Whoa, holy shit!

For a terrible moment, Chunk was airborne, his arms and legs straight out like he was Superman flying over the city of Gotham or where ever the fuck he lived, his fat feet in tangles and his heart in his throat. He crashed through a wall of underbrush, thorns tearing at his face, and hit the ground with a mighty thud, the air rushing from his lungs in a breathy umph, his teeth rattling.

He laid there, his mouth and nostrils full of dirt, and wondered how he'd fallen so far. Once upon a time, he had it all: Money, respect, a good position, women out the ass...now he was munching Mother Nature's carpet and running for his life from goons with guns. He made shit money washing dishes in a diner and working as a roadie for local bands (he make almost no money from Luna Loud, he just did it because he liked her, she was a good kid) and he didn't even have a car.

I oughta let them blast me.

He imagined letting those sons of bitches take him out, and his stomach turned. Fuck that. He wasn't a bitch and he sure as shit wasn't going out like one.

That's what motivated him to push himself up and brush himself off. If he was going to die, he was going to die with dignity, not crying into the dirt like a fucking schnook.

After dusting himself off, he checked his pockets to make sure he still had everything. Gun? Check. Smokes? Yup. Lighter? Yep. Might as well spark one while he had a minute. Was his phone really not here? He didn't exactly have a chance to do a thorough search since he was too busy running for his life, maybe it was in a hidden pocket or something. He patted his pants, his checked his vest, he checked his pants again because where the fuck could it be? The little flight through the bush was the only time he'd fallen, so he couldn't have dropped it, unless it worked its way out of his pocket as he ran, which didn't seem very likely.

Hm. Where...?

Then it hit him. Luna's house. He remembered setting it on top of a speaker and then, later on, moving that speaker...his phone wasn't there. Son of a bitch. Did one of her sisters take it? It wouldn't surprise him, since he doubted they all had cellphones; they'd need two family plans for all of them. One probably saw it, thought 'Hey, I want a cellphone,' and yoink, there it went. They were probably watching girly shows on it and eating up all his data as he fucking spoke.

Eh, maybe not. They seemed like decent kids. It probably fell off and landed under Luna's bed or something. Great. He'd have to go back for it, because there was a very important contact number he needed. He should have jotted it down on a piece of paper and slipped it into his wallet, but it was 2017, so excuse the fuck outta him.

Damn. He needed that number; it was the only one that would bring help. He couldn't go to the cops in Royal Woods, they were all so fucking corrupt they were practically full-fledged mob guys. Alright, so he'd have to walk fifteen blocks through town, dodging goombahs and cops. Not a fucking problem. Nah, don't worry about it.

A thought struck him: What if they were watching the Louds, waiting for him? They probably were; he bet there was a whole team of wiseguys in town, not just the two yahoos who chased him into the park. They probably had guys stationed at every fucking place he ever went, from the Loud house all the way down to the fucking porta-potty on 8th Street he used last Friday on his way home from work.

He'd have to risk it, though. This wasn't New York, or even Chicago: They didn't have eyes everywhere.

Resolved, he turned in the direction he thought the Loud house was and beat his way through thick growth, briers stabbing his bare forearms. Too bad I left my fucking machete at home.

After half a mile, the land sloped down to a bubbling creek roughly five feet across. Its flanks were rock-strewn and weed-choked. He picked his way to the edge and tried to step across, but the distance was too great, so, with an angry sigh, he splashed through, his shoes and socks getting soaked. Just what his night needed, wet feet. I have an idea, how about you rain, too?

It didn't. Thank God for small favors, huh?

Squelching in his wet socks and hating life, Chunk climbed an embankment, leaning forward to keep from falling backwards, and found himself looking through a screen of bushes at a road. Was it Coleman? He got so mixed up in the woods he didn't know. It could be Coleman or it could be Russel Avenue. Or...

He heard the swell of an approaching car, and ducked, his heart rocketing into his throat. Slowly, it came into view, a searchlight sweeping the opposite side of the road.

