Bobby, the Big Blue Bunny wasn’t always big, and he wasn’t always blue. However, he had always been Bobby, at least for as long as he could remember.
When he was only a white bunny, Bobby used to live in the woods with his other bunny friends. His closest friends were Homer, Janice, and Tommy. They would play together every day. They would play many games, but their favorite was hide-n-seek. That was ever so much fun.
One day, Bobby decided that he was going to be the champion hide-n-seek player of all time. He would hide so well that no one would ever find him. Not even Janice who was the best hide-n-seek player in the whole wide world!
On that day, as Janice covered her eyes and counted to one hundred, Tommy and Homer hid in their usual places. But Bobby went deep into the woods, farther than he had ever gone before. His mommy would have been so worried about him if she had known how far from home he had traveled.
After a while, he came to an old, fallen down and hollowed out log in a quiet glade. “I can hide in there and Janice will never find me,” thought Bobby. So he hopped into the log and made himself comfortable. It was cozy. It was so cozy that after a while, Bobby started to get sleepy. “I’ll take a short nap. Then, I’ll go back and surprise them all. How all the other bunnies will cheer when I hop into the clearing after Janice has given up looking for me,” were his thoughts as he fell asleep.
The next thing Bobby knew, it was nighttime. He had slept longer than he had intended, and he was afraid. It was too dark to find his way home; he missed his mommy. He wanted to cry, but decided he would be a big bunny and not cry. He would wait for the sun to come up and then he would scamper home as fast as he could.
Once again, Bobby fell asleep.
When he awoke this time, the sun was out and the birds were singing. It was a beautiful day. “Oh, good! Now I can go home,” said Bobby.
He started to squirm his way out of the log and he was almost out when he heard, “Dum-dee-dum-dum. Dum-dee-dum-dum.” Someone was humming to himself. Then the phrase was repeated: “Dum-dee-dum-dum.”
“What is this?” Bobby wondered aloud. There was only one way to find out, he would have to leave the safety of the log. The voice did not sound scary. In fact it was quite a pleasant voice, so he made his way out into the sunshine.
There, before him, stood the biggest bunny he had ever seen. And to top it off, he was pink in colour! The bunny was stirring something in a big black kettle. And there were many more kettles spread throughout the glade.
Bobby was about to turn and run away when the pink bunny said, “I was wondering when you were going to wake up, sleepyhead.”
“You knew I was in the log?” asked Bobby.
“I surely did, but you were sleeping so soundly, I thought I’d leave you alone for the time being.”
“What are you doing?” Bobby wanted to know.
“I’m getting the colour ready for my eggs,” was the bunny’s reasoned response.
“Your eggs?”
“Yes, my eggs! I’m the Easter Bunny. You’ve heard of me.”
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t.”
“It doesn’t matter. Now, come and give me a hand. I have to mix the next colour.”
The Easter Bunny walked over to a kettle and lifted what looked like a heavy sack. He poured the contents into the pot. “You stir this while I go on to the next one.”
“I’m sorry sir, but I have to go home. My mommy will be worried about me.”
“Yes, mommies are like that.”
“It’s been nice meeting you, sir.”
‘Yes, yes. Now be on your way. I’m running late, and this year I have much work to do.”
Bobby turned away and hopped down the trail. But an hour later he was back. “I can’t find my way home. I’ve gone too far. I’ve never been this far into the woods before.”
The Easter Bunny sighed. “I will see that you get home, but first you must help me. Pick up a stick and stir that kettle over there,” he said pointing to the biggest kettle of the lot.
“It’s a little too high for me to reach,” said Bobby.
With another sigh, the Easter Bunny went over and opened a short step-ladder that was near-by and put it next to the kettle. “Here. Stand on this, and make sure the colour is thoroughly mixed with the water. There is nothing worse than spotted eggs.”
Bobby climbed to the top of the ladder and started to stir. Then he asked, “How long do I do this?”
