Phillip "Chunk" Grant sparked a cigarette, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door to his two bedroom apartment. He took a drag, snapped the light on, and froze: The place was ransacked. His TV was smashed, the couch was overturned, and his clothes were strewn across the floor.

Oh, shit.

He backed out and shut the door, his heart beginning to race. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a revolver and turned. Two guys in suits were coming up the stairs. One saw him and swatted the other's shoulder. "There he is!"

Chunk raised the gun and fired: The bullet smashed into the wall behind the assassins, and they both ducked. Chunk fired again, intentionally missing, and then threw himself down the hall, running as fast as his 270 pounds would allow. He tossed a frightened glance over his shoulder, and saw the goons gaining on him. At the end of the hall, he slammed through a door marked EXIT and launched himself down the stairwell, taking the steps two and three at a time. Above, the door hit against the wall as the thugs burst through, a loud echo filling the world.

"He went that way!" he heard one of them yell. At the bottom of the stairs, he came to another door marked EXIT and pushed the handle. It wouldn't budge. A rusted chain was threaded through, a padlock hanging down like a body from a noose. There had been a rash of break-ins over the past few months, and the super decided the best way to stop them was to lock the outer door, which was, Chunk was pretty sure, against the law.

Panicking, he rammed his shoulder against it: It jumped in its frame but didn't open. Behind him, the footsteps grew closer. Come on! Come on! He rammed his shoulder against the door again, and it gave a little. The goons were on the landing now. "Stop right there, you rat bastard!" one of them yelled. Chunk threw his weight against the door in one final attempt, and it exploded open, Chunk stumbling into the warm August night. He was halfway across the parking lot, a stitch in his side and his breath hot in his burning lungs, when the first bullet whizzed by his head. Ducking, he zig-zagged to make it harder for them to get a bead on him, bullets slicing through the air around him. He jumped over the curb and smashed through a wooden stockade fence separating the apartment building from a 7-11, splinters scratching his face and arm.

"Get the car!" one of the killers yelled.

Chunk glanced over his shoulder and saw them running toward a black Lincoln parked in a NO PARKING zone. These guys are sloppy, he thought.

He skitted around the corner of the store and stopped before reaching the door. He had two choices: Try to outrun them, or go inside and hope they wouldn't strike in public. He was pretty sure they'd catch up to him if he tried to run: He was a big guy and he was already out of breath. Inside, he stood a fighting chance, since guys like these didn't operate as brazenly as they did fifty years ago.

Decided, he took a deep breath, returned the gun to his coat, tried to wipe the fear off his face, and went inside, the harsh white light stinging his eyes. A cashier was sitting behind the counter, his arms crossed and his attention on a small TV set. A black man in a florescent yellow shirt was scanning the freezer containing the beer. A woman was by the coffee machine, stirring her brew with a red straw. A gangly teenaged boy was standing at a game cabinet, beeps, boops, and music surrounding him.

Headlights washed across the front window, and Chunk looked over his shoulder. With a thundering heart, he saw the Lincoln.

Shit.

They were going to do it.

Gulping, Chunk put his hand on the grip of the gun. He hurried away from the window and pretended to look at the sodas, throwing frequent glances over his shoulder. The black man opened a door, took out a tallboy, and brought it to the counter, leaving Chunk alone in the back.

For a long time, nothing happened, then the bell over the door dinged, and one of the hitmen came in, his baleful eyes fixed on Chunk. Feeling a sudden mixture of rage and terror, much like a cornered animal must feel, Chunk pulled the gun out and laid it flat against his leg. Alright. If it's going to be that way.

Come here, you guinea bastard; I got something for you.

Instead of coming for him, the goon leaned against the counter and slowly, slowly looked away. "Let me get a pack of Marlboros," he said in a Brooklyn accent. "And, uh, you got any rat poison?"

Chunk flushed with anger.

"No, sorry," the clerk said, slapping a pack of cigarettes onto the counter. "10.50."

The goon took out a bill and sat it down. "Keep the change," he said, grabbing his smokes and starting for the door. He paused and glared at Chunk. Step outside, those dark, bellicose eyes said, take a ride.

Chunk glared back.

After a tense moment, the guy left, the bell dinging again, and Chunk breathed a sigh of relief. They wouldn't go far, though; they'd probably wait for him in the parking lot.

Thirsty from his run, he grabbed a Coke and went down the middle aisle, past chip bags, packs of cookies, and assorted candy. Out the front window, he saw the Lincoln back up and swing right, the passenger side facing the store. The window rolled down, and the guy who'd come in popped out.

"Shit!" Chunk cried and dropped just as the window exploded. The clerk yelped in what may have been terror or pain. Bullets tore into the bags and boxes lining the shelves, knocking some of them down and onto Chunk's back. Someone screamed, and more glass shattered.

When the gunfire stopped, Chunk jumped up and, in a crouch, hurried toward the back of the store. He was pretty sure he'd seen a storeroom. The floor was littered with debris. The kid who'd been playing on the game cabinet was lying on his back, blood gushing from his mouth.

Chunk reached the storeroom door and threw it open just as the sound of glass crunching underfoot found his ears. "Where is he?" one of the guys roared.

In the storeroom, Chunk stood and looked around. A door marked EXIT was to his right, and he went to it, throwing it open and dashing into the night. Behind him, an alarm sounded, and he turned just in time to see the two assholes appear. Muzzles flashed, and bullets screamed through the air around him. What the hell were they using, .50 cals?

