbled upon an article that made me smack my forehead—repeatedly. So instead of my original post, I am bringing you a cautionary tale about poor marketing strategy.

Recently, aspiring author, Mark Davis, sent query emails to agents, which began with the sentence: “By the time you receive this, I will have already have kidnapped your child.” You can read more about his stunt by clicking here.

To clarify things a bit, the novel that Mr. Davis was querying featured a character who snaps after his novel is rejected one too many times and he decides to kidnap an agent’s daughter. He gives the agent 90 days to publish his novel. Davis thought that sending this threatening email to an agent in the guise of his character, was a great marketing tactic that would help his book stand out from the crowd.

Now you understand why my forehead is red from the earlier smacking.

I write a series for this blog entitled Writers Over The Edge where I lampoon the crazy lengths that writers will go to get (and stay) published. I see now that I may not be projecting the right message. So let me be clear: Writers Over The Edge was never meant as a training manual for publication.

Yet there it was in black and white, a true Writer Over The Edge threatening the children of agents. Even if those agents only believed it for a moment—what horrible moment!

I know we are writers and thus are eager to get the attention of the Gatekeepers to Authordom (aka agents). We have all made a faux pas or two. Writers have been known to follow agents into bathrooms while pitching ideas. Some try to bribe agents with bakery goods, theater tickets or alcohol. Even if we haven’t done crazy things, we’ve at least thought about them. So I can forgive you if you can’t help but wonder (even as you cringe at this man’s tactics) did it work?

Thankfully, no. He did receive a phone call from an agent—who yelled at him. In the end, Davis was signed by an independent publishing company. No word on agent representation. After a stunt like that, I wonder if he ever will.

Davis chalked his actions up to marketing. This was not marketing. This was a desperate gamble for attention. Marketing works when it is backed by a good book, contains a strong plan and has a longterm strategy for sales.

Threatening a gatekeeper is not marketing.

Writers Over The Edge: Pin-up Promotion

A humorous short by Tamela Buhrke about how far writers will go...

Blinded by a flash of light, Parker tripped and fell. His elbows smashed into the tile floor. After a moment of cursing, he sat up and removed a power strip from around his ankle. Why was there a power strip in the middle of the kitchen?

“My God, Parker, did you break anything?!” His wife shrieked.

She bound toward him. Naked. Why was Margaret naked? She fussed and pulled at his jacket, ripping it off to inspect him for breaks. As she rolled up his sleeves, he watched her breasts jiggle. He loved it when they jiggled. Oh! Was today Date Night? That might account for her naked status. He gave her his most winning smile and nuzzled her close.

She smacked him on the head.

“The photographer is here,” she hissed, pulling out of his embrace. “You bruised your elbows. You really should be more careful, darling.”

He started to say something but was distracted by her walk to the freezer. Lost in admiring her shapely bottom, he was startled by someone tapping his shoulder. A wiry young man gestured for the power strip. Parker handed it to him. Grabbing it, the man began plugging a mass of wires back into the strip. He nodded in the direction of Parker’s wife and gave a the thumbs up.

“Pretty hot old lady you have there,” the man whispered.

Parker was about to protest when the man flipped a switch. Light blinded him.

Just then, his wife jammed a bag of frozen vegetables onto each of his elbows and shoved a large rubber band down each arm to hold the bags in place. Pain ripped through his arms.

“Quit whining, it’s just a little arm hair!” His wife chirped, patting the rubber bands into place.

“What is all this?” He asked, rubbing his arms.

“My calendar, silly,” his wife answered, helping him up off the floor.

He vaguely remembered her getting excited over creating a calendar. He watched her saunter to the middle of the kitchen and drape herself across the kitchen island in a pose that both excited and appalled him.

“I was thinking about something like this for February?” She batted her eyes at him. “A little something to heat things up in the middle of winter.”

He cleared his throat. “What do you mean February... Oh, no! No! You are not doing a nude calendar to promote your ridiculous romance novels!”

She frowned at him, still in her sexy pose. “Really dear? But we talked about this. You loved my calendar idea. My sales are down. If I don’t get more promotion then my publisher won’t renew my contract.” She paused for effect. “Really, this is all because of you. You said a publicist was too expensive, so I had to come up with something.”

The publicist was too expensive. Parker rubbed his temples. Water dripped down the front of his shirt from the melting vegetable bags.

“Without my income, we’ll never afford that trip to Hawaii you planned,” she said, rolling off the island.

He did love golfing in Hawaii. His wife moved to pose in front of the stove, kicking one heel up and nibbling on a wooden spoon. That’s when he noticed her red high heels. She moved her hips suggestively and gestured to the photographer who started snapping pictures.

