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Quote:
Originally Posted by Hitch
Mmmmmmmmm...I don't know. The extract we all read was pretty damned dark, and, truthfully, not so funny. I don't know if the whole book is like that, or not. I mean, I didn't miss the silly references to her training at a finishing school versus being whatever she was (special forces, spy, whatever), but overall it's dark-ish.
Hitch
Hitch, I know it's hard to get the tone of the whole book from the first scene. Here's the first chapter. I think that will give you more than enough to get an idea of the tone of the whole book and where I should head with the cover. Thanks
Spoiler:
“Give up, scumbag?” Lainey Tripper said to the thug she had in a headlock. She could feel his warm saliva on her forearm. He was drooling, choking. “Well, do you!”
“You’re dead, Tripper,” the guy sputtered. “When Donovan hears about this, you’re dead meat.”
Donovan again, Lainey thought. She should’ve known. All the evil in this town was tied to Donovan somehow, so it should come as no surprise that he was the evil mastermind behind the dogs disappearing from Chicago. The blind peg-legged dirtbag. Lainey pulled a knife from a pocket in her business suit. She had to open the knife with one hand, and the blade locked in place. “You don’t deserve it, especially since you’re one of Donovan’s scumbags, but I’m giving you one last chance to live.” Lainey was knocked forward, tumbling over the man, into a glass case, the glass shattering, trophies cascading down on top of her. “Wow!”
She could feel the knife whisked from her hand, then a punch caught her solidly in the right breast. She raised up only to get knocked back by a kick to the forehead. She told herself to keep moving, always moving, her mercenary training second nature in a crisis. And now she was getting pissed off—she was going to have a boot mark on her forehead like a fricking advertising logo for God only knew how long. But yeah, she kept moving. It was her only chance. This new guy was refrigerator-huge, and he had her knife. She didn’t have time to see if he had any other weapons. And she still had to help Izzy! She told herself to try appealing to him. “Listen—” A punch caught her in the ear. Scratch appealing. This guy was good. He had no mercy. She rolled across the floor, over the glass, the trophies, adrenaline exploding, feeling no pain.
“Not so tough now, are you, you little slut,” the new guy said—the first guy was gone from Lainey’s field of vision—his voice surprisingly effeminate. When he called out, “Carter, get the silencer,” he looked over his shoulder, and when he did, Lainey grabbed a basketball trophy—a little gold statuette of a basketball player, arm fully extended, holding a basketball up to the sky—and got to her knees. When the man turned back, she rammed the trophy up his nose, the basketball from the trophy jamming straight into his brain. The man staggered back, the trophy dangling from his face like an elephant trunk.
Lainey, forearms bloody from the cut glass, pried her knife from the dead thug’s hand. The first thug meanwhile had left the room and now returned screwing a silencer onto a pistol. Lainey’s only hope was that he had a little more screwing to do, but he turned the gun on her.
“I told you, Tripper, you’re dead.” He fired and the bullet slammed into her shoulder. He laughed. Then he laughed again.
Lainey whipped her knife and hit him in the balls. He stepped back like a stuck pig, taking Frankenstein steps backward until he butted into a wall. “Why you little c…”
Lainey grabbed a shard of glass and threw it, the glass lodging in the guy’s gun arm like an arrow, his pistol dropping to the floor. She walked toward him, stopping to pick up his pistol. “What were you saying?” she said. “What was that? I think it was, ‘You’re dead,’ something like that.” She nodded toward his knife-impaled groin. “I wasn’t aiming there. Sheer luck. But it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“You are so dead, Tripper, you man-hating slut.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Lainey said. “How long did it take you to think that one up? Man-hating slut. You in MENSA?”
The man spat at her, but Lainey ducked. She said, “It’s funny, but a dead-meat man-hating slut is about to kill you.” She fired three quick shots into his torso, then when he’d fallen, one behind the ear. She unscrewed the silencer from the gun as she walked to a mirror and looked herself over. God, what a mess, Tripper, she thought. She ran her hand through her hair and brushed the splintery glass shards from her business suit. Her shoulder, the blood from the wound darkening the tan suit, but not too badly, was burning.
Now she had to find Izzy.
She was thinking about Donovan again as she opened the door to the hallway. The blind peg-legged dirtbag was an evil mastermind ruining Chicago for women and animals. The hallway was dark, nothing but janitorial staff would be around this late in a big downtown office building. Now what room number did Wanda say Izzy was in? Lainey’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She checked the caller ID. Wanda. She put the phone to her ear. “Yeah.”
“Lainey, where the hell were you? I’ve been calling non-stop.”
“Well, I was kind of busy there for a while.” Lainey thought about screwing the silencer back on the pistol. She could feel she wasn’t alone in the hallway. “And this building’s old school. Steel beams. The signal probably didn’t get through. And anyway, like I said, I was kind of busy.”
“Lainey, you didn’t. Not again.”
“Hey, stuff happens, Wanda. What can I tell you. They attacked me.”
“They? How many did you kill this time?”
“Two so far.”
“You definitely have a problem with men.”