The far right corner of the store's back lot bordered a dense stand of forest. Chunk made for it, jumping over the curb and side-stepping a picnic table that seemed to come out of nowhere. Just past the treeline, the earth dipped down, and Chunk slid on pine needles, falling to his ass but popping back up again. At the bottom of the incline, he went right, following what looked like a dry creek-bed. If he knew Royal Woods the way he liked to think he did, this would bring him to Colman Street, and crossing Colman would deposit him in Miller Park, where a guy being chased by goons easilylose himself.

As he ran, he reached into his pocket, but didn't feel his cellphone. He checked the other. It wasn't there either. Damn it! He must have dropped it somewhere.

He reached Coleman and darted across. On the other side, he lost himself in the park.

And his attackers, too.

Luna Loud closed her laptop and smiled to herself, a rush of accomplishment buffeting her like a warm summer breeze. Just twelve short hours ago, she uploaded a video of her playing her guitar and singing to YouTube, and in less than one day (one day!) it had been viewed by almost 100,000 people. 100,000 people! That was insane!

Did that count as viral? She didn't think so, but, shit, it felt good anyway. And that was just twelve hours!

Her head spun and she felt like she was about to tumble out of bed. Wow. She'd posted videos before that got a lot of views, but nothing like this, and never so fast.

This is it, Luna, she thought to herself, your big break...

She got up and crossed the room, stopping when her foot kicked something small and square: It slid across the carpet and hit her dresser. Looked like a phone.

She went to it, picked it up, and looked at it. It was. Chunk's phone. He must have dropped it when he was moving her speakers earlier. She sat it on the dresser and went to the bathroom. She'd give it to him tomorrow.

Down the hall, Lincoln Loud was sitting on his bed with a good comic and nothing on but his undies, the attire God intended a boy of eleven to read in. With a contented sigh, he turned the page. His hero Ace Savvy was locked in a life and death battle with Dr. Claw and...

The door slammed open, startling Lincoln so badly that he jumped. His sister Luan came in, wearing her stupid Groucho Marx glasses. "Hey, Linc, wanna hear a joke?"

Lincoln sighed. In a civilized society, a closed door was an impediment. In the Loud house, it was an invitation. "How many times do we have to have the talk?"

Luan cocked her head. "The birds and the bees talk? Mom already..."

"No," Lincoln said, slapping his face, "the knock-before-you-come-into-my-room talk."

Luan blinked. "Sorry." She knocked on the open door.

Okay. Yeah. That's totally how it's done. "What?" he asked sharply.

"Wanna hear a joke?"

"Not really, but something tells me I'm going to anyway."

"Okay," Luan said, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice, "pretend you're not related to me."

Somedays, Luan, I do. "Okay. I'm not related to you."

Luan grinned. "I know a good incest joke, but I like to keep it in the family." She laughed and slapped her knobby knee.

Lincoln grinned despite himself. "Okay, you got me with that one."

She pretended to pull out a notepad and a pen. "Note to self: Lincoln likes incest."

Lincoln's heart dropped. "No!" he said, throwing up his hands.

"The idea of making love to his sisters is amusing to him."

"God, no, it turns my stomach!"

"Make more crude jokes about our sisters' bodies."

Lincoln sighed. "Go away."

"You're a strange little boy, Lincoln Loud. I think you need therapy."

Whatever. He picked up his comic book and started reading again. When Luan got like this, there was no stopping her. Well, short of shoving a sock into her mouth and duct taping it into place.

"I'm leaving now," she said.

"Bye."

"Don't look at my butt as I walk away."

"I'll try not to."

"Or think about me as you..."

Lincoln looked up. "Can you please let me read my comic book? If anyone has some sick incest fetish, it's the girl who won't leave me alone."

"You're an asshole."

"I'm in my underwear, and here you are. I bet you get a sick thrill out of seeing me half naked. You probably wish I was all the way naked, don't you?"

Luan sighed. "You need to learn proper comedic timing."

"You need to learn to take a hint."

"Fine," she said, and left, closing the door hard. Alone at last, Lincoln crossed his leg and delved back into the world of Ace Savvy. He loved his sisters, but Jesus H. Christ, they never left him alone. From the moment he woke up in the morning to the moment his head hit the pillow at night, they were jammed so far up his ass they wore his brain as a hat. The funny thing was: They didn't do that to each other, only him. They were all probably into that incest crap: One day they'd form a mob and break down his door. "We done come for ya'll, Lincoln," they'd say, because people who do incest are usually from the south. He'd probably have to jump out his window to escape.

He was just about to turn the page when someone rapped on the door. He sighed and looked up. So soon? At least they were being polite about it. "What?"

The door opened and Luna came in, her face glowing. "Hey, bro, wanna hear something cool?"

He started to say something snarky, but she looked so happy that he couldn't bring himself to do it. "Yeah, what's up?"

"I posted a video to YouTube this morning and so far it has 100,000 likes!"

Whoa. That was pretty cool. "Wow."

"I know, right? I think it's gonna go viral!"

"That's great," Lincoln said earnestly. "Just don't forget us little people when you blow up."

"I won't forget you, bro! You can be my tour manager!"

Lincoln smiled. "That sounds cool."

What would it be like to be a tour manager, he wondered.

Probably like being a brother, but being in charge too.

That did sound cool!