“But you are almost fifty!” Parker yelled.

Margaret raised one eyebrow. He took a step back, realizing his error.

“A really hot fifty!” Muttered the wiry photographer.

That was it. Parker marched over to the power cord and snapped the off button, then spun to face the photographer with his hand extended.

“Give me the film!”

“But it’s digital...”

“The card then, give me the blasted card!” He bellowed. The photographer nearly dropped the camera twice trying to get the card out. Parker ripped it from his hand and shook the card in his wife’s face.

“Hire the publicist! No calendar!”

He marched triumphantly toward the stairs. As he turned he caught his wife winking at the grinning photographer. His footsteps slowed on the stairs. Would he ever win? He glanced back down at his beautiful, naked wife and smiled.

He already had.

Writers Over The Edge: Rage Review

A humorous short by Tamela Buhrke

“Welcome back to the Indie Publishing Talk Network. I’m your host, Joe Wilson. Today I’ll be interviewing a young woman who has caused quite a stir in the writing community. That’s right folks, Jezebel Hewett is in our studios. She had the audacity to do what no author, indie or otherwise, has done before -- she argued with a book reviewer on his own blog. She didn’t like what he had to say. She fought back. Now she’s here to tell us about it. Jezebel, great to have you here.”

“Great to be here, Joe,” Jezebel yelled into the screeching mic. “I think it’s about time someone listened to my side of the story.”

Joe gestured at Jody in the control room to lower the volume on Jezebel’s mic.

“So let’s dive right in! You wrote a novel and decided to publish it independently. Why is that?”

“The publishing industry is *bleep*ed up, Joe,” Jezebel said with a confident nod. “They don’t know their *bleep* from a hole in the ground, now do they?”

"I’m sorry Jezebel, we can’t use that kind of language on the air.”

“What? Why? Is it because I’m English?”

“No, it’s just that we can’t use profanity on air. So let’s get back to your book. You self-published and then you sent your novel out to the review blogs...”

“Bad decision on my part.”

Joe leaned back in his seating, feeling like he’d finally gotten control of this interview. “Why is that?

“Review bloggers are worse than the agents and publishers, aren’t they? They are more worried about grammar and spelling than about the book itself. That don’t make sense!”

Joe frowned. “Uh, isn’t grammar and spelling important?”

“My writing is just fine!” Jezebel glared at him.

“That doesn’t really answer the question.”

“*Bleep* off!”

“Okaaay,” Joe paused to give her a moment to explain, but she just scowled at him. “Well, hmm... let’s see what our listeners have to say. Jody, my lovely assistant, are there any callers on the line?”

Jody’s eyes sparkled as she opened the line to talk on air. “Joe, we have Big Jake on line two. He’s the blogger who negatively reviewed Jezebel’s book.”

Joe gave her two big thumbs up and punched line two. “Big Jake, welcome to the show!”

“Thank you Joe. Can I just take a moment to make something very clear?”

“Fire away, Big Jake.”

“I want everyone listening to know that most of the indie books that I review are very well written and enjoyable. I don’t want people to think that this woman represents the independent book market in any way.”

Jezebel leaned into her mic. “Well, for once in your *bleep*ing life, you got something right Big Jake! You snake! You are just like the rest of the reviewers in your snake pit. So I’m not going to join your little group, am I? I’m not going to be an indie author anymore. I’m starting a new style of publishing.”

“Wow, listeners, you’ve heard it here first. Jezebel what new style of publishing is that?”

“Cobra Venom.”

Jake looked up at Jezebel in confusion. “I’m sorry? Did you say ‘Cobra Venom?’”

“Charlie Sheen may have Tiger’s Blood in his veins, but I have Cobra Venom spitting through my teeth.”

Jezebel pulled a cigarette out of the pocket of her shirt and placed it between her lips.

“I, uh, I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Joe said, shaking his head and waving a finger at her cigarette.

“Well, if the publishing industry is going to be a bunch of *bleep* and the reviewers for indie books are stupid *bleep*ing snakes in a pit,” Jezebel said with the cigarette balancing on the edge of her lip, “then I say I should fight fire with fire. I’m going to start an independent movement that’s independent of the indie movement.”

“Independent of the independents?” Joe asked, grimacing at the lighter Jezebel pulled out of her pocket.

“That’s right! I’m calling it Cobra Venom. Like the bleeding snake that got out of the New York Zoo.” She lit the cigarette and sucked in, ignoring Joe’s glare. “I’m freeing writers every where from the tyranny of publishers and book reviews.”

