The Big House

By Jeannie Meekins

‘It all involved a dame, of course.’

Murdoch finds himself in The Big House, framed for murder.
He is offended by the uncouth fellas around him and the lack of a privacy curtain. After telling the warden he has been violated in the shower, Murdoch finds himself on the wrong end of Lucky Marvin. His plotted death becomes the distraction for a prison escape.
Will the escape plan be foiled? And will Murdoch survive for another episode?

This satirical story is written in the tradition of B-Grade stories, complete with all the stereotypes, creativity and effects – flaws and all.
The characters are purely fictitious. Any similarities with any person, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
The story is not meant to offend. If you may be offended, please don’t download it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeannie Meekins
• Release date: Sep 27, 2014

Jeannie Meekins

Jeannie Meekins is an Australian writer who lives with her children and a couple of cats who think they own the computer. And if her dog could read, he’d be jealous, so it’s lucky that he can’t. Jeannie has also written over 10 books for children, many available through LearningIsland.com

Book preview

The

Big

House

The Big House

Text copyright (C) AT Davidson 2002

Smashwords edition (C) 2014

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This satirical story is written in the tradition of B-Grade stories, complete with all the stereotypes, creativity and effects – flaws and all.

The characters are purely fictitious.  Any similarities with any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The story is not meant to offend.  If you feel offended, please don’t download it, or delete it from your system.

Then . . . There is a buzzing, humming sound and our head feels as though it is about to explode. But, unfortunately, it doesn’t explode at all. We begin to feel nauseous. We feel unaccountably tired and our limbs ache. We either need rest or a doctor. We know we will receive neither, for everything grows dark. The buzzing, humming sound ceases. Then something flickers and we hear distorted music and see an ugly, black and white woman wearing a robe and holding a torch aloft. Streamers of light emanate from this. Then it fades to black and we see a name: MURDOCH. Then: IN, and we know now that we will receive no relief. We close our eyes, but are aware there will be no medical help forthcoming and we are quite certain that, in order that we should ever feel well again, we shall have to open our eyes once more. This we do and immediately we see that we are in that odd black and white world; a world inhabited by odd black and white characters. We are somewhere in the early nineteen forties and we see, behind ever changing white titles, a large, rectangular building. The titles disappear and then we see a sign which reads: SAN CLINTON PRISON. There is an annoying crackling sound; it is that crackling cellophane sound again. Then we see him: Murdoch. The last time we met this man, he was tangoing with a woman who put us in mind of Carmen Miranda, somewhere south of the border. Then we see that Murdoch is standing before a desk. The man sitting behind this desk, and wearing a boxy nineteen forties suit, has his back to us. He begins to speak. Murdoch has a smile on his face and has his hands in the pockets of what appears to be denim overalls buttoned to the top, bearing a rectangular patch with a long series of numbers on the right side of his chest. He wears what seems to be a French Gendarme type cap on his head, made of the