What is this desire in man that prompts him to retaliate when he feels he has been wronged? From where does the immense river of hate draw its source? Further, where does one go to find a decent biscuit in New York? Questions such as these raced through the mind of the Pale Rider as he awoke on the morning of July 17, 2011.
Yes, he had enacted his revenge the prior day, causing Barbara Walters a portion of intestinal distress well in excess of what he experienced the night before while biking home from Lucali. But this was not good enough; he needed more. If he could find out where Walters would be that day, then he would truly be able to settle the score.
Now, it's a little known fact that Barbara Walters usually spends her Sundays searching through the garbage cans of New York for assorted antiquities. The Pale Rider, though, was very much aware of this proclivity. After the prior day's mass evacuation, Barbara would undoubtedly be a bit spent, but she was a sprightly one, that Barbara Walters. Surely she would be searching the trash for random trinkets, although perhaps on an abbreviated schedule. A visit to Victor Chateau was in order.
Given that the Pale Rider had brought croissants the previous day, it was a wise idea to pick another item for the corpulent Frenchman, but what should it be? He decided on Popeye's fried chicken, which Monsieur Chateau had taken a liking to, particularly on Sundays while he took his weekly bath, the grease from the chicken providing a rich, buttery lather for the bathwater.
Upon entering Chateau's flat, the elephantine Franco put up his usual act of not knowing what the Pale Rider wanted, and initially refused any requests for information.
"Give you her itinerary? Despicable! I would never!"
Why was he such a fake? Why is everyone such a fake, for that matter? Upon seeing the Popeye's packaging, Chateau acquiesced:
"I am only human, I cannot take this torture, fine, take her treasure hunting itinerary!"
The Pale Rider left, not knowing whether to be happy for now having the precise details of Walter's intended whereabouts, or to be despondent over the disgusting example of human depravity he just witnessed. He decided to be both.
Checking the itinerary, the Pale Rider noted that Walters was planning a visit to the Brooklyn Flea Market on the Williamsburgh waterfront, no doubt a fine place to peruse the garbage for any wares that may have been discarded. This fit in perfectly with the Pale Rider's desires, as he had heard that a food vendor at the flea market, King's Crumb, served a fine biscuit. Sometimes life works.
He rode his bike, taking the Williamsburgh Bridge, and arrived early and ordered one of the biscuits stuffed with a fried chicken cutlet. The biscuit sandwich was delicious and even the Pale Rider had difficulty finishing it.
Soon, the Pale Rider moved into position and withdrew his paintball gun and attached a silencer. He rested the muzzle on a bench and took aim at Walters. There she was, searching through the garbage, looking a little pale and frail after her poisoning, but decidedly cheerful, somehow. He placed his finger on the trigger and was about to squeeze when the paintball gun was knocked out of his hands. Standing above him was a scrappy man in buckskin, pointing a colt revolver in his face.
"I'm LeBeouf," he said, pronouncing it "LeBeef." He went on: "You're coming with me..."
To be continued.....