The Housewife Assassin's Horrorscope

by Josie Brown

  “Is it an open or closed account?” Abu asks.

  “Open, and it had tens of thousands of followers. As I speak, ComInt is running all of their at-signs through a verification process to see how many came from Putin’s bot farm.”

  “What a great way to give Lilith anonymity,” I declare.

  Emma nods. “Plucking her handle may be a moot point. Now that Jonathan is no longer among the living, Lilith may have scrubbed her account anyway.”

  “Lilith is no longer an issue either.” Ryan’s declaration is blunt.

  All eyes go to him before shifting to Jack. He taps away on his laptop, seemingly oblivious.

  “Bravo,” Dominic mutters under his breath.

  “So, what exactly is Horoscope?” I ask.

  “It’s Putin’s wet dream!” Arnie exclaims. “ Horoscope was supposed to be a DEW—directed energy weapon—that shoots Earthbound targets from space.”

  Jack’s eyes open wide. “You mean, some sort of space laser gun?”

  Arnie nods. “Yep. In this case, mounted to a satellite circling Earth.”

  “DEWs have been in the works for some time now,” Dominic points out.

  “You’re right,” Arnie says. “The Air Force was developing MARAUDER, a plasma rail gun. Before that, it worked on something called Shiva Star, a pulse-powered device. A decade ago, we partnered with the Israelis on THEL–a Technical High Energy Laser. While it was successful in shooting down artillery rockets, its size, weight, and budget—$300 million—made it unsustainable. More recently, the U.S. Army invested in FELs: free electron laser weaponry. Trucks and helicopters have been equipped with laser prototypes, but success has been limited to a distance of about a mile.”

  “If the Russians want to steal Horoscope, the Chinese must be interested too,” I point out.

  Arnie chuckles. “At this point, they’re hedging their bets. You see, the mirrored surfaces of the targets keep the laser on track. The Chinese feel it’s more cost-effective to come up with a special coating and slap it on anything worth saving.”

  “There is an upside to our country’s R&D investment: a laser’s targeting is precise, and the cost-of-use would be quite low, just a dollar a shot,” Ryan explains.

  “But there are negatives too,” Arnie interjects. “Lasers are expensive to develop. And because a laser is, essentially, highly controlled beams of light, its kryptonite is anything that may make it ‘bloom’—that is, diffuse its power and aim. Once it hits our atmosphere, that could be dust, fog, or smoke.”

  “Another downside: currently, it would be a single-use weapon,” Ryan adds.

  “So, the target had better be specific as well as accurate,” Jack reasons.

  “A satellite’s ideal distance from the surface of the earth is 22,369 miles. From there, a weapons-grade laser would need mega-wattage capability,” Abu points out. “Typically, a satellite’s rechargeable batteries are solar-powered. But the amount of power needed to incinerate a building—say, the size of the Capitol—”

  “Bite your tongue,” Ryan mutters.

  “—Would have to be hundreds of thousands of gigawatts,” Arnie concedes. “That’s the beauty part! Apparently, Jonathan’s solution is fiber optics. He envisioned weaving together strands of the stuff, just like we do for telephone service. That way, the laser’s power source is small and lightweight. It would also provide an unlimited magazine. And as energy and battery technologies become more efficient, the next step is every little boy's dream—”

  “You mean yours,” Emma declares dryly.

  Arnie shrugs. “Okay, yeah—mine too.” He points his finger at me. “A handheld laser blaster!” He pumps his finger in my direction.

  I bend it all the way back from his hand.

  “Owwww!” he groans.

  “Back to reality, folks.” Ryan is not amused. “Jonathan’s death tipped us off that the Russians have been successful in creating Horoscope. But we still don’t know when or how it will be launched, let alone its target.”

  “ComInt is hoping these details show up in one of Jonathan’s horoscope postings, but it’s a long shot,” Emma replies.

  “Keep cracking the whip,” Ryan commands her. “We also have Lilith’s computer and cell. Arnie, you, Dominic, and Abu will hack it for any viable intel.”

  They nod.

  “How about us?” Jack nods toward me.

  “You’re getting the day off,” Ryan growls. “You’ve got a high school prom to supervise, remember?”