“Yeah, yeah, but listen, Wanda, I don’t have time to fend off your guilt. I gotta get to Izzy. Now what room did your mole say she was in?”
“417.”
Lainey could feel goose bumps forming on her arms. Her years in a Buddhist monastery training to be a monk came in handy now—she was picking up on another person’s spirit nearby. She clicked off the phone.
“Hello?” she called down the hallway.
“Can I help you?” came back a male voice, but still no body.
“Oh, I know you might be surprised someone’s here at three in the morning,” Lainey said. “I was just finishing up some paperwork. Heading home now though.” She thought for sure the man, whoever he was, would see her bloody shoulder. Again she thought about screwing the silencer back on the pistol but wasn’t sure she’d have time. No matter what happened she wasn’t leaving without Izzy. She heard faint beeps sounding on a cell phone as if it were being dialed.
“Please,” Lainey said, knowing the man was calling in trouble. “That’s not necessary. I’m just here because I have an important report due in the morning.”
The man jumped from behind a wall, cell phone to his ear, pistol in his other hand. This was no security cop. This was another one of Donovan’s goons. Another one of the men who’d kidnapped Izzy and done God only knows what to her. Lainey gritted her teeth. The guy was a good thirty feet from her. With the distraction of him holding the cell phone and the low light, she figured there was a fifty-fifty chance if he fired, he’d miss. She yanked the pistol from her waistband and fired—and kept firing. She saw the man’s pistol muzzle flash twice but couldn’t hear the gun’s reports as the sound of her shots drowned out everything else, the shrill sounds echoing down the hallway and ringing in her ears. This wasn’t good. No, this wasn’t good at all. The noise was going to draw all kinds of attention. Now where the hell was room 417? She stepped over the dead man’s body, flipped open her cell and hit the speed dial button for Wanda.
“Lainey, why’d you hang up on me?”
“Wanda, plans have changed. I had another little complication here. We’ve got to move everything up. Pull the van right outside the office building’s front door.”
“Did you do what I think you did?”
“Can’t talk. Just do it.” She clicked off, hopped on an elevator and rode to the fourth floor. She was woozy—she must’ve lost a lot of blood. “403,” she said softly as she walked down the hall. “407…415.” She heard a whimpering coming from under 417’s door.
She slipped a jimmy from her sleeve. This is where her days as a cat burglar in New Orleans would come in handy—and this door’s lock was a piece of cake anyway. She knew that Izzy might be riled up at first. Who knew what Donovan and his thugs had done to her since kidnapping her. She might be ready to attack any human being at this point. But she would also pick up quickly on Lainey’s spirit and know that she was there to help. Lainey eased the door open.
A vicious guttural growling grew.
Lainey said, “There, girl. Easy…easy.” Her days as an animal whisperer in Colorado were paying off now. Izzy was calming down, the growl dissipating and gradually being replaced by a welcoming whine and tail wagging. She was safe and sound at last.
* * *
“Hit it, Wanda!” Lainey said when she got in the van waiting outside the downtown office building. Izzy safely in the back, the van peeled off. “Well, not that fast.” Lainey turned and looked. Izzy had taken a tumble with the sudden acceleration. “You okay, girl?”
Wanda, at the wheel, was shaking her head. “You’re the one who looks like she’s not okay, Lainey. I’m going straight to the hospital. I can see you’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Ah.” Lainey glanced at her bloody shoulder. “It’s just a scratch. Just take me to Dr. Tillie. She’ll fix me up.”
“Dr. Tillie’s a veterinarian.”
“Hey, you know what they say—veterinarians are better than doctors because animals can’t tell them what’s bothering them.”
“What happened to your forehead?”
Lainey shrugged. “What do you mean?”
Wanda looked closer and read. “Dingo Boots.”
“Oh my God.” Lainey rubbed her forehead. “Somebody kicked me.”
“Lainey, you need to see an M.D.”
“I’m telling you, I’ll be fine. Besides, Dr. Tillie can do anything. And if she’s good enough for the animals we rescue, she’s good enough for me.”
Wanda cleared her throat. “And so…how many men this time?”
Lainey frowned. “Dead?”
“Yes.”
“Three.”
“And so some lived?”
“Well, no.”
Wanda inhaled deeply as she drove. “You really need help with that, you know. You have a real problem killing men.”
“Hey, I got Izzy back, didn’t I? Have you forgotten the IWS motto: ‘Save any animal. Any way’?”
“I haven’t forgot.” Wanda checked her rearview mirror with more than a glance. “It’s just I don’t think you need to be killing people—”
“Men.”
“Fine. I don’t think you need to be killing men on every op we go on.”
“You know, you’re always so thin skinned about that.”
Wanda checked the mirror again. “Oh, geez.”
“What?”
She nodded toward the mirror. “I think somebody’s following us.”
Lainey turned to look. Was this day was never going to end? A red pickup truck was behind them. “He might just be going to the produce market with vegetables. Turn right on Jackson and see if he follows.”
Wanda turned, Izzy sliding on the bare van floor but managing to keep her feet.