“Until I get back,” answered the Easter Bunny. Then he added, “I won’t be long. I have to get the eggs.”
Bobby was warming to the task. It was fun to watch the colour swirls as they mixed with the water. His attention was so fixed on what he was doing that he did not notice he had moved a little too close to the pot. When he did notice, he tried to take a step back, but he lost his balance and fell into the kettle. That was all right. The water was not hot, but the edge was too high for him to reach. He yelled for help, but there was no one there to hear him.
In a few minutes the Easter Bunny returned and saw the splashing in the kettle Bobby was supposed to be tending. He peered over the rim and saw a thoroughly soaked Bobby swimming around in circles.
“Can’t I leave you alone for even a minute?” the Easter Bunny asked. And without waiting for an answer, he reached down and pulled Bobby out of the water.
The Easter Bunny gave Bobby a towel and told him to dry off. “And sit over there, out of the way. As soon as my eggs are coloured, I’ll see you home.”
A few hours later, Bobby was standing in front of his burrow waving good-bye to his new friend, the Easter Bunny. When he went inside, he saw his mother standing at the sink and he called to her. She turned to him—and dropped the plate she was washing. His brothers and sisters snickered and laughed. “What is it?” he wanted to know.
“Look in the mirror,” said one of his brothers.
And so Bobby did look in the mirror and was surprised to see a very blue bunny staring back at him. It had been the blue dye kettle he had fallen into.
From that day onwards, everyone called him, Bobby, the Blue Bunny. And when he grew up, he became known as, Bobby, the Big Blue Bunny. It was then that he stopped playing hide-n-seek. Being big and blue, he was always too easy to find.
They swung out onto the river. The snow was deep enough to protect the dogs’ paws, but not too deep to inhibit movement. The northern lights were playing havoc in the night sky. Huck stood on the runners, hung on tight to the handlebars, and threw his head back to enjoy the wondrous sight as the miles passed under his sled. If we weren’t running for our lives this might be enjoyable.
Neither Molly nor Jass spoke as the dogs strained in their harnesses. Huck’s face was caked with ice. He rubbed his nose and cheeks frequently to bring the feeling back. Frostbite turns the skin black and leaves deep scars. If he lived to see Circle City, he wanted to be his old handsome self. Then he laughed at the thought as the lights over his head turned from green to white, then spun clockwise, exploding into every hue in the rainbow. “Come on, Bright, make them miles,” he said aloud, but not loud enough for anyone to hear—as they ran for their lives.
She stood with such force that she knocked her chair backwards and it started to fall. She had her gun out and in her hand before the chair hit the floor. The scraping noise of the chair as Molly stood turned the men’s attention from the gold to the table. It was the last act of their lives. Molly had a bullet into each one of them before they knew they were dead.
Jass couldn’t believe it. He took the bottle of Three Star, tilted it to his mouth and drank a goodly portion. Then he sat down and wiped his brow. In spite of the cold, he had been sweating. Huck went to Molly and gently touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Good girl,” was all he said.
As I sit alone in this small church staring at his casket (a casket, by the way, that costs more than the building it sits in is worth), I can’t help but smile to myself. This is where it started all those many, many years ago. Mike could have had one of those large, ostentatious Hollywood funerals, but he asked me, so to speak, to ship him here on the q.t. He wanted only one mourner, me.
I first met Mike Landrieu when I was thirteen, the year was 1935. I had run away from home, such as it was. The old man was an abusive drunk and my mother had given up hope years earlier. I hitched myself a ride with a salesman heading west and we got as far as this town when his Ford Model A blew a tire. Not wanting to wait around while he patched the tube, I grabbed my grip and bid him good-bye. As I look back on it now, that blown tire was fate knocking at my door.
While walking through town on my way to the highway, my eye caught sight of a small billboard in front of a burlesque house. It wasn’t the listing of the acts that drew my attention; it was the picture of the star, Rosita Royce. And as many a thirteen-year-old boy can attest to, that is all it took to stop me in my tracks. Having nowhere I had to be and no one waiting for me when I got there, I took myself around to the back to ask for a job.
