Little Junior

By James Stauffer

One fateful and particularly awful night a short, sad and chubby little boy named Little Junior trudges to his bedroom window (more of a hole in the wall) and lets the world (or at least his neighborhood: Cinnamon Spice Lane) know what he wants more than anything. “I want to be evil!” he shouts into the night. All the while, his loathsome family scurries about below doing terrible deeds and concocting terrible plans. They do not care for Little Junior, not one bit. They are a loathsome bunch, evil to the core, and Little Junior, being the complete opposite of them does not fit in.

What Little Junior does not know is that the words he so mournfully howled into the night have meaning. Magic, in a way. He has accidentally summoned a trio of odd, yet powerful creatures know as the Conscience Collectors, who are only too happy to help him with his request. However, their method is rather painful and permanent.

Simultaneously, Old Geovanny, the head of the Battaglia household has decided to mentor Little Junior, who is his grandson. Old Geovanny is old, and decrepit and the most evil of the bunch, but he knows what ails Little Junior and he has a plan to fix it: he will teach Little Junior to be evil, starting with a trip to the city.

Thus the story unfolds with Little Junior quickly learning what it means to be evil and then being left to his own devices and wits to cope with a dilemma. Does he truly want to be evil? And if not, how does a truly good person battle evil? For, Little Junior has a serious handicap, his conscience prevents him from doing anything evil, or even remotely close.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Stauffer
• Release date: Apr 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370999620

Book preview

Chapter 1

Little Junior

It might have been a Saturday. It certainly wasn’t a Sunday because the mail or packages never come on Sundays. So, it must have been a Saturday, a windy Saturday because the leaves from the ogre tree were blowing around helter-skelter, scratching and crashing into things. And from the darkening sky it was obvious rain would be coming soon. Across the buckled veranda and leaning against the front door was a white package covered in plastic - protection against the rain. Scrawled on the package were six short words: To Mr. Little Junior, Eighth Floor.

As the sky darkened overhead, a stout little shape hustled around the corner of Cinnamon Spice Lane. Under the protection of an arching canopy of oak trees, he passed all the well kept white and yellow and blue houses on either of side of the street Oh please let it be there, he muttered. And he pushed his stubby legs to churn faster. With determination, Little Junior gritted his teeth.

In the distance a tall house peaked over the trees. Not built for speed, Little Junior redoubled his efforts. His brow furrowed, his tummy jiggled and he pumped his arms like pistons. Come on! Come on! He urged himself.

Nevertheless, he closed in on the tall old house with a wide overgrown lemony green lawn dotted with yellow dandelions. The house looked like a tall rectangular cardboard box would if it had windows and doors and was left outside in the rain for a week. The house was dreadful, a real blight. On passing, people were heard to declare, that surely this house must be haunted, or vacant, or condemned to demolition the very next day. But no, it definitely was not vacant; for as long as anyone can remember, the Battaglia’s have lived here.

Actually, generations of the Battaglia family have lived here. They’ve lived one generation stacked on top the other like shoes boxes in a shoe store. Every handful of years, for as long as anyone can remember, another level has been added to the house. This is how it worked: early one bright and sunny Sunday morning the hammering and sawing would begin. This racket would continue all day and into the night. Then, come Monday morning, lo and behold, the house would be taller and another rotten branch of the Battaglia family tree would have moved in.

Faster… Faster. Little Junior urged his short legs. He pushed open the iron-barred gate, and ignored the grey gargoyles as he dashed up the cement walkway. He avoided the cracks in the cement and he dodged the raking pokey weeds. He stopped amidst the swirling hissing leaves and the looming shadow of the towering ogre tree.

Buried in the leaves and twisted in bark, a mouth, eyes and nose glowered down at Little Junior, then as the wind blew the branches, the face disappeared.

Little Junior paused, as he always did, and he squinted harder. Little Junior shivered and dashed forward toward the house.