“Oh crap.” Lainey checked her side mirror, and the pickup, still behind, was getting closer. A ripping pain was shooting from her shoulder, radiating all the way to her fingertips. She winced and said, “I hate to say it, Wanda, but I think you might have to handle this one.”
“No. Un-uh.” Wanda tapped the steering wheel three times. “I’m the pacifist, remember? I’m like the person who drives the supply truck in the army.”
Lainey checked the pistol she’d taken from the thug. “Did you at least bring the weapons box, supply truck driver?”
Wanda nodded. “Behind my seat.”
Lainey stashed the thug’s pistol and silencer in the glove compartment and grabbed one of her automatic pistols from the weapons box. She made sure the safety was off. “Just stop at this next light and let the pickup pull up next to you. I really don’t feel like getting out.”
“What are you going to do, shoot the guy from here?”
“You have a better idea?”
Izzy whined as if approvingly.
Wanda stopped at the light. Lainey held the pistol tightly as the pickup rolled up next to them. Lainey buzzed her window down. The van was slightly higher than the pickup, and Lainey could see a sawed-off shotgun on the pickup’s passenger seat, which meant this guy was no cop. And anyway Lainey would never shoot a cop. But no, this was another one of Donovan’s thugs. The man had a hairy beard like a Russian monk and was wearing a Green Bay Packers cap, which was making Lainey even madder. Clearly the guy wanted to re-kidnap Izzy. Lainey could say something trite to him but why bother? She raised the pistol and blasted away, the glass of the pickup shattering, the creep getting knocked over and collapsing, a blood-streaked mess, atop the sawed-off shotgun.
“There you go again,” Wanda said as she screeched away from the light, Izzy in the back taking another tumble. “You really need to get your rage against men under control.”
Lainey turned and saw the pickup drifting over a curb, breaking through a Macy’s plate-glass display window, the mannequins getting nudged over, knocked into a partitioning wall. “Rage against men? The guy had a sawed-off shotgun on the seat, Wanda. Now slow down, will you? It’s three in the morning. You’re going to get stopped for speeding, and like I told you before, I don’t kill cops. Even if they are men.”
“Oh lovely. It’s such a relief to know that you aren’t going to kill everybody—”
“I only kill men.”
“Oh, let me rephrase that then. It’s such a relief that you aren’t going to kill every man.”
Lainey put her pistol back into the weapons box. “Wanda, you’ve seen that the dogs are disappearing from Chicago in alarming numbers. The IWS is a feminist animal rescue action group. We don’t send letters to the editor. We act.”
“And you with deadly force.”
Lainey frowned and turned to Izzy. “Come here, girl.” The Afghan hound show dog pranced to the front. Lainey petted the dog as it licked her gun hand. “Look at this,” she said to Wanda.
Wanda looked.
“Don’t look that long!”
The van bounced into the curb.
“C’mon, Wanda.”
“Sorry.”
“But anyway, this beautiful animal, that was kidnapped, and God only knows what Donovan and his thugs might’ve done to her, is the reason the IWS and I do what we do. Isn’t she reason enough, Wanda? An animal, a defenseless animal, was kidnapped by the disgusting, sadistic men of Donovan, and we saved her. Yes, isn’t that reason enough?”
A tear slid down Wanda’s cheek. “It is, Lainey. It is.”
* * *
The next morning came quickly, FiFi, Lainey’s six-year-old Yorkshire terrier, licking Lainey’s face. Lainey rolled over and looked out the window of her high-rise condo on Michigan Avenue. Oh, the crushing pain in her shoulder reminded her of the night before. Yes, Dr. Tillie had bandaged her up and shot her full of antibiotics, but Lainey had refused all pain meds. It was a matter of principle. She had to stay strong for the IWS. She admired the ancient Native American Sundance festival (wondering why the film festival was named that) in which the braves endured fantastical amounts of physical pain to toughen themselves in order to serve their communities better. And yes, they were men, but she would do them all one better, become even tougher than they were. She welcomed the agony. Agony was a woman’s domain, after all. Just look at childbirth.
The phone rang, and Lainey checked her caller ID. She picked up. “Dr. Tillie, listen, I owe you for last night.”
“Lainey, you really should go to the hospital. You know that, dear, don’t you?”
“I know.” Lainey sat up in bed, felt woozy, but was stabilizing. She picked up FiFi and set her on the bed next to her. “But I trust you more than I do those kid interns in the emergency rooms.”
“You’re one of a kind, Elaine Tripper.”
“Oh, don’t call me Elaine. Only my parents call me Elaine and that when they’re mad at me. So are you ready for the IWS meeting?” She flicked FiFi’s fur out of her little eyes.
“Well, I was wondering if we were going to meet. Seeing as you’re hardly in any condition to be there.”
“My condition is tip-top thanks to you, Doc.” Lainey got up, holding FiFi on her hip, the pain almost forcing her back down. She looked out her window again. Lake Michigan was so beautiful in the summertime. And the morning rush hour traffic was lessening on Lake Shore Drive. Lainey loved her condo in the John Hancock Building. 45th floor. She loved Chicago. “I’ll see you there.”
