PART TWO

What’s happened so far: Not much. Alan and his trusted Aide-de-Camp are in eastern Colorado, headed west on US-36 in a well-rusted 1974 Mustang (previously established as being just a Pinto — without the explosions).

Alan-a-Nels (a refuge from the village of Nels by the Privy), along with his trusted Aide-de-Camp Harri Van Dahl (the one-time ruler of half an Icelandic fjord) could see the sign ahead. It was either a proclamation or a warning. “Last Chance” was all it read.

“Wait just a ding-danged, minute. What’s with the ‘Aide-de-Camp’ stuff? I thought we went through this last week. I’m not the ‘colleague’ and I am certainly not the ‘Aide-de-Camp’. I am just the other guy in this story. Got it, Buster?” said Harri Van Dahl to the narrator.

I said you were “trusted”, what’s wrong with that? Anyway…Last Chance, Colorado sits at the crossroads of two very long and lonesome highways. It straddles the junction of State Highway 71 and US Route 36, as both trace a path along landscape that offers no scenic diversion or course altering obstacles – just miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. Both roads run straight out of nowhere along a thin, straight line that leads directly to nowhere — with Last Chance perched right in the middle of nowhere. The village once boasted a population of nearly two dozen, but that has diminished, somewhat, due to the 2012 prairie fire that torched everything but the Methodist church – proving that miracles do happen.

“I’m hungry. Let’s find a McDonalds,” whined the other guy (are you happy, now?).

“Where’s the treasure map?” snapped Al. “I think I just figured out part of the riddle.”

The treasure map in question was an artificially aged document, purported to be the former property of the reprobate prince, Rand of the Fire. Prince Rand of the fire acquired the title because of his unhealthy love for all things pyro technique — and because he is a bit of a reprobate (but, in a good way). According to legend, passed down from one barstool to the next, Rand accumulated a vast fortune selling illegal fireworks in Michigan (long before that particular prohibition was repealed in 2013) and frittered away most of it on wine, women, and karaoke. He then made a second fortune selling bogus treasure maps to the hidden fortunes of the fallen stars (he got the idea while on vacation in LA). Alan and Harri had been on the road for the last three weeks, following the clues and markers of one of those maps, eating gas station food, failing to take showers — all in the hopes of finding a stolen pearl necklace, supposedly worn by Marilyn Monroe in “Seven Year Itch.” For Rand, the treasure map gimmick was a real money maker, with high school and college kids abandoning summer jobs and driving all over the country in search of dubious treasure.

“Gimme the map. Gimme the map.” Alan kept shouting to his Aide-de-…oops, my bad…the other guy.

While Alan-a-Nels was blathering on about the whereabouts of a wrinkled treasure map he had discovered at a Goodwill store, in Granger, Indiana, Harri Van Dahl was scanning the crossroads in all four directions. He was clinging to the disillusioned hope of spotting a pair of golden arches in the not-too-far-off distance. There were none. All Harri could see between the junction and the horizon were the remains of a Dairy King, a 1950s era motor lodge, and a former service station and souvenir shop – all abandoned and in various states of collapse. Their last chance had come and gone.

Alan finally retrieved the map from under a back-seat filth blanket woven from the remnants of discarded wrappers from several dozen Ho-Ho’s and Ding-Dongs, bags of Nacho Cheese Combos, and Monster energy drink cans. On the back of the map, in a smudged corner, were the nearly illegible words, “Last chance. Get it right.”

“That’s it! I know where the treasure is.” Suddenly, a look of realization crossed his face. “Well, I guess you were right. It is going to take three installments to get this story told,” 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.