I walked through the door, which was propped open, and was immediately accosted by Pop. There was a “Pop” guarding the stage entrance in every house. From the grandest in New York City to the third raters in little towns like the one I was currently in. The man who halted my ingress inquired as to what I wanted and who I wanted to see. When I informed him I was looking for a job, he laughed and said, “Ain’t you heard, boy? There’s a depression going on. There ain’t no jobs nowhere, and if there was a job available, it would have been snatched up long before you showed.”
When he had finished speaking, he slit his eyes, and looking at me sideways said, “How old are you?” I was big for my age, so I lied and told him I was sixteen. I don’t think I fooled him much.
Just then a man walked up and asked, “What’s this, Pop?”
“This here boy is lookin’ for work, but I told him we don’t have none.”
Turning his full attention in my direction, the man asked me my name. When I told him, he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Mike Landrieu, I run this house.” After we shook hands, I took stock of the man. To me he was ancient; he must have been all of twenty-five. He told Pop that he was going out for a “bottle and bird,” which I later learned was the term show people used for a meal.
“Why not come along?” he asked. “I’ll treat you to some donuts and milk and maybe we can find a job for you.” The short of it is, Mike hired me as his assistant and gave me a room at the back of the theater in which to live.
I liked working for Mike. It was quite an education. He kept me busy, and he taught me the business. It was just a third-rate burlesque house, but Mike ran it first-rate. Even though he was young, he was known as Uncle Mike to all the acts that came through. About a year later, Mike upped and said we were going to Hollywood. He had sold the place.
We hit Hollywood on a dusty, wind-blown day. Back then there were still some orange groves around town and the wind was kicking up an awful fuss. Mike knew so many people in the business that it wasn’t long before he was representing some of them to the studios. One thing led to another and before we knew it, Mike was a big time Hollywood agent.
In ’55, I left Mike—with his blessing—and started my own agency. Being as busy as I was, I didn’t see Mike as often as I would have liked. I think it might have been six months since I last spoke with him when I got the call. It was near 2:00 a.m. I was in bed with a girl from Omaha who thought she was going to be the next Bette Davis.
I picked up the phone and Mike said, “Howdy, partner, I need you.” There was a tremor in his voice that brought me full awake. “Can you come over here right now?” he asked.
I was out the door before the would-be starlet could object.
I pulled into Mike’s driveway and noticed a strange car parked there. I didn’t knock, but went right in and found Mike covered in blood.
“What the hell happened, Mike?”
“I don’t know. She attacked me with a knife, she just went crazy!”
He pointed towards the bedroom, and I walked that way. I wish I hadn’t. Sprawled across the bed lay a woman on white sheets soaked in crimson blood, which glistened in the dim light. Her eyes were opened; she was looking right at me, but she did not see me. She was dead.
I turned away in disgust. Mike had followed me into the room and was standing behind me. He was crying.
“Mike, tell me what happened here.”
“I just don’t know. We were going . . . going to . . . you know. She was telling me about how she had a small speaking part in a Warner’s film as she was taking off her clothes. Then she suddenly ran from the room and came back holding that kitchen knife,” he said as he pointed toward a knife on the floor.
“I just don’t know,” he mumbled again.
I turned Mike around, walked him to the living room and sat him down on the couch. I got a bottle of Scotch and poured us both a stiff one. “Okay, Mike . . . no bullshit, tell me!”
He downed his drink in one gulp and said, “She was a honey I picked up down on Wilshire. You know, that little hole-in-the-wall off Pico. I didn’t know her; she said she wanted to go home with me and I thought that would be a good idea. She followed me here in her car. Everything was going good. I made drinks and we talked for a while. Then she made bedroom eyes at me, stood up, took my hand, and led me into the bedroom. The next thing I knew, she was trying to stab me with that damn knife.”
