I sent my parents an advance copy of my work before it is off to print - without giving too much away it is told 1st person with a female protagonist.
There is a romance subplot in there somewhere with a male lead.
Which only seems to reassure my father that I am a flaming homosexual, despite the fact that I have on at least two occasions been caught drunk in bed with a girl when they came home early from their evening soirÃ©e at the country home.
So I need to write something butch, super manly. Some kind of alternate reality biopic on Chuck Yaeger fighting bears with his fists in the arctic.
Dirk Johnson popped in a fresh clip on his Magnum Eagle .69, spitting out an empty casing. He'd had to pry it from the gunpowder-blackened pistol with tightly clamped jaws, applying unrelenting suction on the barrel until it finally released its spent load. The rogue Palestinian navy SEALs had fallen at the doorway to the nuclear core, and Johnson was hip deep in seamen as he backflipped into the core chamber with the grace that ten years of boot camp had given him.
"That's quite an impressive package," Operative Rammer growled. In the heat of the nuclear core, nestled in the midst of Mount Onan to mask its thermal signature, Rammer had stripped down to a Palestinian black ops loincloth, and the sweat glistened on his burly body, tracing gleaming arcs of light-catching liquid down the edges of his kevlar garter-sheaths, from which a pair of Ukrainian Pinitrator-klass stilettos protruded. "But you'll find it quite impotent in here. This is a Dutch Infernokrusher model nuke. One spark from your piece could activate it!"
"Then I'll handle this up close and personal," Johnson whispered harshly, "just the way an Air Force Ranger likes it." He discarded the spent Eagle with a casual gesture and whipped out his Special Forces Patriot-class Kubaton, 12 inches of weapons-grade polymer capable of dominating soft tissue with brutal thrusting force, mounted with knobs to overstimulate nerves with pressure sensation.
Rammer opened up with the traditional and deadly Tae Kwon Do nerve lock, but Johnson parried, then countered with a series of bone-shattering Aikido kicks that drove Rammer back on his heels. With an Escrima bandana toss that caught Rammer across the eyes, Johnson dove in and tore the garter sheaths from Rammer's gleaming and muscled thighs. Then, lowering his shoulder and remembering his old days as a tight end at Santa Clara, Johnson drove Rammer to the ground with punishing force, straddled him to attain a textbook Yoga leg-lock across Rammer's naked chest and supple upper arms, and forced the Patriot into Rammer's mouth. A series of unrelenting thrusts would cut off Rammer's air, a deadly and unorthodox move Johnson's sensai had called the Tenderloin Takedown.
Then a hot stabbing pain slashed across Johnson's thigh, as Rammer produced another blade! "You forgot about my Israeli suppository weapons training!" Rammer gloated, slashing the saliva-soaked Patriot from his own mouth and then stabbing up at Johnson's throat. "That's a mistake you won't live to regret!"
The blade stabbed into Johnson's shirt... and stopped, glancing away harmlessly.
As Rammer gasped in shock, Johnson tore off his shirt, revealing the spiked leather collar his old sergeant had always insisted Johnson wear, day or night, no matter what. Johnson shattered Rammer's knife-wrist with a Tai Chi knuckle-chop, then moved up, bringing his thighs down on either side of Rammer's throat. As his regulation Teflon codpiece ground into Rammer's trachea, Johnson forced his war-weary pelvis and hips through the motions of the strangulation move he'd learned back in Bangkok, known to the Persians only as Root Chakra Spouting Whale.
"I made a lot of mistakes," Johnson grated, undulating his hips rhythmically over and over while Rammer's eyes bulged in desperate denial, "but you only made one."
With one final unstoppable pelvic thrust, Johnson roared wordlessly and snapped Rammer's neck, then collapsed, gasping and spent, his lungs heaving and his muscles trembling in the rush of post-combat.
"You messed with Unicorn Squad."