It was a black Lincoln.

Chunk watched with bated breath as it passed by. The guy behind the wheel glanced in his direction, and Chunk was sure he saw him, but he must not have, because he looked back at the road and kept going. When the red taillights dwindled in the night, he let his breath out. Moving quickly, he darted across the road and disappeared into the forest on the other side. He was panting, and it was only after he'd been resting a minute that he heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Probably from the 7-11. He started moving in the direction he thought it was coming from. After maybe a quarter of a mile, he came to the stockade fence separating the 7-11 from his building. Red lights flashed in the dark.

He slipped through the hole he'd made, crossed the parking lot, and came out on West Street, sparing a glance over his shoulder every couple seconds, sure that he'd see the Lincoln zooming toward him any minute, the asshole in the passenger seat leaning out the window with a fucking AK-47 or something in his hands. Each time he looked, though, it was not there.


Lincoln Loud stretched, yawned, and walked into the hall, his eyes bleary and his head starting to ache. He'd been reading comics for two solid hours, and though it was still relatively early, he was ready to turn in...right after a quick pee.

He started for the bathroom, but Lola and Lana's door opened, and Lola came out in a huff. They must be arguing again.

She sensed his presence and turned, her eyes narrowing. "And you always walking around in your underwear. It's so gross."

"Go back in your room and you won't have to see it," Lincoln said.

"I can't, Lana's stupid reptile lamps are making it hot as heck in there." A grin spread across her face, and Lincoln gulped. Uh-oh. "Oh, Lincy, do you think I can spend the night in your room? Your cool, cool, room?"

Lincoln sighed. "No. There's barely enough space for me. It's really a closet, after all."

"Oh," Lola said, waving a hand, "I don't take up much room."

"N-"

"Thanks, Lincoln," she said, heading toward his door. Damn it. Lincoln liked having his own space...or maybe he didn't, he couldn't say since his room was basically Grand Central Station. What would it be like to have his own space, where he could be left totally and utterly alone? He pondered that as he walked to the bathroom, his head cocked and his hand on his chin. He wouldn't feel any anxiety, that was for sure. Now, in his closet room/sister magnet, he never really felt at ease, because at any moment, his door could crash open and one or more sisters would come in and completely shatter the illusion of peace and solitude he'd built. It was nerve-wracking as hell.

Then something else occurred to him, and his shoulders slumped. He wouldn't be able to masturbate tonight; no matter where she said she was going to sleep (the floor?) Lola would wind up in bed with him because it was more comfortable. Lincoln was willing to polish one off with his sister in the room, asleep, but not in the bed next to him. He sighed. Sometimes these girls really got on his last nerve.

At the bathroom, he waited for someone to finish. The door opened after what seemed like forever, and Luna came out, starting when she saw him. "Hey, bro," she said, "you scared me."

"Sorry," he said.

In the bathroom he whipped out his thing and pissed. He flushed, washed his hands, and went into the hall just as dad called up the stairs. "Uh...kids? Can you come here?"

He sounded strange. Like he was sacred.


Tony DeSimone pulled his coat over the shoulder holster he wore and flicked a cigarette into the street. "C'mon," he said, nodding toward the house, and he and Jimmy Vario cross the blacktop. "You let me do the talking," Tony said as they started up the flagstone walk to the Louds' front porch. "You sound like you got a head fulla shit."

Jimmy chuckled.

At the door, Tony smoothed the sides of his hair with his hands and knocked with a flourish. From inside, he could hear the sounds of a TV, then approaching footfalls. The door opened, and a middle aged man with a receeding hairline appeared. Tony flashed a big smile. "Mr. Loud?"

"Yes?" the man asked hesitantly.

"I'm Detective Morris and this is Detective Stone. We're with the Royal Woods PD. Can we come inside?"

"What's this about?" Mr. Loud asked, coming out onto the porch and pulling his robe closed at the throat. Behind him, Tony saw Mrs. Loud on the couch, straining to look. Nosey bitch.

