The Pale Rider Obsessed

"Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." - Confucius

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.....

The Return of the Pale Rider

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.

The Pale Rider Strikes Back

On yet another incredible day, Friday the 15th of July, the Pale Rider ventured to Brooklyn for pizza and fun. He found both of those things and more.

The intended food target was Lucali's, a pizza parlor that's only been in business for 5 years or so, but has already become legendary in these parts. The pizza at Lucali's was scrumptious, and the waitress could not refrain from lavishing the pale rider with compliments. "You're a handsome man - tall, pale and mysterious," she said. "Yes," the Pale Rider answered.

Afterward, the Pale Rider and his companions took a stroll over to the Brooklyn Farmacy and Soda Fountain, an old-time ice cream shoppe. Yes, shoppe. The Pale Rider was intending to get an egg cream, of which he has heard much about. Yet a man walked by with a rich and delicious-looking drink, extolling the virtues of the "black and white," a vanilla milkshake doused with chocolate syrup. Even the Pale Rider changes his mind, sometimes.

On the way home, crossing over the Brooklyn Bridge, the Pale Rider felt an intense pain in his lower to mid upper abdominal regions. At first he thought it was just the normal process of digestion, but then, in the distance, he heard the faint but undeniable laugh of his arch nemesis, Barbara Walters. She must have slipped something into his milkshake!

The ride home was filled with pain and many bathroom stops, and the Pale Rider knew he had been deceived this time. Barbara Walters won the battle, but she would not win the war.

The Pale Rider Thinks

Last evening was an evening fit for a king. I rode to Bark Hot Dog in Brooklyn, a distance of about 10.5 miles. It had been a couple of days since I rode, and my legs were rested; I rode like the wind.

I had read a review on Yelp that called Bark the "thinking man's hot dog." Well, I am nothing if not a man who thinks. Anyhow, enough blabbering. How was Bark? Eh, it was good. It's in a nice neighborhood, it has a relaxed environment. The affluent types who live in nearby brownstones can come in and feel like they're eating junk food.

My hot dog was good, my onion rings were good, my milkshake was good, but I still felt a bit underwhelmed. Some of my dining partners had hot dogs with cheese sauce, and they complained of a "dusty" texture. I tried this dusty cheese sauce and liked it, but it was a bit powdery. Also, the real kicker, my meal cost $20. Clearly, Bark is trying to be a gourmet hot dog place, but still.

I rode home, got a Jarritos Grapefruit Soda, and pondered Bark and the meaning of life. Bark: good, fine, if you're in the area and want hot dogs, sure, why not. Meaning of life: keep riding and eating, there is no meaning, why not.

The Genesis of the Pale Rider

Why hello, I didn't see you over there.

For my maiden adventure, I rode my bike from New York City to Trenton, New Jersey - a distance of 87 miles. Objective: DeLorenzo's on Hamilton Avenue, an establishment known for its "tomato pies" as they call pizza in Trenton. The ride took hours and hours, perhaps around 7 of them. By the end of the trip I felt like my arms and my ass were going to fall off. However, the Pale Rider presses on.

I was joined by my son and business partner, H.W. Plainview (actually, it was my friend Anish). Anish is quite the rider, not as pale as I am, supple, knowledgeable and sleek. I had trouble keeping up with my friend, but fortunately he had advised me the day before to bring some Payday candy bars as they are packed with peanuts and do not melt. They are, for sure, a biker's friend.

How was the pizza, you ask? It was good. A very non-pretentious place where New Jersey natives hang out and apparently talk about how difficult it might be to become a chess master (this is actually what the people next to us were discussing).

Anyhow, that's all I have to say about that.