The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips Read Online Free PDF

of yours, you better start running.”
    He’s either too shocked or too stupid to believe what I say. I’m guessing too stupid because he grabs for both Mary and the shopping bag with the Furby, as if they’re his ticket out of hell.
    Wrong. My first bullet whizzes two inches from his right foot. When he takes a step with his left foot, another bullet stops him short. Unfortunately, it ricochets off a dumpster and into Furby, which cackles as it explodes into a cloud of silicone chips, plastic, and purple fur.
    Damn! There goes Trisha’s Christmas .
    I’m hopping mad, but soon this stupid thief is, too, thanks to the three bullets that barely miss his feet.
    Finally, he takes the hint and runs down the block. His pal skitters along after him, still doubled over.
    The kids stare after them. Then slowly, their heads turned toward me.
    I know what they’re thinking. Yep, I kick ass.
    As I saunter back to the car, I toss each of them their wallets. “Soup, sandwiches, and homework, in that order.”
    Before Mary gets a chance to do so, Trevor jumps into the front passenger seat. “Mrs. Stone, you were awesome .” He leans in with a smile and tosses his bangs out of his eyes with a quick nod of his head.
    If didn’t know better, I’d think he was flirting with me.
    Oh no. Mary’s boyfriend is flirting with me!
    She knows it, too. But if it isn’t already blatantly clear, Trevor says to her, “You don’t mind changes places, right, Mary? I get carsick in the back.”
    “Since when?” Morton asks suspiciously.
    “Since the odds increased that you pissed your pants during the holdup,” his big brother mutters. 
    His remark nudges Morton into silence. Guilty as charged.
    I look from Trevor to Mary. She turns her head quickly, so that Trevor can’t see the tears in her eyes as she stumbles into the middle seat, dragging Jeff beside her.
    I nod at Trevor. “Well… okay sure, if you want.”
    Reluctantly, Cheever follows Morton onto the last bench. “If you did wet your pants, I’m shoving you out the hatch.”
    What Cheever doesn’t know is that each of the seats has an ejection button, controlled by the driver. If I’m doomed to have the reputation as the worst carpool ride in Hilldale, when Morton hits the pavement, Cheever will, too.
    Note to self: after today, no afternoon carpooling.

Chapter 4
    ’Tis the Season!
     
    There are certain things that trigger that oh-so-great feeling of holiday cheer! One is hearing the sound of gay carolers (or straight ones, for that matter, albeit you’ll miss that beautiful falsetto harmonization in the last stanza We Three Kings). The second is the tinkle of silver bells. (Admittedly, the tinkle of urine on porcelain has the same affect for anyone who ever got drunk on spiked eggnog.)
    And finally, it’s seeing your neighbor decorate his house with Christmas kitsch.
    Granted, his taste may leave a lot to be desired. But let’s be honest. Aren’t  you being a Scrooge to think the blow-up Santa and Mrs. Claus behind his plastic manger is lowbrow? Is the four-thousand watt glare of the twenty-six thousand colored LED lights, not to mention the revolving spotlight seeking out Rudolph and the sleigh, really all that annoying? And isn’t it a bah-humbuggery to want to shoot your neighbor’s outdoor speakers after the five-hundredth time you hear Alvin and the Chipmunks sing their Christmas Song?
    It’s only once a year, right? For, like three weeks.
    No? SIX? Six whole weeks of that annoying crap, and you haven’t shot him yet? Why not? Do you really think anyone will miss him, other than the electric utility company he’s helping to support?
    If you do lose it, don’t worry. It’ll be our little secret.
     

     
    Ryan Clancy, the titular head of Acme Industries (and for that matter, my boss) is gulping wine from an old Strawberry Shortcake Sippy cup and cradling a humongous slice of sausage pizza on a tiny cocktail napkin.
    That’s what happens when your pretend