"We need to ask you a few questions about an acquaintance of yours, a Philip Grant."

Mr. Loud's brows furrowed. Something wasn't right here. He didn't know how he knew, but he did.

"He's goes by the street name Chunk," Jimmy said.

Mr. Loud's eyes widened. "Oh, okay. What about him?"

"Can we come inside?" Tony asked, gesturing. Lynn Loud Sr. caught sight of the amber ring on his pinky, and something about it struck him as very un-policemanlike. "This is a very serious matter, Mr. Loud. You could go to jail."

Mr. Loud blinked. "Can I see some identification, please?"

Tony detected a note of challenge in his voice. He and Jimmy looked at each other.

"Alright," he said, reaching into his coat and bringing out the gun, which he shoved into Mr. Loud's face; the man went pale and fell back a step. "Here's your fucking identification."

Mrs. Loud was coming over. When she saw the gun, her eyes widened. Jimmy pointed his at her. "Stay right there and don't make a sound, lady."

Mr. Loud went on gawking like a fucking retard, and hot anger rose in Tony's chest. He pushed him back. "Get in there."

He stumbled and almost fell, but Mrs. Loud caught him, and they both looked up with fearful eyes.

Jimmy closed the door behind him and locked it, never taking the gun off of Mrs. Loud. Tony looked around, taking stock of the living room. Typical suburban set up. Couch. TV. No coffee table, did people not use fucking coffee tables anymore? Framed pictures on the wall. Over the mantle, Tony spotted a big family portrait. "Sit down," he said, jabbing the gun at the Louds.

"Alright, alright," Mr. Loud said as he and his wife sat side-by-side on the couch. "Take whatever you want, just don't hurt my family."

"We're not here to rob you, mister," Tony said. With his free hand, he reached into his coat and brought out the notepad. "You got eleven kids, right?"

"Y-Yes," Mrs. Loud said.

"Okay. I'm gonna read off a description of each, and you tell me their names. If I miss one and you don't correct me, I'm going to blow their fucking head off, got it?"

They nodded.

"Alright. Female. Roughly twenty. Shoulder length blonde hair."

"That's-That's Lori," Mr. Loud said.

"Female, roughly eighteen, long blonde hair."

"Leni."

"Female, roughly sixteen, short brown hair."

"Luna."

While Tony read, Jimmy went over to the mantle and took down the portrait. He reached into his pocket, took out a pen, and drew a slash across the faces of the children already accounted for.

"The boy."

"Lincoln."

"Female...damn, you shoot pink or what, guy?...black hair."

"Lucy."

Jimmy sat on the couch next to the Louds and counted the children in the photo. There was a baby. Neither of them knew about the baby.

"Female, glasses."

"Lisa."

"What's the baby's name?" Jimmy asked.

"Lilly," Mrs. Loud said.

"How close was I on their ages?" Tony asked, slipping the notepad back into his coat.

"Close. 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 10, 8, 6, 6, 4."

Tony whistled. "You ever hear of Irish twins, Jimmy?"

"I mighta heard something like that."

"It's when the daddy can't stay off the mommy long enough to stop making kids every year and a half." He squatted down next to Mrs. Loud. "How in the hell can one woman push out so many kids so fucking close together? Didn't you ever take a fucking break?"

She sniffed, tears coming to her eyes. "His dick really that good?"

"Stop it," Mr. Loud said, and Jimmy slapped him in the back of the head.

Tony turned to him, his eyes flashing. "You better be careful how you talk to me, mister. I can decide whether your night turns out hunky-dory or goes to shit. You see this gun?" He held it up. It was a Beretta 9mm. "There're fifteen rounds in this thing. One for each of you faggots and then some. Do you want me to have to kill your children?"

Mr. Loud shook his head. He was as white as milk, and Tony smiled. "Now call your kids down here."

Mr. Loud opened his mouth, but his voice broke.

"Come on!"

"Uh...kids?"

Tony nodded. "Good boy. You and your family might make it out of this thing alive after all."

Behind his back, he crossed his fingers.