He stood and poured himself another drink. Then he continued, “We fought for the knife and I somehow got it away from her, but . . . when I wrenched it from her hand, it slipped into her throat. It was an accident! I tried to stop the flow of blood, but I just couldn’t. She was on the bed just like she is now. Slowly she smiled at me as her life seeped out of her.”
Mike started to cry again.
“What do you want me to do, Mike?”
He did not answer, I don’t think he heard me.
I placed my hand on his shoulder. He had been like a father to me. He was the only person that had ever treated me right. I knew what I had to do.
I went into the bedroom and rolled the woman up in the sheets. The blood had soaked through to the mattress, but that was of no concern at the moment. I carried her outside and placed her in her car. Then I went back into the house and retrieved her purse. Her car keys were in it.
Mike was in a trance and had no idea what I was doing. I told him to have another drink and not do anything until I got back. He nodded numbly, and I left Mike Landrieu for the last time.
I drove the woman’s car out to Malibu and left it in a parking lot of a restaurant on the beach. I had trouble finding a cab, so it was a while before I made it back to Mike’s.
I went in to find my old friend sitting in his favorite chair. He was dead; he had shot himself. There was a note in his hand. He wrote that he could not live with what he had done. He asked that he be buried in the town where we first met. And he thanked me for being his friend. His friend? The sonavabitch saved me when I was just a snot-nosed kid.
I took the note and left. Let the cops figure it out.
I sit here alone in this Podunk town with only my memories . . . and my friend, Mike Landrieu.
It was a sleepy, dusty delta day. I was out in the field, picking cotton—down in the lower forty. Momma came to me with the news.
My man killed himself.
Henry was my life. Henry was my everything.
He was a long way from home when he died. He should have been here with me, not out chasing money.
It was me that drove him off. I was always going on about how I wanted this and how I wanted that. Now all I want is my Henry back.
It don’t seem right that I’m here and he ain’t.
I think I’ll go to him.
The mountain ain’t that high, I can be up on top by sunset.
I said my good-bye to momma and started out. She had no idea where I was going or what I was gonna do once I got there.
I’m wearin’ my wedding dress. Henry always said how pretty I looked the day we were pledged to one another. How my hair trapped the sunlight, how my eyes laughed, how he became weak in the knees as he stood next to me before the preacher. How much he loved me.
As I climb the mountain, I smile. I’m thinking on my Henry. I’m thinking of the time we was kids and went swimming down at old man Ives’ watering hole. It was the first time Henry ever did kiss me.
The sun’s going down, the clouds are orange and pink with purple ’round the edges.
I’m now up on the ridge.
Henry always said I didn’t have a lick of sense. I reckon I don’t.
I loved you so much, Henry. I am so sorry for my evil ways.
It’s a long way down, but when I get there, I’ll be with my Henry.
Still slaving away---as you can discern from the accompanying photo. The novel should be out by April, 2016.
An excerpt from RESOLUTION:
With the stove going great guns and the coffee almost ready, Huck opened the door to see what the outside world looked like. He beheld a sea of white—three feet deep with drifts twice as high, the sled, buried, nothing showing excepting the handlebars, abandoned buildings striving to reassert their supremacy over the landscape, but failing—a sea of white silence that stretched to the ends of the earth.
Jass hobbled up on his crutches. “Looks like we’ll have to take to the ice. We’ll never make miles if you have to break trail for the dogs. Maybe in a day or so, mushers going down to Dawson will have trampled the snow for us. But until then, we stay on the ice.”
A tale from my misbegotten youth. I'm sorry to say all the facts are true as stated.
It was Easter morning on Huntington Beach, California, 1969. I was nineteen years old. I had spent the night sleeping under a lifeguard stand. I only mention the locale because it is pertinent to the story—in a roundabout way.
