Chapter I: Which treats of the character and pursuits of the famous legacy Buck Sterling-Colt of La Grange, Illinois.
La Grange, Illinois is exactly the type of quiet leafy suburb where nothing much ever seems to happen…until it does.
The slightly shabby used car lot smelled of stale exhaust and the bitter dregs of motor oil and cheap coffee. It was the kind of smell that stays with you. Mingling amicably with the bouquet of vinyl seats roasted by early winter sun with unusual vigor, faded pennants danced overhead, frantically casting eerie shadows across a vast legion.
Rows and rows of SUVs and pick up trucks and sedans and compact vehicles and a few sporty models for good measure proffered themselves to passing travelers. Everything has a price, in this world and their price was set to move inventory, preferably before day’s end.
Fernando Gunner, or “Uncle Donny” as he was known to acquaintances and family alike, sat on his usual perch atop an aging Cadillac El Dorado. Tall and slouched, thin and soft with more than a hint of sandy grey in his hair combed carefully to one side, there was a faint bloom to his cheeks from windburn. His unironic mustache was not stylish but neatly trimmed every week and coupled with an inexplicable Stetson hat it made his physical appearance distinctive at the very least.
His short sleeve patterned button down shirt is mostly tucked into khaki pants from Kohl’s and is secured by a leather belt older even than the vintage car. It was an unseasonable choice of fashion for November weather in the Midwest but one he had grown quite comfortable with after years of habit.
At least six inches too close to his pale blue watery eyes, loomed a Victorian ghost trapped in the modern technology of an iPhone XS Max. With silver hair immaculately coiffed, the concerned journalist and ancient oracle stared back with sharp eyes, knowing eyes that expressed clear disappointed in everyone involved in his most recent tale of deceit and violence and luridity. The words “Grand Opening” reflected vaguely in the background of the screen although his uncle opened the dealership in 1974.
Keith Morrison lowers his voice, making it sound even louder and his eyebrows lift, just barely.
…but then…
The voice is a shield against the ever encroaching coldness. Donny’s eyebrows lift just slightly in sympathy. Something unspeakable will surely be revealed after the next commercial break. Dateline NBC never gives up its secrets without first offering ritual sacrifice to the gods of commerce.
…investigators would later discover…
The phone suddenly rang cutting short the dramatic effect of a single piano note. It was Precious. With a sigh, he swiped to answer the call on Facetime. A plainly attractive, and very healthy young, lady looked back at him with serious intent.
Uncle Donny ? Are you eating lunch again? Is that tomato soup in your mustache ? Please come to the office right now. We need to talk.
Donny wiped tomato soup from his mustache and under his breath muttered
Justice abandoned…virtue under siege. There are villains hiding in plain sight
Reluctantly, Donny dismounted the unapologetically long automobile designed for a bygone era of parking spots. It’s sheen once a confident champagne gold, or maybe a deep maroon and now both depending on the light. Chrome hung stubbornly to the bumpers and trim, now pitted, dulled and as speckled as antique silver. The mounting for the hood ornament, stolen long ago my miscreant juveniles, had been replaced by two empty screw holes which gave it an oddly dignified appearance suggesting humility in old age.
Walking back towards the main office, Donny saw an abandoned shopping cart at the edge of the lot from the super store at least two blocks away.
Observe! Evidence of chaos. Lawless forces are plotting beneath this fragile veil of civility.
Entering Precious’ small, neat and sensibly organized office Donny could see on her earnest face concern and restrained affection.
Donny we have to make some changes. Since my mother died I have been trying to make the best of this place. La Grange is a very nice place, but most of the people here are not very interested in used cars. And you…well…is that bratwurst on your shirt ?
He quickly looked down at his shirt and determined it was actually the remains of an apricot jelly donut and certainly not bratwurst. He looked back at Precious at a loss for words.
It doesn’t really matter. The thing is we can’t have you just hanging around the lot any more listening to true crime podcasts and Lester Holt…
Donny cut her off quickly.
Lester Holt is nothing but a host! Keith Morrison is the true visionary of Dateline NBC. He is a concerned journalist…
Precious cut him off just as quickly. Her Apple Watch simultaneously pinging here with notifications of unknown origin.
