PART ONE

Two road-hardened travelers nosed their tired but rusty steed along a well-worn path towards an, as yet, unknown destination.

Their hardy quest was for adventure and the rumored treasure of the reprobate prince, Rand of the Fire. The morning sun was just on the rise, the trail topped a rolling grassy hummock, and the freshly illuminated sky back-lit the pair as a single, lumbering, silhouette traversing the misty ridge.

Alan-a-Nels, from the village of Nels by the Privy and his ever-present Norse colleague, Harri Van Dahl (one time ruler of nearly half of an Icelandic fjord) rode together in silence. A grim cloud of annoyance hung heavy on the colleague while a breeze of righteous ignorance trailed from Alan-a-Nels,

“Why do I have to be the ‘colleague’?” Harri hammered the silence with a solid whine. “I once ruled a fjord in Iceland. Your only claim to fame is that you had enough smarts to leave a town named for having a public outhouse. You should be the ‘colleague’.”

“You ruled half of a fjord — until the tide rolled out.” Grumbled Alan in retort to his aggravated travelling companion. “And that was only because you filled up on grog and debauchery, stumbled along the rocks to the other side of a craggy sea inlet, and got stranded by the rising tide. All you did was bellow out in a drunken stupor that you were the king of that side of the fjord and anyone wanting to challenge you should brave the tide and come and fight. When no one bothered, you passed out.”

“There was debauchery? I don’t remember that.”

“You thought you had a moment with the serving wench in black yoga pants. You over-tipped her, gave her a card key to the room, and headed off across the rocks thinking it was a shortcut back to the hotel.

“Ssssooooo…the debauchery…?”

“Didn’t really happen. I just said that to make you feel better.”

The intrepid pair were headed to no place in particular, in search of the illusive Purloined Pearl — supposedly part of the treasure of the, above-mentioned, rogue prince. The nav system on Alan-a-Nels’ cell phone didn’t register the trail they were on — the screen just showed that they were travelling in the middle of nowhere. Al had failed to update the MapQuest app on his phone, which was further complicated by the lack of cell signal in that part of eastern Colorado.

“Where are we? I’m getting hungry. Pull over at the next exit and let’s get some McMuffins,” groused the faithful colleague. “I am not a ‘colleague’,” bellowed Harri. “I am the ruler of half…”

“Who are you talking to?”

“The narrator. He keeps calling me a ‘colleague’,” complained the half-fast ruler of a rocky stretch of back water. “Never mind. Now he’s calling me a ‘ruler’. Wait. What does ‘half-fast’ mean?”

The pair travelled west in their rusted steed, Oliver, a 1974 Ford Mustang (which, c’mon, be honest, was really just a Pinto with make-up).

They rumbled along the needle straight, boringly long, and hell-bound to nowhere, stretch of highway known as US-36. Off in the distance, along the horizon, where the sky sat flat on the sagebrush and yucca plants, State Highway 71 (and their Last Chance) awaited the arrival of Alan-a-Nels and his ever-present colleague…”

“There he goes, again. Get this straight, buster. I am not the ‘colleague’…”

“Who are you talking to?”

Tell you what – let’s just call you the “the trusted aide-de-camp”. I’m only allowed 500-750 words, here. We’ve got to pick up the pace or this is going to turn into another three-part serial.

“You’re doomed. Did you read the title? This is just ‘Part #1’. We’re in this for the long haul,” groused Alan, to no one in particular.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.