I was in Huntington Beach that Easter morning because of food. Well, not good food, but food of any sort is good food when one is hungry. There was a storefront church right off the beach that every evening would serve us God and sandwiches. The way it worked was, they would go around during the day and collect day old sandwiches from stores in the vicinity to use as a lure to get the hungry into their place of worship. It worked pretty well, the joint was always packed. However, you had to have the God before they would give you a stale cheese sandwich. We also received miniature Bibles. Not the whole Bible, these little red books had a verse or two. I can remember them clearly. They were an inch high, an inch wide and about an eighth of an inch thick. And that cover, I will never forget that red cover. They come into the story later.
So, I’m tired of going hungry and sleeping on the beach, I'm thinking I’ll take a quick trip back east and visit the folks. You know . . . sleep in a bed for a change and eat a square meal once in a while. But before I left, at my last night at the Sandwich Church, I grabbed a handful of the little “Bibles” and stuffed them into my case. Back then I traveled with an old-fashioned suitcase. Three feet long, two feet high, and twelve inches wide; and solid, I could put it on its end and sit on it. That case must have done about 50,000 miles with me.
With my little Bibles and a cheese sandwich, I headed east. I had it down to a science back then. Three days from the California border to Miami or vice versa. At that time there was no Interstate Highway system. I made it as far as Louisiana. If you were going east to west, or west to east on the southern route, you took Highway 90. Going from west to east, highway 90 split at Baton Rouge. You could either go south into New Orleans or continue east toward Lake Pontchartrain. On this fateful trip, I did not go into New Orleans. I went straight ahead because the truck in which I was riding was going that way.
I was let off just outside a sleepy little town by the name of Denham Springs. I can still see the water tower with the town’s name emblazoned across it. Later, well into the 70’s, there was a cliché of a southern sheriff. He was fat, stupid, mean; he wore mirrored sunglasses and he was very, very dangerous. He was, after all, the law, the only law you were ever going to get in his town. If you were an outsider, and he didn’t need your vote to get re-elected, then chances were good that if your paths crossed, you, and not he, were going to be the worse for it. That cliché had to come from somewhere and I know where. It was based on the sheriff of Denham Springs, Louisiana, circa 1969.
As the truck stopped to let me out and I started to climb down from the cab, a note of warning I heard: “That town up ahead, Denham Springs, has the meanest son-of-a-bitch for a sheriff. Do not hitchhike through his town. Just walk through and start hitchin’ on the other side.” I took his words to heart; I did not hitch through Denham Springs, Louisiana.
I proceeded to walk through that godforsaken town like the good citizen I was pretending to be. I made it halfway when a police car pulled up beside me and the “officer,” who was fat, mean, and wore the prescribed mirrored shades, told me to get in the back of his car. When a cop puts you in the back seat, you’re going to jail. Or at least that's what I thought. Though it seems this joker was in no hurry to do anything. He just drove around town sayin’ hello to other troglodytes like himself. The whole time, I said not a word. Remember, I was just walking down the street minding my own business when I was accosted by this officer of the law. But as I’ve said, I kept my big mouth shut (for once) while he drove all over creation with me in the back seat of his police car. There were no handles on the inside of the doors, I was locked in.
Finally, after about an hour of that, I said, “Excuse me, sir, but what’s going on?”
His reply: “Shut up, boy, you’re under arrest.” No fooling, he actually called me, “boy”!
So I shut up, sat back, and tried to enjoy the ride. Shortly thereafter, we pulled up in front of the police station. This cliché of a cop got out, told me to grab my case and come with him. Only one thing though, he forgot that I could not open the door from the inside. He was halfway to the cop shop before he turned and saw his mistake. So he had to come back and open the door for me. I was tempted to take my time getting out and make him wait there, holding the door open like a valet parking attendant. But my better sense said: You might still make it out of here in one piece, so don’t piss the asshole off.
We made our way to his little kingdom and it was there that I met "Barney." Barney was not his real name; in fact, I never did learn his name. But he was the deputy to Fat Boy. He seemed like a nice enough fellow, but he was dependant on Fatso for his job, so he meekly went about carrying out the orders handed down by the sheriff. I called him Barney because he reminded me, in looks and manner, of the Don Knots’ character from the Andy Griffith Show, Barney Fife.