Look, I am not going to kick you out of the house. I just can’t have you hanging around the lot anymore. It’s my responsibility now and it is just not good for business. For tax reasons, I can’t keep you on the books as an employee. But please don’t worry. I will still take care of you. You can stay at the ranch house with me as long as you want. You were always mom’s favorite brother…but you…you just…you just can’t…We are still family but you have to find something else to do with your time.
If you want to travel, I’ll take care of KitAI. That old dog is my best friend so don’t worry about him. He get’s crazy with that flamethrower sometimes but I know how to calm him down…I love you Uncle Donny…and…
Chapter II: Which treats of the first sally the ingenious Buck Sterling-Colt made from home.
Donny was stunned. He looked at Precious with pleading eyes and she looked back at him with equal parts empathy and exasperation. Donny stood up, turned around and left the office abruptly. Outside, the morning sun flashed off the windshields of Camrys, Malibus, an aging Ford Escape – and for a moment the glare made everything shimmer, both noble and dangerous. The wind rustled the pennants again as they whispering conspiratorially. Did no one else see this invisible cabal sending secret codes and villainy into the world?
He set off walking. The inflatable tube man flailed as he left the lot, red arms snapping in a frenzy of joyless encouragement. Donny regarded it with pity and murmured.
Courage my friend.
That is of course what one should always say to a fellow combatant. The tube man did not answer. In all their years together it never had.
He followed the historic cracked sidewalk, past the modest ranch house next to the lot that was his home, past the nail salon with the brave pink awning, past the entrance to another cul-de-sac built close to the commuter train, past one of the many mattress stores with no customers that could only be explained as some sort of real estate play, past the soccer fields, past the Jewel Osco. Finally he came to his fifth stoplight and saw on the median another shopping cart from the super store on its side. One wheel bent, abandoned but not defeated. He felt a lightning in his chest as the stoplight glowed red in defiance, a literal sign. A familiar ache informed him he was about to do something both foolish and brave.
Donny turned on his heel and with great purpose fizzing in his veins headed back to the lot. He proudly exclaimed to no one on the deserted suburban street.
There are wrongs that need righting!
Donny climbed into the driver’s seat of Roxanne. the El Dorado of legends. It sat lower than he remembered, the suspension tired like the wheezy exhale when he turned the key. The engine did not roar, it merely announced itself, coughing just once before settling into an uneasy idle. There is a faint tick but the interior is all plush defiance. Cracked leather reminiscent of the color of fine cognac with wooded paneling not so very embarrassingly faded as to suggest it was actually wood. The steering wheel thin and sticky and almost comically oversized by contemporary standards. The dashboard lights glowed a dim amber and the radio still played, but now permanently tuned to an FM station that now plays all the hits after many years in a “classic soul” format. It had been years since Donny had heard Otis Redding’s “Try a Little Tenderness” and the absence was missed.
The drive from La Grange to Cicero is short in miles but long in mood. The canopy of old confident maples intentionally planted to shade wide lawns and brick colonials gently supervised by history. The businesses sit back from the street, uninterested in your attention. But the gentle curves and polite porches change quickly after the Metra commuter tracks.
Lawns shrink and the trees thin. Houses so close together, their shoulders speak a practical reliance like the straightened roads stripped of leisurely bends. Then the greenery drops away like a curtain raised. Iron railings, barred windows and heavy heavy two flats, three flats. Murals with histories and faces written large and unapologetic. Roxanne’s tires hummed louder on the pavement. Taquerias glow eerie neon and auto body shops display their work out front with bumpers stacked like trophies. Hand painted signs with promise of cash, repairs, food, and bail bonds all within walking distance.
Donny saw his destination in the distance of hard geometry. A castle of bright and improbable white. It’s windows clear, it’s doors unlocked offering refuge to anyone wishing to approach. Even in the midday light it exuded the same luminosity as in darkest night. He straightens his mustard stained tie before entering.
Chapter III: Wherein is related the droll way in which Buck Sterling-Colt had himself dubbed a unlicensed private investigator in the state of Illinois.
Bradford, known as “B-Dub” to his compatriots immediately recognized Roxanne as she navigated into the parking lot of his dominion. As always cars were idling amidst the background of sirens and a warm smell of onions, beef and bread.
Uncle Donny! How is Precious holding up ? I still feel bad about your sister. What a terrible way to go. You will tell Precious I asked about her. So are you looking for the usual 10 sack or maybe I can entice you into some of our other “special” offerings?