The IWS met at the Congregational Church on Chestnut Street. (Lainey made sure the church was always swept for electronic bugs. This is where Lainey’s years spent in MI5’s counterespionage unit really proved helpful.) Lainey nodded to Wanda as she walked into the cathedral-like church. Dr. Tillie was in the front row, mildly shaking her head disapprovingly or approvingly—Lainey couldn’t be sure. The IWS was one hundred of the most highly trained animal rescue feminists in the world. Lainey bristled with pride in the women as she climbed the heavily ornate church pulpit.
“The IWS rules!” she shouted.
“The IWS rules!” thundered back at her.
“IWSers, no one is doing more glorious work on earth than you.” The pain in Lainey’s shoulder was excruciating, but she would not let it stop her. She chanted inwardly the Sundance mantra she’d learned at a vision quest in a sweat lodge in Guadalajara. “You are fulfilling the sacred oath you took of making the world safe for women and animalhood. And here in our home city of Chicago we know that animals and women are particularly unsafe because the nefarious secret organization of men, of all life stations and occupations, led by the evil Donovan has formed a vast conspiracy to degrade, harass, murder and even abuse women and animals. IWSers, we cannot let this evil triumph.
“But unfortunately.” Lainey sighed and leaned on the pulpit. “I have some disturbing news to report. The latest Chicago animal census from our IWS Intelligence Committee is in, and the numbers are distressing. Chicago is losing net one thousand dogs a day. All kinds of dogs, like the high-end show dog, Izzy, that we freed last night, down to the lovable mixed-breeds roaming the alleys. Now, I knew we were losing dogs, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it was this many this fast. People, we don’t know why we’re losing them, but we do know one thing—there can be little doubt that the evil Donovan is behind it.”
Cries of anguish and anger arose from the IWSers. Lainey waved them down. “I know what you’re thinking, people,” she said, nodding. “Chicago will soon be dogless. And you’re right. It will. But it’s even more sinister than that. I have little doubt that as Donovan spreads his evil plan, the suburbs, state, country, hell, the world will soon be without a single dog left.”
The IWSers screamed, ranted, stamped their feet on the church wooden floor. Several fainted. A chant started slowly and grew in strength. “Death to Donovan and all his male scumbag minions…Death to Donovan and all his male scumbag minions…”
“Yes!” Lainey led the IWSers like a maestro conducting a symphony. “Death to Donovan and all his male scumbag minions!” Lainey had studied the crowd psychology theories of Margaret Thatcher, and knew she was on the verge of whipping the IWS into a frenzy, so she grimaced Mussolini-like, raised her arms and yelled, “IWS rules!”
“IWS rules!” echoed back. “IWS rules!”
Lainey gave the congregation a few moments to recover from their mass hysteria. She nodded as those who had fainted were helped onto pews and given smelling salts. Finally she spoke.
“It’s up to us, IWSers. The fate of dogdom rests on our shoulders. Now let’s break into committees.”
The assembly split up. Lainey, Wanda, Dr. Tillie and Constance, the pretty redhead, made up the Executive Committee, and they sat at a table in the front. (Although Constance was an IWS “floater” and member of several IWS committees.) Lainey asked Dr. Tillie about Izzy’s medical condition and was gratified to hear that Izzy was going to make a full physical recovery from whatever Donovan’s thugs might’ve done to her, and that there was a good chance she would recover emotionally as well.
Lainey took charge of the committee—chanting internally her vision quest mantra ‘O-me-neshu’—refusing to wince from the pain throbbing in her shoulder. “So, what do we have on the agenda for today, Wanda?”
Wanda swallowed hard. “Gangbangers on the west side, Lainey. IWS Intel tells us that despite being gangbangers, they are Donovan’s thugs, and that they have been gathering pit bulls from all over the city, and these dogs are never seen again.”
“Donovan,” Lainey brooded. “It figures,” she said, and she waved the women to their feet. “Well, let’s get right after the evil scumbags. Maybe we can pump some information out of them to see why Donovan is stealing the dogs. Dr. Tillie, you riding with us?”
“Somebody’s got a keep an eye on you, dear,” the veterinarian said with a gentle smile.
“Constance, is the storage truck set up and ready to follow the van?”
Constance was twirling her pretty red hair. “All set, Lainey.”
Wanda shuffled from foot to foot. “But before we go, there’s more.”
Lainey nodded. “I’m listening.”
“Maybe you ought to sit down for this one.”
“God, I hate drama,” Lainey said, but she sat.
Wanda took a deep breath. “Intel also says that when Donovan heard about you getting Izzy back, he dispatched a hundred trained Hungarian assassins to kill you.”
Lainey shrugged. “Is that all?”
“You’re not worried? Lainey, a hundred trained Hungarian assassins!”
“I’ve seen worse.”
* * *
Within minutes the IWS van—loaded with high-tech surveillance equipment, weaponry and ammo—was on the rundown, graffiti-strewn west side of Chicago, the big IWS storage truck trailing. Potholes littered the street. The windows had bars on them. Hooded druggies wandered around, paint-stained paper bags pressed to their faces. “The other side of Chicago,” Lainey said, “that tourists don’t see. Donovan’s denizens.”
