Mail Order Massacres. Hunter Shea

      LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Lyrical Underground books are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2017, 2018 by Hunter Shea

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

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      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

      Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

      First Electronic Edition: March 2018

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0914-2

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0914-7

      First Print Edition: March 2018

      ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0915-9

      ISBN-10: 1-5161-0915-5

      Printed in the United States of America

      MAIL ORDER MASSACRES

      Three Novellas of Pure Terror

Just Add Water

       Optical Delusion

       Money Back Guarantee

Just Add Water

      Dedication

      For my sea serpents, Star and Samantha

      Chapter One

      Tuckerville, NY, 1980

      When everything was said and done and the dead were long buried, they would blame Wonder Woman.

      While everyone else collected Star Wars (the red, yellow, blue and green series) and baseball cards, Patrick Richards and David Estrada plunked every hard-earned nickel they had on comic books. Oh, and there were also the protective plastic bags they had to buy to keep each issue as pristine as possible.

      Their habit was expensive, but the thirteen-year-old best friends found ways to scrape together enough money every month to buy the latest issues of The Fantastic Four, Captain America, The Flash, Marvel Two-In-One (featuring The Thing and a different guest hero each issue), Green Arrow and too many others to count. Well, they could count them. In fact, each could rattle off the total number of comics in their collections at a moment’s notice.

      “Three hundred and twenty-five,” Patrick would say.

      “Four hundred and two,” David would say, showing off just a bit.

      Patrick had a paper route while David mowed lawns for the older people in the neighborhood. Sometimes, they would wait outside the Shopwell supermarket, offering to load people’s bags into their cars for tips. An afternoon at Shopwell could net them enough scratch to buy four or more comics.

      And there was always shoveling to be done in the winter, along with raking leaves in the fall.

      When you had a comic addiction, you had to find ways to feed the beast.

      They found themselves in late May flush with cash, thanks to a visit from Patrick’s grandparents. His grandfather had slipped a twenty-dollar bill into Patrick’s pocket, whispering in his ear, “Don’t tell your parents. That’s comic book money. Get enough to last the summer.”

      “You’re really gonna share?” David said, staring at the twenty on the floor between them.

      “It’s not like we don’t read the same comics,” Patrick said. “The deal is, I get to add more to my collection. Say we split it seventy–thirty?”

      David smiled. “I’ll take it.”

      They shook and it was done.

      The four-block ride to Blackburn’s stationery store had them both in a sweat. Summer had come early. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun was downright brutal. Popping tandem wheelies, they leaped off their bikes at the entrance, both riderless Huffys crashing to the ground in a tangle of metal and rubber.

      Blackburn’s kept the comics in a long rectangular box on the floor under the magazine rack. The boys got on their knees, carefully rifling through the upright stack.

      “We have everything,” David said, deflating. His short-cut black hair glistened with drops of sweat.

      “Almost,” Patrick said, plucking a Wonder Woman free. His own face was flushed, bringing the cluster of freckles on his cheeks to blazing prominence.

      David considered it, then shrugged his shoulders.

      “It’s better than nothing.”

      They paid forty cents for the issue, getting a ton of change that somehow made it seem like they had more money than when they had started. The boys jumped back on their bikes and pedaled home, anxious to get back to David’s room because it had an air conditioner.

      David read along with Patrick, just over his shoulder. Neither was a Wonder Woman aficionado, but neither could argue against the fact that she had one sexy bod.

      Sexy for a comic book character. Not as hot as, say, Mrs. Pendleton, freshly divorced and constantly on the prowl. The boys appreciated how difficult she made it for any straight male to not stare at her bulging rack or curvy hips.

      They were done in five minutes, the air from the AC making the pages of the comic flutter.

      “Well, that was exciting,” David said, rolling onto his back.

      “It would have made more sense if we had read the previous two issues.” Patrick flipped through it again. They’d decided they weren’t going to preserve this one. Wonder Woman just didn’t make the cut