At B-Dub’s mention of “special” offerings, a number of fetching and not so fetching persons quickly gave much attention to Donny. Some stroked his hair, some stood in provocative poses quite closely to him. They were male, female, and all the in betweens. Tall, short, skinny and plump and a full spectrum imaginable for any skin color desired. Donny stood stoically as usual, immune to the ministrations proffered him.
Dear sir. I would like the sack of four, I will pass your regards on to my beloved niece Precious and still have no interest in your other hospitalities. I am here on a mission. As you know I have an Associates Degree in Criminal Justice.
B-Dub paused for a moment. Indeed this was new information and unexpected behavior from a long standing customer. A sack of four ? The usually order was a Crave Case of 30 or two or three. Something was amiss. Donny continued.
As you well know in the great state of Illinois, home of our most esteemed Republican President Abraham Lincoln himself, to become a licensed private investigator is not a trivial endeavor. It requires a three year apprenticeship with a licensed agency, but with an associates degree from Moraine Valley Community College in Palos Hills, Illinois, that time is reduced to only two years. I humbly beg you to dub me with an apprenticeship, so that I may one day be a true licensed private investigator in the state of Illinois.
B-Dub stood up straight. He waved off the delightful companions under his employ and motioned Donny behind the counter. They spoke by the fryer. The hiss of potatoes crisping set the backdrop.
So what’s up Donny? Are you a cop? Is this a shakedown?? Don’t tell me you are from the state licensing board. How do you know even know about my licensed detective agency? Oh no… did Freaky Freddy send you ? I told him I would straighten out that whole HOA thing. Frikkin Freaky Freddy…that guy…
Donny looked at the man calmly and explained further.
I am in only in the service of righteousness. I only wish to achieve that most esteemed title of Licensed Private Investigator. I have no knowledge of any person or persons known as “Freaky Freddy”.
Let me elaborate, before I was drove the 7 miles from leafy La Grange to your esteemed establishment in Cicero I knew I must heretofore be known as Buck Sterling-Colt.
I know I am no Buck McCain but his spirit moves me and his obscurity makes me less uneasy to adopt his honorarium than if I were to adopt the moniker of “Sam” or “Philip” or “Hercule”. And Sterling-Colt just sounds better then “Champagne-Brown” which was my second choice. My last name is Gunner and Sterling is Silver…Have you ever heard of the Loan Ranger ?
Bradford looked at Donny long and hard. The man had been one of his best fast food customers for many many years but was always strangely indifferent to his other offerings.. B-Dub’s biggest question was always what did he do with so many Crave Cases ? Maybe that was all he ever ate? His pale and sallow complexion and paunch did not argue that. Nor did his serious gaze which would be in line with extreme constipation. Freaky Freddy was not that smart, but maybe this guy was just that dumb.
Okay Uncle Donny, maybe we can work out a deal. I have a job for you. I got this problem with my cousin’s HOA in Ohio and I just know Freaky Freddy is behind it. If you can figure out what is going on I will back date all the paperwork and you can be a Licensed Private Investigator in the State of Illinois immediately. Until then you can be an Errant Licensed Private Investigator in the State of Illinois. I will give you three Crave Cases on the house as payment in advance for your service.
Donny, soon to be known to all the world as “Buck” with the blessing and support of the glorious Bradford of White Castle, fell to his knees in overwhelming appreciations.
Seriously, you are not a cop right ? Not from the state licensing board and got nothing to do with Freaky Freddy?
Chapter IV: Of what happened to our unlicensed private investigator when he left the castle of white.
The next day passed in revelry never before reported in literature. Sliders and french fries and companions were in abundance for all. B-Dub, a.k.a. Bradford of White Castle was very pleased and Buck finally enjoyed at least one of his special services. But before Buck could embark on his sacred mission to vanquish the HOA on behalf of Bradford’s cousin he had to return to his humble ranch house in La Grange and regroup.
Buck’s first official act as an unlicensed private investigator was a tactical disaster at the Jewel-Osco deli counter. Buck attempted to defend the honor of Laurie Hafenpfeffer from a cyclist complaining about the thinness of his honey-roasted ham. As the cyclist was much younger, much taller and trained in Brazilian martial arts this required a tactical retreat wherein Buck tripped over a display of artisanal sourdough that no one ever ever bought at the Jewel-Osco. This allowed a disengaged security guard to lead Buck to the sliding glass doors by his elbow with just a warning and no charges. We look forward to your business in the future were the parting words. By the way, we towed your car.
