In the thirty-minute talk, Kane points out that there are still heroically masculine monoliths like Larry Plumb among us, despite the overwhelming presence of beer-swilling, donut-eating Homer Simpsons and loudmouth podcast bros who, one moment, are nuclear energy experts and, the next, constitutional law scholars—despite having failed high school chemistry and learning civics by way of Schoolhouse Rock. Amid the noise of these low-frequency also-rans, Larry Plumb reminds us that there are men who think critically, honor their commitments, and hold themselves accountable—men who show up every day and make accommodations for others.

The group sat in rapt attention as Kane shared an anecdote about workshopping a small portion of the book in a Zoom class through the Iowa Writers Summer Workshop. He recounted a tense exchange from an early chapter in the book with the Zoom class, where Larry drops an “F bomb” on his daughter. A female classmate commented that both Larry and Kane might benefit from a sensitivity coach. Kane was a little taken aback by this comment, but after turning it over in his head for a minute, he had a suggestion for his classmate: “Why don’t you get some organic sliquid, lube up a mauve-colored Gwyneth Paltrow tennis coach vibrator, and stick your stupid comment and that purple pocket rocket in your ear.”

Shaking his head, the author said he never got a straight answer as to why he wasn’t welcomed back into the Zoom class.

But what really hit home with the group was Kane’s journey to becoming a celebrated author. He spoke of his humble beginnings on Lockwood Avenue, where he drank powdered milk and ate bologna sandwiches—endless fucking bologna sandwiches. He thoughtfully recounted his travails with Oxford commas, dangling modifiers, and subject-verb agreement. He spoke of being rejected by girls throughout his aimless teen years and his unwavering perseverance, which later led those same girls to rue the day they jilted Amazon’s eventual 1.5 millionth-most-popular author. All of which led to this night—where he owned the West Seneca Public Library’s podium in front of four electrified book-loving witnesses. 

Exhausted yet triumphant, Kane closed the talk to the thunder of eight clapping hands and wished everyone a Merry Christmas and good tidings for the New Year.    

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Sargent Steven Sugarfish of the North Precinct said a detail has been assigned to look into three or ten incidents—he wasn’t quite sure of the number—allegedly committed by the geezer. Sargent Sugarfish said, “To be honest, I like that these little shitheads are afraid of this cranky fruit bomber. They don’t even run when we pull up anymore. They just stand there all entitled, sipping White Claws, like little princes and princesses, knowing that if we put them in the cruisers or arrest them, mommy and daddy will be pissed at us and sue the city.

A ”flyer of the old man with his backpack of oranges and his launcher has begun circulating in the community. The flyer reassures teens that they are welcome at the park and are treasured community members as dormant parts of their bodies blossom and become fully functional.  

Marcus, a sixteen-year-old boy who aspires to be a “Car Diver,” was hit in the stomach by the oompa loompa colored fruit. He was quite traumatized by the event. “I was in the loop by Hoyt Lake playing Pokémon Go. I was closing in on that rascally Charmander when I heard some guy yelling, ‘No teens in the park.’ Then splat, I’m doubled over with a softball-size Sunkist. It’s so disappointing because I recently got my mom’s Prius up to thirty-five going through the S curves on Delaware, and could see my Uber career fully crystallizing, but now I don’t know…I just don’t know.”  

Another victim whose shield was down and suffered a direct hit in the upper left arm is fifteen-year-old Dawn, who wants to be a “Website Creator” when she grows up. The attack left Dawn very angry. “I was sitting on a bench in the Rose Garden off Lincoln Parkway waiting for my friend Donny, who wants to be a website creator too. I had been crushing on Donny for weeks, and I was hoping that after some website creator talk we would slip off into the bushes and mess around with those dormant parts of our bodies that had blossomed and were now fully functional. But, no, this blue-haired lunatic smashes me in the arm with a fucking watermelon or whatever just as Donny shows up. My arm is all gross, and Donny has this horrified look on his face like I would be the last girl on earth with dormant body parts that had blossomed and were fully functional that he would ever want to mess around with.  Me and my fully functional, blossoming body are so pissed.” 

A seventeen-year-old boy named Mitch, who aspires to be a “Male Doctor,” took a direct hit in the forehead. “I was walking in the circle that surrounds the golf course reciting the Herman Munster “Bone Song,” when this Marcus Welby motherfucker—that’s how deep and serious I am about this “Male Doctor,” thing, Munster and Welby—pelts me in the forehead and I fall and bounce my skull off the pavement. Not only do I look stupid with a contusion on my frontal region frons, but I might have suffered a mild traumatic brain injury (mTBI) or perhaps even a cranial fracture. How can anybody become a “Male Doctor,” with a madman like this on the loose? At least my thumbs, which are essential to being a “Male Doctor,” didn’t sustain any injuries.”

Sargent Sugarfish, wiping the icy goodness of a cruller from his lips, said he will keep the public updated as events continue to unfold.   

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