Sixty days later, Peg walked out into a March snow squall. She had no job, no license, and a restraining order from three used car lots.
“Your Honor,” Peg began, “the motorcycle in question was purchased with funds stolen from my mother’s nursing home fund. I have bank statements, a sworn affidavit from a psychic who saw the whole thing, and a photograph of the defendant wearing a T-shirt that says ‘I ❤️ Fraud.’ The shirt is arguably the strongest evidence.”
“You could’ve just taken the bike,” said the cop, Officer Griswold, a man whose mustache had more authority than he did. buffaloed 2019
Her new business card read: Beneath that, in smaller letters: We don’t get buffaloed. We are the buffalo.
“He owed me six hundred bucks,” Peg said. “I also took his grill. Lump charcoal included. That’s not mischief. That’s interest.” Sixty days later, Peg walked out into a March snow squall
She represented herself. That was the first mistake everyone made, assuming Peg Dahl needed help. She stood before the judge—a weary woman named Castellano who’d seen three generations of Dahls pass through her courtroom—and laid out her case with the manic precision of a game show host.
“Tactical,” Peg said. “Not mischief. Tactical.” I have bank statements, a sworn affidavit from
She smiled.