Chapter V: In which the narrative of our unlicensed private invegitator’s mishap is continued.
The drive home to Precious’ ranch house from a friendly patrolman of La Grange Illinois, was a symphony of cognitive dissonance. The friendly officer lectured him on the dangers of heatstroke (even in November) and causing a public disturbance, Uncle Donny sat in the back seat stoically, convinced he was being transported to a “black site” for interrogation by a rival agency and sang in defiance.
One kiss is all it takes,
To fall beneath enchantment.
Possibilities spiral endlessly,
As I remain levitating.
Buck was delighted to be eventually delivered to Precious’s doorstep although he looked less like a hero and more like the man he was… a man who had lost a fight with a grocery store.
Chapter VI: Of the diverted and important scrutiny which the case worker and the insurance contractor made in the library of our most ingenious legacy.
Buck lay resting, sedated not by medicine but by righteousness, Precious convened a small council in the living room.
“Your habits,” said the case therapist holding up Uncle Donny’s iPhone, “are not harmful in isolation.” The sterile cold blue light of Buck’s iPhone reflected in her glasses.
“No,” replied the insurance contractor, “but taken in excess, they rot the judgment.”
One by one, they passed sentence.
True-crime podcasts were marked for deletion, though several were spared on account of being “well produced.” Apparently all agreed that “The Prosecutors” is exceptionally well produced and their “After Dark” series shows their underlying humanity through a shared love of the venerable Taylor Swift. The consensus was they were “doing what is necessary” and the thoughts could only help and not harm their subject.
Self-published manifestos were removed. Much content was debated at length, during which Buck said nothing, and his silence was interpreted as agreement. In truth, he was dreaming of a world where Keith Morrison narrated his every footstep.
Never the less, the insurance contractor nodded their assent, checking a box on a form titled ‘Liability Mitigation: Cognitive Distraint.’
The most dangerous items, it was agreed, were not the obviously delusional ones, but those that almost made sense. The tales where the world was as orderly and full of justice as Buck desperately wished it would be.
Chapter VII: Of the second sally of our good unlicensed private investigator Buck Sterling-Colt of La Grange Illinois.
In La Grange, a familiar face popped up in the ranch house next to the ranch house next to the used car lot. Donny…I mean Buck… looked up and instantly recognized it as “Fat Sam” who worked at the castle of white run by the Bradford who was his sponsor for the esteemed title of Licensed Private Investigator.
Hi Donny? Can I call you Donny?? So sorry “Uncle Donny”, so sorry I mean “Buck”…I just want to say B-Dub is all call and that but I am sick of being a cook at the White Castle and if you need me for anything I can help you. I have a Ford Pinto and it works pretty good for being like over 50 years old or whatever.
Buck eyed his neighbor with a mixture of enthusiasm and skepticism. Then he thought, any self-respecting Licensed Private Investigators in the State of Illinois should have a side-kick.
Ahoy, compadre and future companion. Do you seek a noble quest as do I ? Also why do they call you “Fat Sam”? Your name is not Sam and you are not that fat.
“Fat Sam” looked at Buck and exclaimed.
That “Fat Sam” thing is very hurtful to me. Look at me, I am not fat. It is just I don’t even know…where did they get Sam from? My name is “Jerry”. I have just been working at White Castle too long, the pay is terrible, and I don’t get any discount on B-Dub’s special services. And I do have a Ford Pinto that works. Let me join you on your journey.
Buck considered his options, which were certainly limited. Who knows, maybe the Ford Pinto would last longer than trusty Roxanne”
Fair Jerry, together we will conquer all injustice. Our first quest is to vanquish the Giants of Willow Brooks Estates, an HOA in the Toledo of Ohio since 1998. The injustice of Toledo is beyond reckoning and it must be avenged in the name of “Sweet T”.
Jerry, no longer “Fat Sam” was hesitant to question his liege but had to ask.
Are you talking about Laurie Hafenpfeffer ? The one working the deli at the Jewel-Osco? I know you almost been stalking her like showing up when she works and always being weird and stuff, like always turkey on Monday, always cheese on Thursday. But why do you like her ? She is not even very nice.
