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Little Bigly Man
Little Bigly Man
Little Bigly Man
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Little Bigly Man

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If you think America since 2016 couldn't get any more unpredictable and strange, Abraham Bush Crabb has some news, and you may want to sit down with a tequila Big Gulp.

On the day before he dies in the year 2105, Abe, 108 years old more or less, offloads for his great-great-grandson most everything he can remember about his remarkable life that spans the entirety of the 21st Century.
From being snatched out of the unwanted-baby drawer of a church in East Tennessee, through his youth as a precocious foster child of the high-strung congresswoman Myrna Mockley …
… To his brief career as the favorite "private entertainer" for Washington's political elite …
… To escaping death at the gruesome "Trump Massacre," getting the lowdown on the Vagilantes who handed billionaires their overdue comeuppance, scavenging Mar A Lago for Trump-branded sex toys and bric a brac, cheffing for the 1% on a everflight ship soaring over the climate catastrophes on earth.

And that barely gets us to mid-century when America makes some moves that would have the founding fathers soiling their breeches.

This immensely entertaining, rambunctious, fast-reading yarn pulls no punches and ends on a hopeful note for those who know the best of America will reemerge when the corrupt idiots get theirs. And they do. Abe has seen to it.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 4, 2022
ISBN9798215406526
Little Bigly Man

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    Book preview

    Little Bigly Man - Stephen Peet

    LITTLE BIGLY MAN

    SO. THIS IS HOW IT ENDS…

    STEPHEN PEET

    PEET.ink Communications PEET.ink Communications

    Copyright ©2022 by PEETink Communications Corp.

    All rights reserved.

    No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

    This is a work of fiction. It’s all made up. The author has included a few actual locations and names for the sole purpose of establishing moments in time and/or places important to the story. Nothing written here actually happened. Or will happen as far as the author knows.

    ALSO FROM STEPHEN PEET

    dismay berry cover

    On his first day in the high country of Appalachia working at a dream job that he lied his ass off to get, bartender-turned-reporter Mike Otter encounters a goofy one-eyed boss, a sharp-tongued septuagenarian office manager, a geeky super-genius co-worker and a splattered body that either fell or was thrown from a 500-foot cliff. Then things really start getting weird.

    confess cover

    What the hell was that weirdness in the clouds over the Cowboys-Panthers game? Whatever it was, it wants the world to confess its sins and that could spell disaster for a one-time advisor to a dim-witted ex-president who wants to spill secrets and cleanse his soul.

    READERS REACT

    "Little Bigly Man is Highly entertaining … ongoing infighting among our politicians and billionaires kills millions and renders much of the planet uninhabitable. Even so, it has a happy ending!

    — BILL SNIDER

    "Really great read … Little Bigly Man is a great length for a poolside or beach read. Looking forward to the next one from this author!"

    — REPORT44

    "Very entertaining … Dismayberry has great characters and quick pace."

    — AMAZON CUSTOMER

    "Dismayberry is a great read! … The author has thoroughly captured the flavor of my very unique mountain hometown in the 1980s. The story is a compelling mystery with a surprising twist peopled by characters who feel so authentic. Ashe County, the area on which the fictional town in the novel is based, is a place--in my opinion--unlike any other, and the author has done a great job of capturing the best and the worst of this provincial town. I'll definitely be loaning this book to my mama! She'll love it!"

    — DAWNE H.

    LITTLE BIGLY MAN

    PREAMBLE

    Dear Reader:

    My great-great grandfather, Abraham Bush Crabb, believed himself to be the great-great grandson of Jack Crabb, alleged sole surviving white man of Custer’s Last Stand and protagonist in a literary tale more than 140 years old.

    Abe lived 108 years, give or take. His exact age is lost to lazy record-keeping in rural East Tennessee where he was born at the end of the 20th Century. In fact, little evidence of his birth and initial years exists; likely due to corrupted databases which were among the many casualties of the lawlessness the nation endured throughout the years surrounding the events known as the Trump Massacre.