“But aren’t book reviews important for book sales?”

Jezebel blew smoke out her nostrils.

“Book reviewers, pshah!” she said with sneer. “Who are they anyway? We won’t join their little group. Instead we’ll write our own way. If we have grammar errors, then I see nothing wrong with it. If reviewers don’t like our work, I say we’ll just inject them with our venom. We are Cobra Venom!”

Jezebel arced her fingers in front of her mouth in the universal sign for fangs. Jody threw her head down on the console. Her shoulders moved up and down rhythmically. Joe had to look away from both of them.

“Well, listeners, you heard it. Today, a new style of writing has been born. It’s called Cobra Venom.”

“Sssssst.”

“What was that?” Joe asked.

“That was me being a *bleep*ing cobra.”

Joe glanced over at the shaking Jody, who was now slapping the desk with one hand.

“Um. Well folks, that’s all we have time for today. Join us tomorrow on Indie Publishing Talk Network when we’ll be interviewing three indie authors who claim to know Amanda Hocking. Good night Indie land!”

Writers Over The Edge: Granny Smith, Mystery Writer

A humorous short by Tamela Buhrke on the length's we writers might go to get, and stay, published.

Office lights zipped past as she plunged through the darkness. Her hair whipped her face, her bones creaked and her bladder was decidedly unhappy. It had been a long time since she’d last done this. But it couldn’t be helped. She had tried to reason with them like a civilized person. They just wouldn’t listen.

She took her mind off her frustration by counting the floors as they flew by. Squeezing her grip as she neared the seventeenth, she slowed to a stop and righted herself to face the window. She was pleased to see that it was just the way she had remembered it, a wall of windows with large ones on top and small ones near the floor. By the looks of them, the small ones had originally opened for ventilation. They were sealed now. It was just as well. Those small vent opening required too many bodily contortions. Her knees would never have allowed it.

The office was Jeff McGee’s. He was the senior editor for her publishing company. Jeff, was in his office late, as usual. How many times had she told him he was getting too old to work so late? Yet, here he was reading email at 10pm. With his back to the window, he had no idea she was dangling there. Which, of course, was just the way she wanted it.

Any second now, her grandson would be calling; impersonating the downstairs guard to get the editor out of his office. He was an extraordinary boy with a talent for impersonations. Unlike his parents -- who thought he should go to law school, if you can imagine it -- she had high hopes that he would go into acting.

As soon as Jeff hung up the phone and was out of his office, she attached two suction cups to the lower window then inserted a small tool into the rubberized moulding. Quickly carving around the window, she pushed forward with the suction cups and set the glass on the floor of the office.

Once inside, she donned a black ski mask and took her place by the door. When a confused Jeff returned to the office, she sprayed him with the knockout gas she’d been delighted to find in a box in her attic. To her surprise, it still worked beautifully.

Grunting, she hauled Jeff by his legs across the room. Oh, my. He was at least thirty pounds heavier than the last time she’d done this. He really needed to take better care of himself. She had just trussed him up when he began to groan and rubbed a temple. Gently squeezed him out the window, she slipped her voice modulator under her mask-- another pleasant surprise from the attic.

He opened his eyes.

Oh, dear. He shrieked quite a bit louder and longer than she had expected. The poor man was going to give himself a heart attack. She waved her arms to direct his attention back into the office and away from the drop below him.

“Jeffrey McGee,” she called in her altered, much lower voice. “Listen to me and you will live a long and happy life.”

Jeff’s wide eyes focused in her direction.

“Good,” she crooned. “Jeff, what I am about to tell you is a matter of national security.”

She’d used this script, modified somewhat for each occasion, ever since the Company had recruited her during her circus days. They had found her world travel and athletic flexibility an invaluable asset. Her experiences with them had been put to good use in her mystery writing career. She found writing a pleasant diversion during retirement and was not about to give it up.

“You were planning to terminate the book contract of a woman named Granny Smith. We need you to renew her contract for another five books.”

“Why?” Jeff asked meekly, beginning to sway a bit in the breeze.

She stumbled for a moment. Why indeed?

“That’s classified. The important thing is that you do as you are told! Your country will be forever in your debt.”

Jeff swallowed, gave a glance at the seventeen stories below him, and nodded. Satisfied, granny sprayed him with knockout gas, dragged him inside, cut the rope and propped him at his desk. She decided to leave the halter on him and put the frayed part of rope in his right hand. A small token to remind him that she meant business.

Pulling a janitor’s cap and uniform out of her backpack, she wandered out of the building limping and rubbing her hip. Oh, darn. Her sciatica was acting up.