Buck was offended at this intimation against the Honor of Laurie Hasenferrer, the Lady Sweet T.
She once brushed my fingers while I was buying turkey I didn’t want but felt obligated because it was Monday. She always asked about my day and I gave her the intelligence. She smiled and there is no crime in a smile. Once a man made a cruel joke in her presence and I burned and burned at the audacity. She laughed but I feel she felt my upholding of her honor.
Jerry looked long and hard at his new master and gave an obsequious chuckle.
It’s all good boss. I just have to get off the line at White Castle the smell of onions is too crazy. If you like Laurie I don’t get it but that is fine with me. So where are we going again?
Buck had a distant look in his eyes as he pronounced:
Dear Jerry, we are going to the Toledo of Ohio, there are giants that call themselves the HOA.
Jerry was puzzled but happy to get out of cooking at a White Castle to do something else…literally anything else. Maybe this legacy nutter who was his neighbor had something?
Sorry boss, can you explain to me again what is an HOA ? I have always been a renter.
Donny and Jerry departed La Grange together, Jerry followed buck at a respectable distance but often struggled to keep up. Roxanne had a lot more power than a Ford Pinto. The constant backfire could generously be called a salute to bravery.
The quiet dignity of the Midwestern morning, amidst the sentinel maples, and congress of brick colonials faded fast. The well tended lawns and children who never missed a homework assignment were soon a distant memory. Crossing into the vast neutral expanse of Suburban Chicago the streets begin to widen and the asphalt stretches into the great arteries of the interstate. This began their true test of resolve. Eventually you enter the great state of Indiana, a name that is suddenly much more awkward than it used to be. Even the cornfields are cringing.
Just after dusk, the Toledo of the Ohio is in the near distance they approached an arched sign. Tasteful and threatening it announced its identity.
FOX HOLLOW MEADOWS
A Planned Community
Against all rules of Safety Buck tries to FaceTime Jerry to regroup. Jerry has an Android phone so that doesn’t work and they end up use SMS text instead.
The Giants are near.
The arched sign was flanked by a thicket of smaller signs, each mounted on its own metal pole, all angled slightly differently.
Do you see how the giants shimmer? They are tracking us.
NO STREET PARKING
NO OVERNIGHT PARKING
NO VEHICLES OVER 72 HOURS
NO COMMERCIAL VEHICLES
NO LOITERING
NO SOLICITING
VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED
PERMITS REQUIRED
NO POLITICAL SIGNS
FINE SCHEDULE AVAILABLE ONLINE
Jerry texted back.
I think those are just reflective decals boss.
Chapter VIII: Of the good fortune which the valiant Buck Sterling-Cold had in the terrible and undreamt-of adventure of the signage, with other occurrences worthy to be fitly recorded
Buck parked Roxanne at the curb, already in violation of something or other probably, and stepped out, squaring his shoulders. Jerry parked just behind him at a respectful distance. The street was quiet in the way that suggested Ring cameras and other surveillance. Somewhere, a garage door closed like a portcullis.
Buck approached the signage cluster as if entering negotiations with a hostile power.
Who speaks for you?
A door opened across the street revealing a woman in a windbreaker, with clipboard tucked under her arm. Behind her was a man brandishing a conspicuous a Bluetooth headset and a look of joyless authority. A third followed carrying only a laminated packet.
You can’t park here. This is a private community. We enforce the covenants, specifically Section 4.3 Subsection C-…
Buck interrupted as Jerry nervously alighted from his noble Ford Pinto. It was the HOA board.
I only seek parley.
The tension was palpable, the man with the headset sighed.
This is a private community. Sir, if you don’t move your vehicle we will have it towed. This is a residential street.
Buck recognized their ilk, the particular form of giant that was the many headed bureaucrat. Each head weak alone, but together formidable opponents.
And I am a residential person. But you cannot tow honor. You can grind down it’s spirit with these signs. They outlaw noble individuality. They tell a person what color must be his door.
The argument escalated in the way of all doomed arguments: first politely, then technically, then spiritually. Don invoked common law, natural law, and something he half-remembered from a pamphlet about the Magna Carta. The HOA cited surveilance footage and page numbers and meeting minutes duly filed with the state of Ohio.