Then the inspection and interrogation began. My pal sat behind his desk, Barney standing off to his right, and me in the position of defendant before the bar. The first thing he does is open my suitcase and go through the contents. You never know, I might have been carrying explosives. Nope—no explosives found, but a ha! I was carrying little Bibles. That had to mean something. So I was questioned quite thoroughly, if someone with an IQ of 76 can be said to know what a question is, let alone ask one.
“What are these?”
“Little Bibles, sir.”
“What are you, some kind of Jesus freak?”
“No sir. I just believe in the word of the Lord.”
I thought if I played at being a Goodie Two-Shoes, I might get back on the road before too long. Boy, was I mistaken. My piety did not impress him, so I thought, What next? At that point, I figured I’d just play stupid and see what developed.
The next insidious thing found in my case was the infamous Carnation Instant Breakfast packages. There were about five or six of the damn things. Do you remember them? They were just a powder of some sort that one drank in the morning in lieu of a healthy breakfast. They were factory sealed, and when Fats asked me what they were, I just stared at him. I mean, it was printed on the packages he was holding what the stuff was. But Sherlock Holmes wasn’t going to be fooled by any snot-nosed kid. No sir, no way.
This guy was way too sharp for the likes of me. Thinking there were hidden drugs concealed in those factory-sealed packages, he tears one open, wets the tip of his finger and sticks it into the package. He pulls out the fat finger with Carnation Instant Breakfast (chocolate flavor) stuck to it. He brings it up to his mouth and was about to lick his finger with the “drugs” sticking to it. But no, wait, this guy is sharp. He stops before tongue touches finger. He turns to Barney and holds up said finger. The unspoken command: Hey you, Idiot, come over here and lick this poison off my finger. You got to hand it to ol’ Barney, he did his duty. I don’t know who was more surprised that he did not keel over dead after ingesting the “poison,” Barney or Fatso. After a few minutes, when it was evident that my Carnation Instant Breakfast was not laced with LSD, the interrogation stalled.
It was at that point I thought I’d try my second gambit. The Holy Roller act hadn’t work, so let’s try motherhood. I was going to try to outsmart my captors.
“Sir, may I make a phone call?”
“Why? Do you think you deserve one?”
“No sir. It’s just that my mother is dying back in Florida, and I was on my way back to see her, and if I’m not going to get back there any time soon, I’d just like to say good-bye to her over the phone.”
I have to admit, I almost had him. I had Barney, no problem. I think I even saw a single tear trickle down his cheek. But at the last second, Fats says, “You know, we had a hippie in here last week. Shaved his head and sent him out to the work gang. He’s now helpin’ build us a nice new road over on the north side of town. How’d ya like to join him?”
Okay, I thought, you got me, but I’m keeping my eyes wide open for you to make the littlest mistake, then it’s swish . . . I’m outta here.
Without further ado, he told me that in the morning I would have my hair shaved off and then sent out to the work gang for six months. No trial . . . no habeas corpus . . . no lawyer . . . no nothing!
It was now time to put me away for the night. At first, I thought Fats was going to have Barney do the honors all by himself. But no, Fats was enjoying himself too much, he wanted in on all the fun until the last possible moment.
It was as they were leading me up the stairs to the cell block that an idea came to me. As I walked slowly up those dark, dank stairs, I prayed for just one good break. That was all I needed, only one.
We reached the landing, housing the three cells that comprised the Denham Springs’ Correctional System. The door to the nearest cell was standing wide open and there didn’t seem to be any other inhabitants about. Things were looking up.
My plan was simple. I just had to antagonize Fats into physical violence. That shouldn’t be too hard. All afternoon I could see he was just itchin’ to give me a good one, right across the mouth. So, let’s see what you’re made of, Fatso! When we stepped in front of the opened door of the cell, he grabbed my left arm at the bicep and walked me inside. Great, thought I, this is the moment of truth. I yanked my arm from his grip, spun around and spit in his face. Well, that wasn’t so hard. He turned beet-red and let a haymaker go in the general direction of my jaw. Of course, I was expecting it, so I went with the flow. As soon as his fist connected, I went in the same direction in which his arm was moving; his punch had very little effect on me. But that’s not how I played it.
