ChatGPT writes a story

In the style of Mike Baron

My friend Chris, a computer wizard who owns Computer Doctors in Loveland, CO, asked Chat to write a story in my style.

Write a 1 page short story in the style of Mike Baron, author of the Badger comic and the Biker novel series

ChatGPT said:

Title: Chain Reaction
By Not-Mike-Baron, but Close Enough

Benny “Bones” Malloy didn’t believe in fate. He believed in torque, rust, and the cleansing power of a fistfight. His Harley FXR had more soul than most people he met, and it never asked stupid questions. Not like the college kid who just tried to jack it outside Greaser’s Diner.

“Step away, Ivy League,” Benny growled, cracking his knuckles like thunder off sheet metal. The kid looked up from his phone, confused, soft-palmed, wearing a t-shirt that read “Decolonize Coffee.”

“I was just admiring—”

“You were just askin’ for a boot in the soul.”

Benny’s eyes narrowed behind wraparound shades scratched to hell. He wasn’t in the mood. He hadn’t been in the mood since ‘94. That was the last year he could ride from Denver to Deadwood without some TikTok-twink cutting across two lanes doing 80 in a Prius, filming his cat.

The kid backed up, spooked. Good. But fate, as it turned out, wasn’t done poking Benny in the ribs.

From inside the diner: “Hey! He’s got a gun!”

Benny turned—fast. Not fast enough.

The guy with the shotgun wore a neon ski mask, old fatigues, and the kind of nervous energy you only get from bath salts or losing big on Dogecoin. His hand trembled. His mouth moved faster than his brain.

“Wallets! Phones! And no funny moves or—”

Benny drop-kicked a chair. The shotgun roared. The kid screamed. Benny tackled the junkie into a glass pie case, fists flying like piston rods. He didn’t stop until the guy stopped twitching.

Five minutes later, cops were cuffing the ski mask and EMTs were patching the kid. A local reporter asked Benny why he stepped in.

Benny lit a Lucky Strike with grease-blackened fingers and shrugged.

“Because he got between me and a plate of chicken-fried steak.”

That night, he rode out under a bleeding moon, wondering if maybe fate did exist. He still didn’t believe in it. But he was willing to let it ride shotgun. For now.