  He’s a curmudgeon, but he’s our curmudgeon.

  I kiss his cheek before waltzing out the door after Jack.

  “Mom…MOM! Where’s Dad?”

  Jeff stands right outside my door, which is shut because no child should see how much makeup is troweled onto his mother’s face before she is ready to make her grand entrance. Otherwise, it may frighten him away from the opposite sex for the rest of his life.

  Because his shout startled me, I now sport a lipstick mustache. I’m still wiping it off as I open the door.

  “Dad took Trisha up the hill to Janie’s house,” I explain. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Sheepishly, he hands me his bowtie—hot pink, to match his date’s prom dress.

  I wince. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear one of your father’s black ones? It would be so much more…debonair.”

  “I probably won’t be called a wuss, either. And maybe I won’t come home with a black eye for defending myself, or be suspended for fighting on school property.”

  “I get the picture. So, why wear it?”

  “If I don’t act like colors are gender-neutral, I’m not woke. At least, that’s what Felicity says.”

  As I place the tie around Jeff’s neck, I mutter, “Well, I hope one of Felicity’s parents is a dentist, just in case being ‘woke’ results in a tooth getting knocked out.”

  A twist, a fold, and a loop later, and my son is quite the woke gentleman. Satisfied, I pat the tie proudly. As Jeff admires my handiwork in the mirror, I ask, “So, before we pick up Felicity, are there any topics you’d prefer Dad and I avoid?”

  “Anything to do with my bodily functions would be appreciated. And please, please, please don’t pull up any of my baby photos from your iCloud.” Suddenly, Jeff frowns. “Oh yeah—Felicity moved to Hilldale just this summer, so she doesn’t know about…you know, what happened at my middle school prom.”

  It was the second time I was saddled with supervising a prom. Unfortunately, it was held in the same hotel as former President Chiffray’s top-secret international summit on terrorism. A few party crashers showed up: a terrorist cell sponsored by the Quorum.

  Jeff was taken hostage. The terrorists were going to behead him on television if Lee didn’t take his place.

  I shot the terrorists’ mission leader instead.

  She turned out to be an old friend of Jack’s—and not in a good way.

  At the time, I’d already given Acme my notice. After he was pulled to safety, Jeff talked me into staying on. I look forward to the day the world is rid of those who think nothing of taking innocent lives.

  My way of putting a smile back on my son’s face is to kiss him.

  He mutters, “Agh! You smeared me with lipstick!”

  But he’s also smiling.

  “So, Felicity, what’s your favorite class?” Jack’s question is definitely in Jeff’s “safe” realm: that is, anything that won’t elicit a sigh or a groan from him.

  “I’m really good at algebra,” she exclaims. “It’s where Jeff and I met.” She prods him. “Don’t you remember? You asked for help with linear equations.”

  “Is that so?” I coo.

  Two years ago Jeff was solving something much harder: quadratic equations. He must really like this girl to have dummied himself down for the chance to meet her!

  Jeff blushes. I guess any talk about cute meets will now be relegated to the Verboten Topics list.

  “By the way, Jeff, thank you for
my beautiful corsage!” Felicity dimples up.

  “Oh…you’re welcome. Hey, I’m sorry I poked you with the pin when I…you know...when I put it on your, um…breast…I mean chest…” Jeff is bright red.

  Jack chokes down a guffaw.

  “Stay on the road, dear,” I warn him.

  Jeff scowls.

  “I’m so happy you were able to get us front row tickets for Talon!” Felicity exclaims. “I’m a real fan!”

  Jeff sighs, relieved. “Me too! My Aunt Phyllis got us hooked up. She and the lead singer go way back.”

  I turn around, surprised. “She does?”

  Jeff nods. “She says she was one of his very first groupies.”

  WAY, WAY, WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION.

  “It’s why he cut her such a great rate for the prom,” Jeff adds.

  “Good to know,” I reply. Well, then, that should help tremendously with the PTA’s red ink problem.

  Hey, I may actually enjoy myself tonight. You know, just relax…

  Jack pulls me out of this wishful fantasy by declaring, “We’re here!”