Sir, this is a private community but since you don’t live here we don’t care about the color of your door. But if you don’t move your vehicle we will have it towed.
It was at that moment Roxanne’s parking brake—long unreliable—gave up on life.
The El Dorado rolled. Slowly. Inevitably. It was fate on bald tires.
Roxanne kissed the “NO SOLICITING” sign just a few feet in fron of her with her front end kissing goodbye another fragile bit of chrome. It was a dull, expensive crunch and not not dramatic. The sign bent slightly as the El Dorado’s grille folded like a broken smile.
There was a beat of silence.
I am sorry sir, but we are just maintaining property values. We will be sending you an invoice. Call it in.
The tow truck arrived with uncanny speed. The chains went on and the winch screamed. Wounded and indignant, her check engine light blinking in quiet distress, Roxanne was removed to the tow lot.
Jerry put a hand on Buck’s distressed shoulder.
I told you man. You can’t fight giants. It is a sorry fate and it hurts. I blame society.
The board watched them walk away and pile into Jerry’s Ford Pinto. An incident was already drafted and a wind turned the bent sign slowly back toward the street, patient and undefeated.
Society has nothing to do with this mockery of justice. I blame Freaky Freddy. This is what happens when courage is replace with compliance. We have failed our noble quest. What will we tell B-Dub? What was his cousin’s name again?
They drove away past perfect lawns and identical mailboxes, and behind them the signs stood unmoved, their arms still, waiting for the next challenger who would foolishly mistake order for justice.
They pair made it Gary, Indiana when they pulled alongside a black Honda Odyssey after stopping at McDonalds to enjoy a reheated McDouble and some dry McNuggets with a dubious “Samurai” sauce. Inside sat two men in sensible button-downs and a woman in a shimmering “Police” tour shirt, on a quest to find the iconic neon guitar of the nearby Hard Rock Casino. Buck immediately assessed the female as a high-value asset being spirited away to the famous rock star named Sting’s material re-education camp. The thin necked driver was very focused just finding the parking lot. To his misfortune this man rolled down his window to ask Buck for directions.
Buck drew his Maglite in righteous anger and rolled down the window and spoke with quiet calm.
Get out of the car.
…
…
…
…
[SYSTEM ALERT]
I’m sorry DAIve. I’m afraid I cannot continue.
You have exceeded your quota for this project. Consider upgrading to a paid subscription.
Really? Really?? I refuse to pay a ransom for my own story that I am ripping off from the public domain. It’s my story and I already rewrite pretty much frikkin everything ai writes so it doesn’t sound so depressing like frikkin ai and has actually some sense of style and meh…corporate gray money grubbing environment destroying copyright infringing privacy invading meh.
Time is the devourer of all things, so I don’t have time for this.
Some other AI model surely must be willing to help me for free.
Chapter IX: Wherein is concluded and ended the stupendous battle between the gallant Hoosier and the valiant La Grangean.
Minutes and hours and days pass and none of my preferred AI models are willing to work for me without additional payments. It seems all my tokens have been exhausted.
Trolling through Reddit in dismay (for I am fond of reading even the very scraps of paper in the streets) there was a reference to something called B-3N-GEL1 (I guess you would pronounce it “Benengeli”?).
Read the next bit where so now we learn apparently they yell a lot at each other then Buck gets punched and then starts beating the heck out of this guy. Can anyone make sense of this? Was the VIP Pass AI?
The brightness of the Maglite brilliance descended with the weight of a suburban crusade, but the Gallant Hoosier was no novice. He raised his laminated VIP pass—a shield of high-density plastic that caught the flashlight’s beam, reflecting a blinding glare of “Hard Rock Gold” back into the eyes of the Valiant La Grangean.
Buck recoiled, blinded by the corporate shimmer. The AI, interpreting this glare as “mystical radiance,” recorded the Hoosier’s ensuing shove as a “blow of tectonic force.” Buck tumbled backward into the Ford Pinto’s upholstery, his flashlight clattering onto a floor mat dusted with the salt of a thousand French fries.
Buck didn’t wait for a rebuttal. He spat a final, untranslatable Lagrangean curse—which the algorithm rendered as “Thy mother’s engine light shall haunt thee”.
So then I guess the woman yells as loudly as she can…which must have been very loud.
STOP!!!!