“We’re coming up to the target address,” Wanda said, eyeing the van’s GPS assiduously. “You sure you want to go through with this, Lainey? Your shoulder and all?”
“Let me ask you a question, Wanda. How many dogs does Intel estimate the gangbangers have, and how many of those dogs are female?”
“Sixty-nine dogs, thirty-seven females.”
“So a majority are female.”
“Are you telling or asking, Lainey? I don’t know. I was never any good at math.”
Lainey turned to Dr. Tillie. “It’s a majority, isn’t it, Doc?”
Dr. Tillie nodded.
Lainey turned back to Wanda. “Yeah, it’s a majority, Wanda.” She sighed. “Damn, I lost my vein of thought.”
“That’s ‘train’ of thought, sweetheart,” Dr. Tillie corrected.
“That too,” said Lainey. “Well.” She shoved a fresh sixteen-shot clip into her pistol. “Enough intellectual theory already. We have to save the dogs and that’s that.”
Wanda nodded.
“Right-o,” Dr. Tillie said, and she jauntily bunched up the back of her bun.
Lainey had been going to rely on the mental judo she’d learned working in the Mumbai slums as an undercover Mossad agent but figured she’d better use all the weapons and devices at her disposal so as to be better safe than sorry, and that meant wearing a wire. “Test,” she said into the mic—that often pinched at the most inconvenient times—in her sports bra, and she snugged her earpiece in.
Wanda threw on a headset. “Say again.”
“Test—test—test.”
“Gotcha, Lainey. And can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Wanda. So everything’s ready then?”
Wanda pulled off the headset. “Yep.”
“Constance is behind you in the storage truck?”
Wanda checked her rearview mirror. “Yes.”
“Well, girls, wish me luck.”
“Luck, Lainey,” said Wanda.
“Remember, just pull back if you need to, sweetheart,” Dr. Tillie said. “And yes, good luck.”
Lainey climbed gingerly, careful not to jar her bad shoulder, from the van, then she turned back, stood defiantly and yelled: “IWS rules!”
“IWS rules!” shouted Wanda and Dr. Tillie.
Now I’m really on my own, thought Lainey as she walked down the cracked sidewalk, the sun in her eyes, a faint breeze blowing back her hair, moderating at least a little bit of the ninety degree heat. She noticed some men way up ahead on the corner. Her shoulder was stiffening—good thing it was her off shoulder. It was a little unusual because the men were white, and they wore green felt mountaineering hats, leather boots, with their pants tucked into them, puffy long-sleeved white shirts, vests and sashes. Maybe, Lainey figured, they were going to be part of an ethnic pride parade like they were always having in Chicago. And anyway she had more important things to worry about. To her right on the stoop of a tenement building were seven or eight gangbangers.
“Yo, homies,” she said, doing her best pimp roll walk. Lainey was in her thirties and knew she might be borderline old school to these guys, but her days working for the President’s gang task force were going to help here. “Was’ up, blood? Yous all dope today?” she said, twisting her hands and fingers at odd angles in what she hoped would pass for gang signs.
The men—speckled with tattoos, heads covered with taut black nylon caps, heavy gold chains around their necks—just stared at her.
“Yo,” she continued, still flashing the fake signs. “Yo. How you like the latest Kanye West jams, bros?”
Nothing. Except with her doing the gang signs, the mic in the sports bra was pinching already.
“Yo. So, my homies, since you’re not down with jiving with me dis day, just tell me where da dogs be. Yo.”
Still nothing. Except the mic pinching more and more.
“Ahh!” she yelled. God, it really pinched good that time.
A couple of the homies flinched.
Wanda said into Lainey’s earpiece, “You okay?”
“Yeah, Wanda.” Lainey pulled at her left boob to hopefully adjust the mic.
The homies were gawking.
“I’m okay, homies. And I’m okay that you not jiving with me, but yo, jes checkin’…” She decided to abandon her gang-speak lingo. “…you can talk, can’t you?”
“Hey, watch it, ho,” one of them said, and he shifted aggressively.
“You know, I don’t get it.” Lainey shook her head. “You guys are always using derogatory, demeaning terms for women. It’s not right. But tell you what, let me know where the dogs are and I’ll overlook it this time.”
The men laughed. “Crazy ho,” one of them said.
Lainey thought of how Wanda was always on her back about killing men. She turned to the van and said, “See. See what I have to put up with. If you had to put up with this, you’d kill ’em too.” She turned back. One of the men pulled a silver handgun. A dog yelped from inside the building. That was all Lainey needed to hear. She nodded to the gunner. “Last chance, Slick. Shoot or put it away.”
The man glanced sidelong at the others. “This one psycho ho.”
“Good rhyme,” Lainey said with a smile. “Now it’s my turn. I counted you up and you’re seven, and now you all won’t be going to heaven!” She yanked her 9mm from her waistband and started shooting. She began with the gunner and got him and the next three with headshots. The others took a little work as they scrambled about, but fortunately she had the sixteen-shot clip and was able to finish them off. They were a mass of blood and guts, and she stepped over them on her way into the building.