  He and Jeff quickly jump out of the car. In a flash, they are opening the doors for Felicity and me.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” I say. I step up to give Jack a quick smooch—

  But when he leans in, I know he wants more.

  Sure, why not? He’s earned it.

  When our lips meet, all my worries melt away.

  I hear Felicity whisper: “Your parents are so cool.”

  “Yeah,” Jeff says. “I know.”

  While Jack parks the car, I walk toward the gym—

  Only to hear Aunt Phyllis yell, “You better believe I’ll whack you with this sword! How dare you!”

  Oh, heck! The prom hasn’t even started, and already my aunt and Penelope are at each other’s throats!

  I run as fast as I can to the ruckus, which consists of Aunt Phyllis, Penelope, and three hulking guys in tuxedos. The boys must be juniors because I don’t recognize them as Mary’s classmates (all of whom I’ve had run through the Hilldale Police Department’s mug shot archives), and they are too large to be sophomores like Jeff.

  Aunt Phyllis is wielding the sword at them.

  They are standing over an older man. Though he is filthy and bloodied, I recognize him: he is Hilldale’s one and only homeless citizen.

  We Craigs call him Mr. Red Sweatshirt.

  When Jeff was seven, he came up with the name. “It’s all he ever wears, so that has to be it,” Jeff explained at the time. “Too bad it’s so dirty.”

  Because Hilldale is a gated community, sightings of Mr. Red Sweatshirt are rare. He’s usually found in the alleys between and behind the township’s supersized McMansions. That’s where all trash and recycling bins are located, as per Hilldale’s strictly enforced CC&Rs (covenants, conditions, and restrictions). Mr. Red Sweatshirt forages through the trash for cans and bottles, which he resells to the local recycling center.

  I once caught him picking through our food scraps. Since then, I’ve put our leftovers in recyclable plastic containers and leave them on top of our bin, along with a few unopened bottles of water.

  With our Thanksgiving leftovers, I also include a gift bag. Inside is a new red sweatshirt, black sweatpants, a twelve-pack of tube socks, sneakers, and a rainproof jacket.

  Now that we’re face to face, Mr. Red Sweatshirt turns his head, ashamed.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “This—this vagabond attempted to enter the auditorium!” Penelope huffs.

  “But…I’m here with the Muggalos!” Tears well up in Mr. Red Sweatshirt’s eyes. “I’ve got to see Talon!”

  “Talon, Talon, Talon!” Penelope sneers. “I’ve heard that name all week, and I’m sick of it!”

  If what Aunt Phyllis told me about Cheever’s infatuation with the band’s leader is right, no wonder it’s the last name Penelope wants to hear.

  Penelope whips around to face me. “We’ve got a sold out event! People have paid good money to see this weirdo band and yet you want to seat this…this bum sitting among our innocent children?”

  “Our so-called innocent children won’t be hurt by an act of charity,” I counter.

  “That person does not have a ticket,” Penelope argues.

  “He’s got something better,” Aunt Phyllis declares. “A backstage pass! I gave it to him myself.”

  “By that, you mean you made one from your home printer!” Penelope retorts.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I growl. “Problem solved.”

  Penelope shakes with fury, but she’s smart enough to zip her lip. Her heels clack angrily as she walks toward the gym.

  I snap my fingers at Penelope’s goon squad. “Go join the party—now.” The look on my face warns them not to argue. They skedaddle.

  Phyllis and I help Mr. Red Sweatshirt to his feet. All the while, Phyllis grouses, “This posh prison you call a neighborhood has only one person who needs a helping hand! You’d think there’d be enough heart and soul in these ten square miles to band together and help him back on his feet! Why doesn’t someone let him do chores for a room over one of these three-car garages? Or, get him a job at one of the shops in your little ‘town square?’ So much for ‘It takes a village!’”

  “That was said about raising kids,” I point out.

  “Pshaw!” Aunt Phyllis snaps. “We’re all God’s children, aren’t we? And reality check: this poor guy was someone’s child once.”

  “No arguments there.” I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Go ahead and escort your date inside. And make sure he gets a plate of all the great grub we’ve already overpaid for."

