Word Count: 72,000
Pitch: When aliens and government agents interrupt the solitude of Maggie’s mountaintop farm, she rolls up a joint, grabs her shotgun Betsy, and shows them how cranky an old Appalachian broad can get.
Excerpt: It was too damn early to kill a man. I didn’t even get one drink of my coffee before I saw him on the security camera monitor, traipsing right into my pot patch. Got me so irate I spilled half my coffee down the front of my nightgown. I figured there was time to change into dry clothes, until I saw him bend over and finger one of my plants like a jock does his girlfriend on Homecoming night.
This was no neighbor, either: black suit, trench coat, looking like a 1920s mobster except for the shiny, bald head. Since this bastard walked right past my “No Trespassing” signs and advertised himself as a candidate for assisted suicide, I pulled on my boots, grabbed ole Betsy and headed for the door.
I jogged through my yard and down the hill, slowing to a walk as I neared the woods. The sound of my dogs barking inside the house became fainter. In fact, everything got quiet. My ex taught me how to sneak up on prey without being heard. Of course, the lessons involved me being the prey and him the hunter. I didn’t like those lessons much. Lucky for me, today’s prey didn’t hear me coming.
I didn’t waste time. I got a good aim at his leg (’cause, like I said, it was too early in the morning to kill a man), flipped the hammer back and took the shot.