The pit bulls met her with a chorus of relief-filled yelping. They’d been penned in a back room with no air conditioning or toilets, and Lainey could smell it. They all had color-coded tags on their paws, like geese tagged in the wild for scientific experiments. The males were, of course, pushing to the front, but she could overlook that for now. “Let’s go,” she said, opening the gate, and the dogs, tails wagging, funneled like a herd of wild monkeys to the front door. “Wanda, have Constance pull the storage truck to the front. Copy?” Wanda repeated the word. Lainey waited until the storage truck arrived and Constance opened the truck’s roll-top door and set up a ramp to it.
“All right,” Lainey said to the dogs. “Here we go. Free at last.”
The dogs trundled over the dead bodies on the stoop, several of them stopping to give Donovan’s thugs a retaliatory bite on the way down. Lainey crossed her arms and watched with great satisfaction as the dogs ran like the running of the bulls in Pamplona up the ramp and into the back of the storage truck. But sirens were sounding, and to Lainey’s right she caught a glimpse of something in her peripheral vision.
It was the white guys in the funny outfits. Lainey vaguely remembered what Wanda had said during this morning’s briefing. Something about a hundred trained Hungarian assassins coming to kill her. Now that she thought about it, it looked like the white guys were wearing Hungarian garb, with the green felt mountaineering hats, long-sleeved white shirts, vests and sashes, so this could be trouble. She motioned to Constance, who was now in the storage truck’s cab. “Go go go!”
The truck pulled off, and Lainey heard something that sounded like “Yaki yaki yaki!” Her experience as a U.N. interpreter was key now. Yes, it was Hungarian! She released the spent clip from her pistol and jammed in a fresh one. Then she quick-piled the gangbangers’ bodies on top of each other to make a little wall and ducked behind it just as the shooting started. The assassins’ bullets zapped into the bodies (Hungarian assassins were famous for using homemade hollow-point bullets) with incredible force, sending bits of flesh flying like a wet snowball hitting a light pole. The relentless firing continued. It wouldn’t be long till the gangbangers’ bodies were minced to nothing, but now Lainey’s gold medal in the Rapid Fire Pistol event in the Olympics was going to prove invaluable.
Ping. She fired and a Hungarian slumped over a car hood. Ping. Another Hungarian, this one in a tree, fell and bashed headfirst into a garbage can. Ping. Ping. Ping. And the five Hungarian assassins were done in by her superior Olympic training.
The IWS van screeched up in front of the building, wafts of smoke flaring from its tires. Lainey stood and flicked bits of gangmembers’ flesh from her shoulders, neck and hair. She eyeballed Wanda in the van. “Well, you could’ve come a little sooner!”
Wanda shook her head. “I told you, Lainey, I’m a pacifist.”
Lainey wasn’t going to argue. Besides, the sirens were closing in. The big thing was the dogs had been rescued. On her way to the van, she stepped on what was left of the dead bodies.
Device: Kindle Touch 7, Sony PRS300, Fire HD8 Tablet
Okay, Papa's got a brand new bag! Yeah, yeah, I'm ripping off the hardest (deceased) working man in show business. But I've been listening to you guys. Okay, here's the new plan.
You're right. The first scene is uber violent. But believe me, the book is more comic than violent. So, what I am going to do is write a new first scene. Explaining who the IWS is and how they came about. And maybe even about why Lainey in particular has such a huge problem with men.
Then I'll write: But that was until Donovan came along. Donovan, evil, misogynistic, uber violent caused the IWS to rise up to meet his gigantic evil with its own ferocity. I'll explain how he's mercilessly stealing the dogs. Then I'll have the first scene.
That way readers will be prepped for the violence and also know that the tone of the whole book will be silly. And they'll know the violence, although very violent, will be cartoonish as well.
Whatcha guys think? Of the cover and of having a new first scene as described?
Oh and I'm doing the title as Rise. The subtitle will be: Ascent of the Animal Rescue Feminists.
You're right. The first scene is uber violent. But believe me, the book is more comic than violent. So, what I am going to do is write a new first scene. Explaining who the IWS is and how they came about. And maybe even about why Lainey in particular has such a huge problem with men.
OK, sounds good thus far.
Quote:
Then I'll write: But that was until Donovan came along. Donovan, evil, misogynistic, uber violent caused the IWS to rise up to meet his gigantic evil with its own ferocity. I'll explain how he's mercilessly stealing the dogs. Then I'll have the first scene.
Just remember (yes, I know, this ain't the "how to write a book" thread), don't do too much info-dumping.
Quote:
That way readers will be prepped for the violence and also know that the tone of the whole book will be silly. And they'll know the violence, although very violent, will be cartoonish as well.
Whatcha guys think? Of the cover and of having a new first scene as described?
Oh and I'm doing the title as Rise. The subtitle will be: Ascent of the Animal Rescue Feminists.
Uber thanks.
