The Big Page

By Erik Lundy

A budding reporter and goofball photographer
embark on a cross country trip to save a controversial writer with a church bounty on her head.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Lundy
• Release date: Sep 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452371245

Erik Lundy

After escaping childhood in Missouri and Arkansas, Erik Lundy became a fixture in the Los Angeles comedy world, slinging jokes at the Improvs, Ice House, Comedy Store, Laugh Factory and numerous bowling alleys with Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap.He currently resides in Kansas City, where he’s making crappy crime stories and comics, and de-evolving into a dog with thumbs.For more about Erik, and more crappy crime stories, go to eriklundy.com.

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THE BIG PAGE

by

Erik Lundy

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Erik Lundy on Smashwords

The Big Page

Copyright © 2010 by Erik Lundy

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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CHAPTER I

September 8, 1998 1:14 AM P.S.T.

Lungs drives, trading asphalt for gravel, then moonlit grass. Far enough from city lights to make out the Big Dipper. Right over the top of this hill. Jacks the Desert Eagle's slide.

Sammy squeezes his eyes shut, the Winchester over-under's cold barrel against his forehead. He hasn't prayed since his mom told him she was sick. But, he prays now, and the same hot liquid pours down cheeks. Prays that Lungs doesn't kill that woman. Then prays harder that he doesn't have to kill anybody, either.

Lungs, I've never shot one of these things before.

Hope you can still say that tomorrow. But if you got to, you see that bead on the end of the barrel? Sammy nods. Point that at whatever it is you don't want there anymore and pull the trigger.

CHAPTER II

September 6, 1998 11:24 AM C.S.T.:

The sun shoots white daggers into a kitchen that appears to be the bastard child of a Velvet Elvis and a Pabst Blue Ribbon Mirror. In fact, a couple Pabst mirrors (pronounced, Paps mears, by Sammy's Dad, Charlie) hang above the sink. Proof of a father and son devoid of a woman's touch.

Sammy plops into a sighing, vinyl dining chair, only letting his laptop keyboard rest long enough to shovel dry Wheaties into his maw. Swallows skim milk chasers straight from a paper carton.

His ears perk up at the NPR reporter's monotone, "Controversy continues to surround reclusive author Carol Richards, as the Religious Convention announced a boycott Thursday on the book My Life. Same book sits on the table. Dog-eared.

Fingers pose above QWERTY, and hammer downwards as a door slams in the other room. Again, fingers move downward, but retract as the opening licks of, Sweet Home Alabama, drift through the doorway. He licks lips, pondering adjectives, adverbs. Nouns. Similes. Almost a trance. That another bang jars him from.

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Row after row of grease-infested Craftsman wrenches and hammers. This is Charlie's living. Back In the Day, he'd made a fortune fixing cars down at the track. But, the track had closed, and Sammy's mom had all those hospital bills. Then funeral bills. Leaving Charlie lucky to still have a house with a garage where he could fix anything a neighbor drove or pushed.

A red '68 Camaro soft top missing a back seat lounges atop an oil spill. Charlie's ass bumps and grinds to the beat, the crack staring down a no-kind-of-happy Sammy.

Dad! Hey! Sammy settles on a nearby glass, grabbing an ice cube. Drops it between two mounds of middle-aged ass cleavage.

Charlie swings around, jogs the cube down his pants leg. Real funny, shitbird. Grab me a three-quarters.

Sammy yanks a wrench from a wall peg. I'm trying to finish some work.

This is work. Put your finger on that manifold.

Sammy shoves the finger where he's told, while Charlie hops in the front seat. I can use another hand. I'd as soon it be you than some yay-hooo down the street that'll steal my tools and pawn 'em for crack. Charlie cranks the ignition, despite the absence of a key. The old V-8 growls, pops, starts. Still got some bite to her.

Dad, no one in this county even knows what crack is. Sammy shoves hands in the sink, scrubbing them red. I have to get to the paper. Is my car running?

It is if you fixed. Charlie sips suds from the neck of a warm Bud. You're welcome to use my tools. The ones I ain't using anyway. Spins a socket with one hand. Whzzzzzzzzz!

Hate to interrupt a family moment, but we ready to roll yet? Phil scoots feet across the floor, his best friend Brian on his heels. Both men, if they could be considered such in their early twenties, sport hunting regalia and sideways ball caps from the University football team's championship run. Phil totes a semi-automatic Remington twenty gauge. Brian hugs an antique Winchester two barrel job stolen from his gramp's closet along with two fifths of Old Crow. The old man was on the last legs of cirrhosis, so Brian figured he was doing a