RJFuller wasn’t just a man with a pen—he was a storm in a suit. He wanted the Chicago Stadium, and he wanted it bad. Not for sports, no sir, but for the underground writing tournamints that brought in more cash than bootleg gin.

Tetley, old and puffed up like a overbaked pie, ran the show. He thought he had it all under control. But then came the whispers. RJFuller wasn’t RJFuller at all. He was Kuku.

Kuku! The same Kuku who once faked a whole newspaper just to win a bet. The same Kuku who was nominated Street Orator of the Year in ’31 after shouting a 12-page monologue at a passing trolley. Tetley never forgot that voice. Or that hat.

Meanwhile, Telkin—poor Telkin—was always broke. He owed everyone from the typesetters to the sandwich boys. RJFuller paid him in cigars and lies to spy on Tetley. Tetley paid him in poems and promises. Telkin wrote it all down in a notebook he later sold for bus fare.

The final showdown was a mess. RJFuller showed up with a typewriter and a bottle of rye. Tetley brought a thesaurus and a grudge. They wrote for hours. Nobody read a word. The pages blew away in the wind.

Tetley vanished. RJFuller (or was it Kuku?) took the Stadium. Telkin opened a pawn shop in Joliet.

And Kuku? Some say he’s still out there, yelling metaphors at pigeons and winning speech contests in alleyways.