On Saturday, July 16, 2011, the Pale Rider awoke after a rather sleepless night in which he spent his time going back and forth between his bed and his bathroom. His arch nemesis, Barbara Walters, had managed to poison his black and white milkshake the night prior. The Pale Rider wiped the sleep - or lack thereof - from his eyes, with only one thought, one concept, the truest concept, running through his mind: revenge.
Now, it is a little known fact that Barbara Walters is obsessed with cheap eats, particularly of the ethnic variety. She can spend hours scouring Bay Ridge for the best Lebanese hummus or Elmhurst for the best Thai papaya salad. In fact, it had become her tradition to spend her Saturdays in pursuit of this frugal food fun. Although the Barbara Walter Saturday of Food was not well-known to the public, the Pale Rider knew. To find out where she might be going on a given food adventure was conveniently possible due to the fact that Walters is a meticulous list-maker who plans out her excursions. The Pale Rider would simply need to acquire the list.
Fortunately, Miss Walters always gave her lists to her personal assistant, a rather pudgy Frenchman with a curly mustache named Victor Chateau. It was a well-established fact that Victor Chateau had a penchant for croissants, even more than your typical fat Frenchman. The Pale Rider went to a French bakery that morning and ordered a baker's dozen of croissants and went to Victor Chateau's apartment.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?" said the Frenchman, already giddy with the expectation of a reward for his conspiratorial efforts, which he was pleased to provide, although he always pretended to put up a fight.
The Pale Rider removed the croissants from his bag and the buttery aroma filled the apartment. The Frenchman's eyes rolled into the back of his head.
"The list," said the Pale Rider.
"Non, non! I cannot!"
The Pale Rider broke apart a croissant, flakes falling to the ground, the buttery glisten of the pastry shining in the sunlight entering the room.
"Oh, I cannot endure! You are an evil man! Fine! Tis not my will, but my love of croissants that consents."
The list now in his possession, the Pale Rider analyzed it. Ah, so it would be a Chinatown day of adventure! Scanning the establishments Walters planned to visit, the Pale Rider noticed he had never been to Wah Mei Fast Food, an establishment known for its fried meats served over rice and vegetables with a salty and pungent sauce.
The Pale Rider hopped on his bike, stopped at his apothecary and picked up a potent potable, one that would "really destroy her," and headed down to Chinatown. Arriving early he ordered the fried chicken over rice and took it outside to eat, enjoying the crispy, salty meat. Then, it was time. He put on his disguise, a pair of glasses with an attached plastic nose and mustache, and sneakily, oh so sneakily, re-entered Wah Mei. Walters was sitting at the counter, discussing one of her Oscar-night interview specials with someone who clearly understood no English. The Pale Rider created a diversion by shooting a small child with a pellet using his slingshot. The child cried out in pain and Walters looked over. The time was right and the Pale Rider doused Barb's meal with the substance.
Suspecting nothing, Walters returned to her meal, saying something about nothing of importance. The Pale Rider chuckled to himself, for he knew it would not be long, and indeed it wasn't. Within seconds, a loud gurgling noise came forth from the intestinal region of Walters, and she bolted to the back of the restaurant, looking for the facility. "No bathroom, no bathroom," said an employee in broken English.
Walters ran through the streets of Manhattan, crying out in agony. She knew this was the work of the Pale Rider.
The Pale Rider had returned.