"Where the sun sets (eventually) to leave the vivid dust swirling and beckoning amidst the sunken beach bluffs of the peninsula Palos Verdes, that town within called El Segundo because its dark-faced settlers called it such so customarily--both the ordinal number and, of course, the timing measure--a hard man named Walton late of twenty eight years, he born of the towering man-child Bill who, a generation earlier, was known the world over for his preeminent work in the low-post, was charged for harrassing him (Luke, that is)--'mussed over' as he wheezed--by Stacy Elizabeth Beshear, a mad woman foreign of acquaintance and sense. Before that encounter, in the fall of 2008, she, Beshear, had affected the firing of a pistol at him (the younger Walton) with her carbuncled fingers; taking offense at this postiche as he is wont to do, he summoned the appointed posse of his Spanish-parlanced county, who were summarily dispatched to address this wrong in the waning light of that hazy glow of California sun; before that, late in the year of 2007, she had scrawled with markers of the permanent variety on his automobile out of scorn (or [as should always be mentioned] ardor, for they are so often of like roots) and waited, "mysterious-like" in her own vehicle, blending in with the endangered blue butterflies that fluttered across the dewy night. It is then (or thereabouts) Luke thought, contemptuously to put it kindly, that he 'could tell by the stuff she was saying that she's not all there in the head.'
"A phone number for Beshear was not in service. Whoever she is, tell her I said thanks."