James Brown
OK, so, James, I like many things about this new cover. The blue's GOTTA GO. It makes my eyes start bleeding, up against that red. You may have to stick to white, or even pink with a black border, or soemthing. Experiment with colors that don't make us cringe, please. I am okay with the yellow title; I'm okay, albeit not wild, about the font choice.
I am confused, tho, about why the animals are sideways????
Device: Kindle Touch 7, Sony PRS300, Fire HD8 Tablet
Quote:
Originally Posted by Hitch
OK, sounds good thus far.
Just remember (yes, I know, this ain't the "how to write a book" thread), don't do too much info-dumping.
OK, so, James, I like many things about this new cover. The blue's GOTTA GO. It makes my eyes start bleeding, up against that red. You may have to stick to white, or even pink with a black border, or soemthing. Experiment with colors that don't make us cringe, please. I am okay with the yellow title; I'm okay, albeit not wild, about the font choice.
I am confused, tho, about why the animals are sideways????
Hitch
Thanks Hitch. Well, they're not all sideways but those two are and I'll tweak that. And I kind of like the blue but I'll experiment with your suggestions. I think I found the key to preparing the reader for the violent first scene thing though. I don't like the new first scene I suggested because it will be a slow start, whereas the first scene I have now is a grabber. Writers like me (think Tim Dorsey) with violent protagonists have playful covers, so if I find those niche readers not only will they not be shocked by the violence, they will be expecting it. Even so, this tweak to the blurb I think will prepare anyone for the violence in the first scene. (It's just a new first paragraph.) Here it is:
Some say she’s a sociopath. Some say she hates men. Some say she just loves animals.
Lainey Tripper is a whiskey-drinking hard-living animal rescue feminist. But she has just this one little problem: she can’t seem to stop killing men.
Lainey’s the head of the IWS, a radical feminist animal rescue group dedicated to stopping the villainous Donovan from oppressing women and animals. But now Donovan has taken his evil to a new level—he’s systematically stealing Chicago’s dogs. In Lainey’s enthusiasm to stop Donovan, she again kills a lot of men. Her fellow IWS members plead with her to moderate her man-killing tendencies, but Lainey feels the men deserve it, and besides, she must do whatever it takes to save Chicago’s dogs.
Will Lainey stop Donovan in time? And when she’s done, will any men be left alive?
Thanks Hitch. Well, they're not all sideways but those two are and I'll tweak that. And I kind of like the blue but I'll experiment with your suggestions. I think I found the key to preparing the reader for the violent first scene thing though. I don't like the new first scene I suggested because it will be a slow start, whereas the first scene I have now is a grabber. Writers like me (think Tim Dorsey) with violent protagonists have playful covers, so if I find those niche readers not only will they not be shocked by the violence, they will be expecting it. Even so, this tweak to the blurb I think will prepare anyone for the violence in the first scene. (It's just a new first paragraph.) Here it is:
Some say she’s a sociopath. Some say she hates men. Some say she just loves animals.
Lainey Tripper is a whiskey-drinking hard-living animal rescue feminist. But she has just this one little problem: she can’t seem to stop killing men.
Lainey’s the head of the IWS, a radical feminist animal rescue group dedicated to stopping the villainous Donovan from oppressing women and animals. But now Donovan has taken his evil to a new level—he’s systematically stealing Chicago’s dogs. In Lainey’s enthusiasm to stop Donovan, she again kills a lot of men. Her fellow IWS members plead with her to moderate her man-killing tendencies, but Lainey feels the men deserve it, and besides, she must do whatever it takes to save Chicago’s dogs.
Will Lainey stop Donovan in time? And when she’s done, will any men be left alive?
Lose the seem to.
Either she is killing men or she isn't. No seems to it.
Thanks Hitch. Well, they're not all sideways but those two are and I'll tweak that. And I kind of like the blue but I'll experiment with your suggestions. I think I found the key to preparing the reader for the violent first scene thing though. I don't like the new first scene I suggested because it will be a slow start, whereas the first scene I have now is a grabber. Writers like me (think Tim Dorsey) with violent protagonists have playful covers, so if I find those niche readers not only will they not be shocked by the violence, they will be expecting it. Even so, this tweak to the blurb I think will prepare anyone for the violence in the first scene. (It's just a new first paragraph.) Here it is:
Some say she’s a sociopath. Some say she hates men. Some say she just loves animals.
Lainey Tripper is a whiskey-drinking hard-living animal rescue feminist. But she has just this one little problem: she can’t seem to stop killing men.
I think, if it were my book, I'd change that last line to someething like:
"...this one little problem: wherever she rescues, dead men follow."
Or...
"...this one little problem: wherever Lainey goes, dead men follow."
I think that lends a bit of mystery to it; it preps the prospective reader for the idea that she may well be a murderess, but...it's a bit less blunt, I guess? Or stark? I realize you are trying to prepare them for the violence, but...I dunno, that one line just sort of irks me.
Quote:
Lainey’s the head of the IWS, a radical feminist animal rescue group dedicated to stopping the villainous Donovan from oppressing women and animals. But now Donovan has taken his evil to a new level—he’s systematically stealing Chicago’s dogs. In Lainey’s enthusiasm to stop Donovan, she again kills a lot of men. Her fellow IWS members plead with her to moderate her man-killing tendencies, but Lainey feels the men deserve it, and besides, she must do whatever it takes to save Chicago’s dogs.