But a moment to digress. When I saw the cell door open, and neither Fats nor Barney with a key between them, that’s when I knew I had a fighting chance. No key, that was my ace in the hole. You see, it had been my experience that one needed a key to open jail cell doors, but not to lock them. They locked automatically with some sort of spring mechanism. At least that’s the way it worked way back in 1969.
Okay, back to the drama. When I feigned taking his best blow, I grabbed my chest in the area of my heart, and said, “My heart.” (What else?) I fell to the floor, did a spasm or two, coupled with a little shaking, and pretended to pass out. As I lay there with my eyes closed, I couldn’t tell what was going through Fats’ mind, but I heard Barney exclaim, “Great, now you killed him!”
Fats was already in the cell, but my plan depended on both of them being in there with me. So, as Fats shook me, trying to elicit a response, I bided my time until I heard Barney enter. When I was sure he was far enough through the door, I jumped up and pushed them into one another. As one, they crashed to the floor and I ran out of that damn cell, clanging the door shut behind me.
Now Fats still had his gun, so even though he was entwined with Barney, I didn’t stick around to enjoy my victory. I bolted down the stairs, grabbed my case, and was out of the door before either one of them got to his feet.
Two blocks away, I hit it lucky and got a ride with a Peterbilt going all the way to Tallahassee.
Well, that’s about it folks. The only other thing of interest is that about eight months later, I was hitchin’ through to the west coast and once again, I was let out near Denham Springs, Louisiana. And you know what the guy said as I left his car?
“Don’t go through Denham Springs, they got them a real mean sheriff there.”
My answer to his kind advice: “Yes, I’ve heard of him.”
Needless to say, I went through New Orleans that time around.
An excerpt from RESOLUTION, a work in progress by Andrew Joyce
“We’ve been hearing a lot about you, Mister Carmack. Is it true that you have found the Bonanza Gold?”
In way of an answer, Carmack reached inside his coat and pulled out a leather pouch—a rather large leather pouch. He delicately untied the strings, and then with a dazzling smile that would have given the midnight sun a run for its money, George Carmack emptied the contents onto the table.
I took John's six-shooter out of its holster and shot the son-of-a-bitch in his right knee,blowing the kneecap all to hell and back. That wiped that snake smile from his face.
He fell out of the chair, shrieking in agony. It was music to my ears. As he lay on the floor holding his bloody knee and making all sorts of noise, I collected the cash from the desk and slowly, very slowly, counted it. Yep, it was $10,000.00 alright. By the time I finished counting, he had quieted down just enough to hear what I had to say.
With the cash in one hand and the six-shooter in the other, I left Larimer with these words: "My name is Molly Lee and I want you to remember it for the rest of your miserable life as you hobble about on your crutches. That's M-O-L-L-Y L-E-E! And Molly Lee can take care of herself!"
Description:
Molly is about to set off on the adventure of a lifetime . . . of two lifetimes.
It's 1861 and the Civil War has just started. Molly is an eighteen-year-old girl living on her family's farm in Virginia when two deserters from the Southern Cause enter her life. One of them--a twenty-four-year-old Huck Finn--ends up saving her virtue, if not her life.
Molly is so enamored with Huck, she wants to run away with him. But Huck has other plans and is gone the next morning before she awakens. Thus starts a sequence of events that leads Molly into adventure after adventure; most of them not so nice. She starts off as a naive young girl. Over time, she develops into a strong, independent woman. The change is gradual. Her strengths come from the adversities she encounters along the road that is her life.
We follow the travails of Molly Lee, starting when she is eighteen and ending when she is fifty-six. Even then Life has one more surprise in store for her.