In three bounds, he was up the stairs to the veranda… and there it was. Little Junior’s heart burst with joy! He grabbed the package, and lofted it up. For an eternity, he held it there, high up in the air. Then he kissed it, and he pushed it to his cheek, I love you, he said to the package. And then he opened the front door and rushed inside.

Chapter 2

Old Geovanny aka The Don

Unfortunately, for the nice people of Cinnamon Spice Lane, The Battaglias were not good people. In fact, they’re probably the last people in the world that anyone would want living next door. And to make matters worse, there were many of them : there was Vinny and Sophia, Uncle Remo, and the dog Sallie Four Paws. There was also Sonny and Little Junior; there was Old Geovanny also known as The Don. They were a loathsome bunch, a true and legitimate discredit to society. Distasteful as cold broccoli, as pestilent as politicians, as resilient as cockroaches, and as tacky as gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe, they were liars and cheaters, stealers and swindlers, and between them they’ve committed every crime in the book.

I’m home. Little Junior yelled. He said this as he always did: as if anyone was listening or cared. There was no response. Hello? Little Junior tried once more, bolting up the stairs.

Little Junior was the youngest of the Battaglias. You could tell him apart from the others by his suit coat. Also, he wore circular spectacles that barely held onto his bump of a nose. His hair was brown and scattered and his ears were small and slightly offset. If you met Little Junior, you might think that you were meeting someone older than ten: an academic perhaps, or a musician or a poet, someone real deep, only, not very tall. Little Junior was short, and round having not completely shed his baby fat. His look was rather cherub-like but without the wings or the bow and arrow, of course.

This could be, he thought, one of the greatest days of my life. No kidding. Feet pattering, double chin jiggling, he ascended the stairs. Up and up Little Junior went. Past the first, second, third, and fourth and fifth and sixth and seven —

STOP! A voice commanded. The voice echoed through the house. It travelled up and down the eight floors. It was a terrifying sound. Little Junior stopped, and it occurred to him, as he stood there ashen faced, and checking his pulse, that at ten years old he might have just suffered a heart attack. A voice, softer this time, came from a dark room on the seventh floor. It was Geovanny. Old Geovanny, the Godfather, the Don, the sole resident on the seventh floor.

Little Junior… Old Geovanny’s voice carried like vapor from the recesses of his dark room. I know you’s there…Get in here!

With great trepidation, Little Junior took slow steps through the dark, using the few remaining rays of sunlight that squeezed through the slotted shades to find his way. A fan whirred in the corner, barely moving the stale air. In the center of the room squatted a leather armchair propping up Old Geovanny. Junior, whatsa matta? Why so glum? Don’t want to see you’s own God Fatha? He inquired.

I — I, Little Junior stammered searching for a reply.

Come closer Junior, my eyes, they ain’t so good no more. Old Geovanny didn’t get his nickname for nothing - he was old. Very, very old. He was also skinny (mostly bones) and hairless too - except for the plumes on his chest and back, the bushels that grew from his ears and the ring of grey hairs that circled around his bald head. His ears were large and his nose was more than ample. His eyes were black beads polished and pushed uncomfortably into his face. Less fearsome was Old Geovanny’s soft belly, which had a habit of leaning out over his pants. No belt buckle or shirt could restrain Old Geovanny’s potbelly. It was oddly large for a man with such a skinny frame. Closa. He requested with a beckon of his finger.

Junior stepped closer and Old Geovanny’s hand snapped out and wrapped around Little Junior’s wrist dragging him in for a closer look. Old Geovanny inspected Little Junior. Then he gave a satisfied, humph, and he cuffed Little Junior on the cheek. Sit down already, you’re making me nervous. Old Geovanny said.

Little Junior sat in another leather chair. Old Geovanny plucked a cigar and inserted it between his two purplish brown lips. From Old Geovanny’s mouth came a parched smacking sound as he coaxed the end of the cigar to flame and smoke. That’s good, he sighed. He squinted