  Phyllis nods gratefully. “You are your mother’s child.”

  There goes my mascara.

  I wait until my tears dry before I go inside.

  13

  Leo

  Those born between July 23rd and August 22nd are under the zodiac sign of Leo.

  These folks are charming, outgoing, and love to laugh. A Leo is the life of every party!

  Of course, there is the other side of Leo’s personality. Leo has an inflated sense of self. When he is wrong, he hates to admit it.

  Should a friend be down on his luck, Leo will rub salt in the wound with an “I told you so.”

  If you are a Leo, go ahead and let others see your kinder, gentler side. Be the person they appreciate for your humor and your joie de vivre.

  In other words, play to your strengths—just like your spirit animal.

  A junior girl taps me on the shoulder. “Mrs. Craig, I think one of the kids must have spiked the punch!”

  She then proceeds to throw up on my shoes.

  Dammit! These were my favorite Kate Spades.

  Like wallflowers, a group of clueless parent volunteers leans against the far side of the gym. I assume it’s the same pose they struck when they were the age their children are now.

  I whistle loud enough to catch the attention of the one wallflower mom who isn’t stunned into silence by the sight of students having GOT-worthy sword fights (thank goodness the swords are soft plastic), tossing food around (those turkey drumsticks pack quite a punch), or busting out dance floor moves—booty dancing, perreos, butt slaps, daggering, hair whips, and drops—that could easily pass as pornographic acts.

  (When one female student did a slow, slinky come-up, Jack had to slap away the hand of a chaperoning dad who attempted to put a Benjamin in her thigh-high boot! The things kids wear to proms these days…)

  Now, having been pressed into service, the Wallflower Mom takes the drunk student outside to puke out her guts.

  And not a moment too soon: Talon’s fans—the Muggalos—have entered the building.

  Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the students open a path to let them pass. As the Muggalos march through, they chant: “TALON! TALON! TALON! TALON!”

  When they reach the front of the gym, two of them—a boy and a girl—jump up onto the stage. Like orchestra conductors, t
hey raise their hands over their heads, egging on the crowd.

  The boy is Cheever. At least, I think it’s him. Frankly, it’s hard to tell considering that his face, like these hundred other kids who’ve swarmed the prom, is slathered in red war paint. The Muggalo’s heads are either shaved, or their hair stands tall in stiff Mohawks dyed in rainbow hues of lime green, bright yellow. In Cheever’s case, his mohawk is baby blue.

  He holds the electric torch that will allow his girlfriend to light the flame in the dragon’s mouth. I’m not surprised he had the highest bid. Once again, Penelope’s attempt to buy her son’s loyalty from his father has worked in Cheever’s favor.

  Cheever hands his girlfriend the torch. Bald, her whole head is painted hot pink. Bright yellow circles are drawn on her cheeks. Large black cartoonish lashes are painted above her eyelids. She is dressed in a leather skirt. Her tank top cropped above her waist. When she opens her mouth, I see a spike piercing her tongue.

  Cheever must find it a turn-on because suddenly his mouth is on hers. Their dance moves mimic bonobos in heat. When the song ends, The crowd goes crazy.

  Penelope shouts in my ear, “My God, just look at those two animals on the stage! They’re disgusting…”

  But her voice trails off when she realizes one of those “two animals” is her precious little boy.

  Suddenly, the stage’s curtains pull back to reveal the band. Recognizing the first chords of their classic hit, “Bite Me Harder this Time,” the crowd’s roar causes the gym’s roof to shake.

  The lead singer, Talon, stalks the length of the stage. He’s quite a vision in his skintight leather pants and a crop top that hugs his massive chest and shows off his well-defined abs. Talon’s face is painted the Muggalo’s official fire-engine red hue, and his blue hair is in the tall Mohawk that is the trademark of his band.

  Each of the bass player’s guitar licks is accompanied by a thrust of Talon’s hips.

  Penelope was right. The prom is a disaster.

  As if reading my mind, Penelope jabs my shoulder and shrieks, “Your aunt has made our dance a den of iniquity! You’ll pay for this, Donna Craig! But first, I have to get that—that lascivious clown off the stage!”