    Abe’s longevity was achieved without nanobotics, telomere implants, CryoSuspension or any life-extending technologies whatsoever. He never had the means for such luxuries and even if he had would not have toyed with the natural order of things in that manner. Genetics and stubbornness account for his long life.

    Abe personally experienced a number of the past century’s notable events and rubbed up against more than a few of its notorious actors. Familial pride and a sense of history moved me to put down his story while he was still alive and coherent enough to tell it.

    Understand I merely transcribed his words. I left most of his rambling intact and did not clean up improper English or coarse language. Abe came from another place and time as you will see reflected in his word choices and colloquialisms. If his comments induce cringe, dismay or even disgust, so be it. Personally, I found his manner of speech an essential part of who he is and was. Therefore I did my best to record it faithfully.

    But this is not a historical document. These are the reminiscences of a man who lived more than ten decades. How many of his recollections are true I will leave to the reader to decide.

    I know Abe believed he was descended from a fictional character he thought to be real. I know he believed his memory was infallible. Whether any of it would stand up in libel court, who knows. I have changed or omitted names wherever I thought prudent to protect his long line of progeny and heirs (me included) from litigious opportunists. Everything else is as he recounted it to me.

    Finally, I am no journalist (I rake forests by trade), have no specific training in the gathering of information for public consumption, know nothing of best practices for conducting interviews, or tactics for coaxing from subjects deeper meaning and detail. I did have a plan, however.

    My intention was to spend the first session letting Abe ramble wherever his memory led him. I would use subsequent sessions to dig deeper into the tales that held the promise of even more lurid, entertaining details. I like those stories best and wager you do, too, dear reader. Abe has a lot of those stories as you will see.

    We sadly had no sessions after the first. Abe did not wake up the morning after our initial session.

    To honor the day, his last of an incredible life, I have chosen not to rearrange the sequences of our exchange. If he lurched about in the chronology of things, injected flashbacks and flash forwards, I let it all stand. (You will see a few instances where I summarized particularly long or confusing tangents.)

    The world puts too much stock in tidy, managed order and is too blind to the beauty of nature’s chaos (to paraphrase Abe). My hope is that leaving his words in their purest form will recreate for the reader the same experience I had of sitting in the room with my great-great grandfather on that day.

    With that, I present Abraham Bush Crabb recalling his life — random, unvarnished, unamended. I hope you find as I have that Abe definitely saw some shit and comported himself with dignity and good humor through most of it.

    Respectfully,

    Preston Percosette

    7 October 2105

    THE BEGINNING OF IT

    • Philosophy • Abandoned • Momma • Mockleys • Dancing • Washington D.C. • Alone

    PHILOSOPHY

    I never took to America’s teat. Barely more than a baby, I intuited that my birth country was not a welcoming place for my ilk. The more I growed the more I understood the American ideal for what it was: a con cooked up by our so-called betters, from the founders onward.

    The scam all came down to this: Trust your keeper.

    If you believed one side your keepers are the bosses, the wealthy, the companies, the corporations. And the church. Can’t forget the church. Put your trust in them that lord over you.

    The other side said trust the system; elected officials, institutions, government are the keepers that make sure everything is fair and square because all men are equal under the law. The feller believing that ought never be left alone with combustibles or sharp tools.

    That’s it. Them’s your choices if you want to make it in this hard, cold world. Blind obedience to your keeper is your best shot at having weatherproof shelter, steady meals, tolerable health, social acceptance, and fit and capable children.

    I wanted most of them things but not if it meant being kept. I understood way younger than most that trusting myself was the best way through this hard life. In other words, the keepers can go fuck themselves.

    Without even knowing it America had it right at first. If you wasn’t a slave or even if you was a slave and you managed to escape without getting killed, you could make it or don’t on your own. Don’t like your circumstances? Well then, light out. It might be tough going for a while but there was a whole virgin continent out there for the taking and

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