Frank Bronski had just met with Trustafarian Thad. Yes, he needed a better moniker but inspiration is fleeting. In Boulder it ebbed and flowed like ripples in time. That stanza was getting stuck in his brain but it was a handy explanation for everything Boulder. The trustafarians name was actually Thad. His dad was a rich industrialist and Thad was just waiting till he was old enough to take over his trust fund but for now settled for a monthly allowance and whatever he could glean from the mean streets of Boulder.
Thad wanted to be called Sticks. He was between bands but of course he played the drums and his recent band had played a fusion of Reggae, Acid Jazz and Polka. Frank shuddered to think what that sounded like and although he accepted an offer of a demo CD, his days of psychedelics were in the past so he would be putting it to use as a coaster. “Sticks” didn’t sound very hard boiled but he had to admit it sounded better than Trustafarian Todd, who always looked violently ill when he was call that, so Sticks it would be.
His meeting assured that his first case was almost put to bed.It was a good feeling and it would be even better when he called Mrs Simpson and told her the good news. Her husband was a workaholic not a philanderer. After leaving Franks office, Steven Simpson had returned immediately to work where he remained there until he left some three hours later and returned home with no stops along the way. Soon It would be on to the next mystery. The next mystery didn’t come with a paycheck but a mystery nonetheless.
Who the heck was this shadow guy?
His meeting with Sticks uncovered a potential clue towards that question.
Sticks had insisted on meeting away from downtown Boulder and his fellow trustafarians. He had said he didn’t want to appear as a snitch and as Frank wasn’t holding any weed it would definitely look suspicious. Frank didn’t ask why the concept of “holding” still applied in a world where weed was legal but he just figured mindsets about that were baked in. Not that being on a bike path in an underpass was not suspicious but the path was empty at time of day so they went unnoticed. What did not go un-noticed by Frank was the mural that occupied the walls of the underpass.
“Hey sticks, who painted this?”
“Oh man I have no idea. I think it was a collective effort dude.”
“So no ideas as to anyone who could have painted it?”
“Sorry dude, no clue. It just started showing up here bit by bit. “
“Bit by bit,” asked Frank.
“ Yea, it seems like every few weeks someone would notice a new character or feature. There is a lot of rumors going around about it.”
“What kinds or rumors?”
“Oh the usual, one was a government conspiracy involving the CIA, NSA and the ABA.”
“Um, the American Basketball Association got absorbed into the NBA in the 70’s.”
“Not that ABA. This ABA is the American Baking Association”.
“The American Baking Association?”
“Don’t ask me, it’s the internet and lack of critical thinking skills enable people to spread BS virtually unchecked.”
“That is so true. Don’t get me started.”
“There is another story that aliens created it and it represents a plan to take over Boulder.”
“Just Boulder?”
“Hey like I said it’s the internet.”
“Right,” mumbled Frank his attention suddenly drawn to a character in the corner of the mural in front of some distant mountains, presumably the Flatirons. It appeared to be a man in a trench coat and a fedora but otherwise featureless and painted in flat black. He looked like shadow man.”
“Any details about any of the characters?”
“I don’t remember any but there is a lot of other theories online that talks about them. I can send you some links.”
“That would be great thanks.”
“The game is afoot,” said Frank.
“What dude?”
“Oh just a saying.”
He wasn’t sure if there was a game, let alone what it was, but he was a big Sherlock Holmes fan and he always wanted to say that.