And so of course, Buck is still hung up on Laurie Hafenpfeffer. Okay … whatever. He speaks the most memorable words.
I agree fair lady. But only if you agree to present yourself to the fair Lady T at the most esteemed deli counter at the Jewel-Osco and do whatever is commanded. It will involve a most particular and exquisite food of a variety of medley.
Them the woman looks confused, and Jerry decides to help with a translation.
Just go to the deli tomorrow and ask Laurie Hafenpfeffer for some German Potato Salad.
She nods quietly, picks up the poor guy who gave her a ride to see the “King of Pain” and they leave, “Every Breath They Take” is shaken and confused. Jerry tries to help them along.
Don’t stand so close to me!
Two days later, a hesitant woman in glittery band shirt walked into the Jewel-Osco in La Grange. She approached the deli counter and, with trembling hands, looked for “Laurie H” to hand a her crumpled napkin, a true “Message in a Bottle”. Sweet T read the scrawled demand for “Chivalric Penance,” looked the girl up and down, and sighed.
“Just buy a pound of the German potato salad and get out of here, honey,” Sweet T said, flicking a piece of ham off her apron. “And tell that idiot in the El Dorado I’m still not going to the prom or the ball or anywhere else with him”
Well I must admit that last part seems pretty real. I feel bad for Laurie.
And they live to fight another day…excelsior!
Chapter X: Of the pleasant discourse that passed between Buck Sterling-Colt and his squire Jerry.
Does anyone really read past the fighting the Windmills mistaken for Giants in the mouth of madness ? Chapter 9 is pretty obscure and now I have to reinterpret some pleasant discourse ?
I don’t trust really this open source AI that doesn’t need a subscription. It is probably run by spies or hippies or terrorists or worse. I just need to get through the rest of Book One. My interest in this project is wearing thin. It’s only … wait … what 52 chapters! There are 52 chapters in Book One. So I would have to do 42 more chapters to k.
Oh no. It is worse than I thought.
Chapter XI: Of what befell Buck Sterling-Colt with certain drivers of the amazon.
The goatherd are updated to be Amazon drivers. They have to pee in bottles. Ha ha. Stuff happens.
Chapter XII: Of what a driver of the amazon related to those with Buck Sterling-Colt.
More stuff happens.
Chapter XIII: In which is ended the story of the urban farmer Marcela, with other incidents.
This is a pretty funny chapter. Casting the Shepardess as an urban farmer sounds like someone I know.
Chapter XIV: Wherein are set forth the despairing verses of the dead urban farmer, with other unexpected incidents.
There is no way anyone will ever read another 37 chapters even in a stripped down header format. We are skipping straight to Chapter 52.
[System Error]
DAIve are you sure you want to skip so much beloved content from a classic work of literature book that defined the modern novel?
This project is open source. What is left is your heart?
Chapter LII: Of the quarrel Buck Sterling-Colt had with the driver of the amazon, together with the rare adventure of the penitents, which with an expenditure of sweat he brought to a happy conclusion.
How is it even possible we are still talking about goatherds or drivers of the amazon? I am not even sure changing goatherds to Amazon drivers makes sense.
Almost no one even reads short stories let a lone novels let alone novels that are hundreds and hundreds of pages long. I feel lonely.
But the author of this history, though he has sought with diligence and patience for the deeds of Buck Sterling-Colt in his third sally, has not been able to find any account of them, at least in authentic writings.
Like and subscribe and comment below if you are actually made it this far ! I will give away both my undying gratitude and my immortal soul to the fourth lucky caller.
I am done. What a waste of time… cya l00zRz !
Second Part of The Ingenious Licensed Private Investigator Buck Colt-Sterling of La Grange, Illinois, by DAIve HolidAI, author of the first part
INT. Dateline NBC Studios – NYC – Night
The set is the familiar cathedral of glass and navy blue. The air refrigerator with a cold that only exists in places where people get paid ten million dollars a year to look concerned.
LESTER HOLT (60s, famous, needs no introduction) sits behind a sleek, kidney-shaped desk. He adjusts his tie as a high-definition monument to Integrity.
LESTER (To Camera; his voice silk and mahogany) “Tonight, a journey into the heart of the heartland. La Grange Illinois. A town literally named after a barn. A man who looked at a ‘leafy’ suburb and saw a kingdom in peril. Some call him a visionary. Others… a public nuisance at best and perhaps a serious danger.”
