By the time NaNo 2010 rolled around, I had it up to my eyeballs with mainstream fiction. The political tip-toe of not offending people had reached an apex. I didn’t want to play nice anymore.
I wanted to rip out a raunchy and wrong satire piece and just like that, Mischief & Mayhem were born. I cuddled these darlings and cooed as their naughty-by-nature lifestyle flowed from my fingertips. I couldn’t stop, it just kept coming. Then I reached that pinnacle 50k words and stopped. Stopped I say! Not for lack of wanting to write these two bad boys but because November is a hell month and I had to switch gears to the holidays.
Mischief & Mayhem: Assassins For Hire stands incomplete at 52,923 words. I also broke out of my disdain for chapter titles for this one. Yeah, some of them are just wrong but what I did was take a page out of Chuck Lorre’s notebook. I picked a phrase out of the chapter section and used it. I have titles such as “You’re Out of Lotion” and “Cranberry Sauce”. Trust me when I say I have worse than that but let’s keep the blog semi-clean, okay?
Killers for hire, no job too big or small for Michael Abandonato or Jerrick Eibenschütz; or as they’re known professionally: Mischief and Mayhem.
As they wait for the money to come through on a job before they off the victim, it becomes apparent their client can’t pay. With no money involved, they release their potential victim with a warning to never speak of it or they’ll him her for the fun of it.
When the same victim shows up on the grid again, and they still have payment issues, the victim gives them an opportunity- kill the person who hired them. With half upfront, Mischief and Mayhem agree only to have their target offer more.
With money over morals being their mantra, Mischief and Mayhem find themselves in the midst of a lover’s spat. It turns ugly when the couple decided to turn the tables on the assassins.
And here’s a sample of the first paragraph:
Mayhem sat on the mangled couch, the cushions sliced and spayed wide. The rest of the room matched the condition of his resting spot. Clothes, paper, and broken dishes weaved a path from the back bedroom. He leafed through the mail envelopes: a subscription to Playgirl, a cable bill, and a one promise of a million dollars lay inside another sealed piece. He shifted his feet on the quivering body he used as an ottoman and it whimpered. Mayhem rolled his eyes, slamming his heel down on the guy’s back. Across the room his partner let loose with another arc of urine on the wall before it lost its velocity.