Will Lainey stop Donovan in time? And when she’s done, will any men be left alive?
I still do NOT know why you are stuck on IWS. I can only surmise that it very specifically means something to YOU, something that you won't repeat or whatever. 'Cuz, it's not playful or fun or...anything, it's just kinda there. I don't understand why you are resistant to the idea of making something new for it, something that you can make hay with. Almost anything, really.
I can't see any reason for it either. ARF seems the obvious choice. Almost anything would be better than a meaningless set in initials that are unpronounceable.
Device: Kindle Fire, Kindle Paperwhite, AGPTek Bluetooth Clip
Quote:
Originally Posted by Hitch
I think, if it were my book, I'd change that last line to someething like:
"...this one little problem: wherever she rescues, dead men follow."
Or...
"...this one little problem: wherever Lainey goes, dead men follow."
I think that lends a bit of mystery to it; it preps the prospective reader for the idea that she may well be a murderess, but...it's a bit less blunt, I guess? Or stark? I realize you are trying to prepare them for the violence, but...I dunno, that one line just sort of irks me.
That sounds like a zombie book.
Rather, something like: "... wherever Lainey goes, she leaves dead men behind."
Or: "... wherever Lainey goes, animals are safe but men are dead."
Quote:
I still do NOT know why you are stuck on IWS. I can only surmise that it very specifically means something to YOU, something that you won't repeat or whatever. 'Cuz, it's not playful or fun or...anything, it's just kinda there. I don't understand why you are resistant to the idea of making something new for it, something that you can make hay with. Almost anything, really.
Ditto. And now "Animal Rescue Feminists" is right in the title, for gosh sakes!
I can't see any reason for it either. ARF seems the obvious choice. Almost anything would be better than a meaningless set in initials that are unpronounceable.
I mean, the protagonist and her friends could tell donors, depending on their gender/ideaology that it means "animal rescue fund," or "friends" or tell their fellow feminists it means "animal rescuer Feminazis," or...lots of fun stuff.
I'm not saying that ARF is the best or whatever; just that SOMETHING would be better than the mysterious, undefined IWS. It would even be mo' bettah if the acronym had two meanings; a public one, and one that Lainey and/or her friends laughingly use. SCARF: Seriously Crazy Animal Rescuer Feminists, which in public could be Something-City Animal Rescuer Feminists, or whatever. Or something-citizens ARF. Serious Citizens, or Staunch Citizens' ARF.
Man, you could go wild with that stuff. I know that Gregg said that he wanted the readers to GUESS, but...that kinda doesn't ring right for me.
I mean, the protagonist and her friends could tell donors, depending on their gender/ideaology that it means "animal rescue fund," or "friends" or tell their fellow feminists it means "animal rescuer Feminazis," or...lots of fun stuff.
I'm not saying that ARF is the best or whatever; just that SOMETHING would be better than the mysterious, undefined IWS. It would even be mo' bettah if the acronym had two meanings; a public one, and one that Lainey and/or her friends laughingly use. SCARF: Seriously Crazy Animal Rescuer Feminists, which in public could be Something-City Animal Rescuer Feminists, or whatever. Or something-citizens ARF. Serious Citizens, or Staunch Citizens' ARF.
Man, you could go wild with that stuff. I know that Gregg said that he wanted the readers to GUESS, but...that kinda doesn't ring right for me.
I feel like it's just MISSING something.
Hitch
Do you mean leave a reader guessing to the name of the organization or leaving the reader to guess which author they want to read instead of this one?
My money is on the second theory.
I think Gregg has a ton of potential but he needs to extract that trophy from his brain and listen to what others are saying.
He even said he hoped readers called him on the Buddhist monk error.
I hate to depress him, but he just thinks he wants readers calling him out.
That mistake made him look like a third rate hack that doesn't even know how to Google.
Hey Gregg, most readers call that someone not to give their hard earned money to.
A good editor and a cover designer would help him immensely.
He even said he hoped readers called him on the Buddhist monk error.
I hate to depress him, but he just thinks he wants readers calling him out.
That mistake made him look like a third rate hack that doesn't even know how to Google.
Hey Gregg, most readers call that someone not to give their hard earned money to.
A good editor and a cover designer would help him immensely.
Hunh? I don't recall seeing anything about him saying that he "hoped" that his readers would "call him out" on the Monk error. I don't even remember any discussion about the monk thing.
BUT, that being said, any idea in that direction is too clever by half--by which I mean, it's not. No reader thinks it's amusing for a writer to "give them" an error, so that they can behave like performing monkeys expected to do a trick for a peanut. That's ridiculous. And you're right, Cin; those of us who read have little patience with that type of errata. Just because the book is supposed to be an over-the-top Dark Comedy doesn't mean that it can get away with mistakes disguised (excused) as Easter Eggs.
01-16-2018, 02:34 PM
But I do need to make the falling a little more evident.
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