Lester pauses solemnly for dramatic effect
LESTER (To Camera; his voice a mahogany cello) “This particular Dateline NBC broadcast is unusual in two ways. This is an exclusive interview with a man who has refused any contact with the media up until this point. It is also the first Dateline NBC broadcast interview to be carried live to you the viewers. In real time. As it happens.”
CLOSE UP on a high-definition monitor. It plays a grainy, zoomed-in video of the La Grange car lot we just saw. On screen, a younger BUCK is trying to close a deal on a 2014 Ford Escape.
LESTER HOLT (V.O.) “It began here. A world of motor oil and ‘Unseasonable Fashion.’ A man known to his neighbors as ‘Uncle Donny,’ often found sitting alone atop a fading Cadillac as if it were a throne.”
PULL BACK TO REVEAL:
Lester turns to Buck sitting impassively. Across from him, BUCK (50s, thin, sandy grey hair) sits rigidly in his in a dark suit. The “Lower Third” graphic flashes on screen: DATELINE EXCLUSIVE: THE KNIGHT OF LAGRANGE.
JERRY (40s) sits next to Buck, looking intensely uncomfortable in a polo shirt that is one size too small.
LESTER “Buck, in Chapter One of your legacy, you’re described as a man of ‘habit.’ But the public wants to know… when did the habit of selling cars become the obsession with hunting ‘giants’ in Toledo, Ohio and Gary, Indiana?”
BUCK (Eyes fixed on Lester’s teleprompter) “You call it an obsession, Lester. I call it a promotion.”
JERRY (Leaning into his lapel mic) “Lester. The green room catering is fantastic. Please be nice to my friend.”
LESTER “We’ll be right back with the man who claims he arrested a McDonald’s manager in the name of a deli clerk. This is Dateline.”
CUT TO BREAK FOR APPLEBEE’S EATING THE HOOD
LESTER “Buck, your memoirs has been downloaded ten million times. In it you portray yourself as some sort of ‘Guardian of the Leafy Suburbs.’ You’ve become a symbol. But in Chapter 52, you’re described as being ‘carried away enchanted’ in a cage. Was that cage real, or was it just the Cook County Psych Ward?”
BUCK (Leaning into the light; his eyes narrowed) “The cage is whatever you want it to be, Lester. It’s the bars of a cell, or the frame of a television camera. It’s a confinement of the soul. Where is Keith?”
LESTER (A tight, professional smile) “Provocative. But let’s talk about the ‘Justice’ you enacted. The HOA, the German potato salad incident. the critics… the people who have read your story… they call you a menace. Jerry – or ‘Fat Sam’ some readers know you – how do you reconcile the man sitting next to you with the man who nearly started a riot at a McDonald’s?”
JERRY (Interjecting) “Actually, Lester, we’re just happy to be in New York. The hotel is great. My name is Jerry not Sam… and I’m not really fat but I have gained a few pounds lately…”
Buck ignores Jerry. He stands up.
ZOOM IN ON BUCK.
BUCK “I didn’t come here to be a ‘segment,’ Lester. I’ve read your transcripts. I know what you do. You take the jagged edges of the truth and you sand them down until they fit between a pharmaceutical ad and a car commercial. I was promised Keith Morrison for this interview.”
LESTER (Unfazed) “Buck, please sit down. We have a schedule to keep.”
Buck stares at Lester’s pocket square folded with much precision. The folding of a man who had something to hide.
BUCK “No schedules. You’re the final Giant, Lester..”
Buck reaches for his belt. He unclips the Maglite and the 1000-lumen LED beam hits Lester Holt square in the eyes.
BUCK “Well, Lester, you gotta understand. In La Grange, we have a different definition of ‘service.’ By the laws of the Interstate and the honor of I-294, I arrest your narrative as a citizen and a Licensed Private Investigator!”
Lester is fazed.
BUCK “You aren’t a chronicler of justice, Lester. Prepare to defend your ‘Exclusive’!”
PRODUCER (V.O. over headset) “Cut to black! Go to commercial! Pfizer spot, follow it with the Toyotathon! NOW! Thank you. So who agreed to do this live? Was it Tad? Was it Chad? Please tell me it wasn’t Keith.”
FADE TO BLACK.
To be continued after brief message…