I have a novel called THOUSAND DOLLAR ADULT. It is about a woman who cannot box worth a flip, so she becomes a literary agent. All is well until she starts developing homicidal impulses toward some turkey in California who keeps sending her nitwit queries stuffed in with stale cookie crumbs. Tormented by her inner demons and her envy of Muhammad Ali, she stalks the would-be novelist and blows his brains out, not with a .357 magnum, but with a surprise attack right hook from her old boxing days. And he thought she invited him to dinner to discuss his book. What a sap.
The agent is put on trial, meaning she has to pay lawyers for years and years and years (the crime took place in California, after all and they are in no hurry.) She doesn’t mind the prospect of death row, but the legal fees are killing her ahead of schedule. Fortunately while the idiot prosecutor is not watching, the defense attorneys stack the jury with other literary agents. Then at the climax of the story the agents in the jury box all stand up as a group and shout “Not Guilty!” (I stole this from the movie HOW TO MURDER YOUR WIFE.)
That despite twenty eye-witnesses, a signed confession, numerous character witnesses who testified for the prosecution, and an old Wal-Mart security video showing her giving the janitor a shellacking.
Finally she gets back to her office in New York, only to be confronted by the result of a long absence: The Slush Pile From Hell.
My only concern is that this story could never happen in reality and that no literary agent will take it seriously.
What say you?
Bring it on.