YOUR MONEY BACK OR YOUR LIFE . . . Protect America’s shores with your very own nuclear submarine! Constructed from durable fiberboard material, this submersible is large enough for two kids! Sail off into imaginative international intrigue for just $1.99! If this toy doesn’t float your boat, return it for a full refund! With her son’s heart set on piloting his own nuclear submarine, Rosemary Lanchester orders the craft advertised on the back of a comic book. What arrives is more sub-standard than submarine, but her son loves the cheap piece of cardboard. Until he and a friend nearly drown when they take the sub for a deep sea dive in the swimming pool. Enraged, Rosemary reports the toy’s manufacturer to the Better Business Bureau. The company’s customer service center retaliates with threatening phone calls. Then her son and husband mysteriously disappear. To save her family, Rosemary tracks down the company’s headquarters with the help of her brother—a survivalist with enough toys of his own to wage an all-out war. And she still wants her $1.99 refunded. Praise for Hunter Shea “Old school horror.”—Jonathan Maberry “A lot of splattery fun.”— Publishers Weekly
Release date:
October 3, 2017
Publisher:
Lyrical Press
Print pages:
73
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Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” played for the millionth time on the radio, a crisp spring breeze tickling the back of Rosemary Lanchester’s neck while she sat at the kitchen table calculating her take from last night’s haul. It had been a hell of an evening. Her best so far.
“Almost better than robbing banks,” she said. “Except much safer.”
She paused and considered changing the station. “Eye of the Tiger” normally irritated her, its constant presence on both AM and FM bands this side of water torture. But the radio was across the kitchen on the fridge, and at this moment she thought, I do have the eye of the tiger.
She couldn’t help but think of the Virginia Slims slogan, “You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby.” Sure it was borderline sexist, but it drove the point home. She felt a brief shudder when she thought about how things could have gone for her.
“And they said I couldn’t be domesticated,” she said with a chuckle.
Now she craved a cigarette. But that wasn’t going to happen. She’d quit a year ago, and despite countless urges, she hadn’t picked up a single Slim since.
Gavin’s leaden footsteps bumbled about upstairs. He’d be down any minute now, ready for his Sunday grapefruit and coffee. Rosemary couldn’t wait to show him.
“Little hobby, my ass.”
“Huh?”
Her son, Dwight, waltzed into the kitchen as silent as a stalking panther, sleep crust in the corners of his eyes, hair standing on end as if he’d jammed his finger in an electrical socket…again.
“Oh, nothing. You want some cereal?”
He eyed the paperwork scattered atop the table.
“Can I eat Sugar Pops in the living room? Scooby-Doo is on.”
She poured him a bowl, added the tiniest splash of milk (he refused to eat cereal once it got soggy), and brought it to the coffee table in the living room, along with a cinnamon Pop-Tart and a glass of orange juice. He jammed his spoon into the center of the Sugar Pops, shoveling it in as fast as he could, eyes already glazed over from the sugar high while he watched Shaggy steal Scooby’s snacks.
Gavin lumbered down the stairs in his brown yard-work slacks, itchy sweater that was so stained she wondered why she even bothered to wash it anymore, and battered Hush Puppies. It could be a hundred degrees and he had to wear that sweater to work on the yard. She swore he suffered through heat exhaustion just to embarrass her.
“Morning, babe,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. He followed her into the kitchen. She took the grapefruit out of the fridge, cut it in half, and cleared a spot for him to eat.
“What’s all this?” he said, working at the grapefruit with a serrated spoon. A squirt of juice splattered on his sweater. The old rag just absorbed the splotch, melding it with the others.
Rosemary imagined the other blemishes chanting, “One of us,” as they accepted it into the family of filth.
She poured them each a cup of coffee and sat next to him, unable to keep her smile reaching from ear to ear.
“Those, my dear, are my sales slips from last night’s Tupperware party.”
He shuffled through the orders between sips of coffee. “What’s this number here?”
“That’s my commission for each sale. You want to know how much it adds up to?”
Gavin grinned. “I have a feeling no matter what I say, you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“Sixty-seven dollars!”
“Whoa. Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. And that’s even with me taking out the money I spent on the fondue and snacks for the ladies. How do you like that?”
He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I love it. Being sequestered in our bedroom all night was definitely worth it. Sounded like one hell of a hen party.”
Rosemary rolled her eyes. “That hen party was the sound of business.”
“I’m only kidding. I’m really proud of you. Maybe I should take up selling Tupperware and be my own boss.”
She stood and ruffled his hair. “Stick to your computers. You don’t have the connections to make it in the Tupperware biz.”
“Did Mom really make sixty-seven dollars?” Dwight said, startling her again. He had his empty bowl in hand. There must be a commercial on, Rosemary thought.
“She sure did,” Gavin said.
“Stay right there. I wanna show you something.” Dwight turned tail and ran upstairs.
Rosemary leaned against the sink and saw her husband get grapefruit juice on some order sheets. “Hey, be careful.”
He held up his hands. “Don’t blame me. It’s the damn grapefruit.”
She gathered everything up and moved the pile to the counter. She’d finish her paperwork after breakfast.
Dwight returned carrying a comic book. Rosemary saw it was the new issue of Spider-Man he’d begged for at the stationery store last week. He opened the comic to a page near the back.
“Since you have a whole lot of money now, can we order this? I promise, if you buy it I’ll do all the chores around the house for a month.”
“Hmm, I’ve heard that before,” Rosemary said, taking the comic.
“If we get it soon, I can bring it to Jimmy’s pool.”
Rosemary had to stifle a chuckle. At nine, Dwight was a bundle of boundless enthusiasm. She knew that if she gave in to him, he would hold true to his promise about doing the chores … for the first few days, at least.
“What is it this time?” Gavin said, slipping his plate into the dishwasher.
Rosemary looked at the full-page ad for a six-foot nuclear submarine. There were a ton of exclamation points touting all of its amazing features, including a working periscope, interior lighting, real control panel, and not just two but four torpedoes that a child could fire from his or her incredible nuclear submersible.
She showed the ad to her husband, who did not hold back his own laughter.
“Where are we supposed to keep a six-foot submarine?” he asked.
Dwight was quick on his feet. “The garage! We could put it over by the rakes and stuff.”
“And you plan to do a lot of deepwater exploring?” Gavin . . .
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