When I finally caught up with S. Navbar, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named I. N. Accessibility in a ramshackle joint, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon. What they’d done to my client was unbearable. They had questions to answer, so many questions. I jammed my fedora on my head and slowly stepped out of the car. This was gonna be one hell of a fight.

S. Navbar’s Dirty Work

There I Was

But you’re probably wondering how this all started. It was simple, at first. I needed to provide my client with nothing more than a heuristic analysis, a bit of research, and a responsive website redesign. The client, however, was none other than one of Denver’s most highly regarded counseling groups.

The Client’s Feature in 5280 Magazine

When they came to me, I thought it was a joke, what with their long legs and strong, broad shoulders. Yeah, I nervous. Who wouldn’t be? But it had to be done, and I was the man for the job.

So I agreed, but not without hesitation. I knew this would be tough. S. Navbar and his cronies had haunted them for a long time.

What T. M. Text Had Done To The Client

I slipped on my brown overcoat, donned my fedora, and set to work investigating S. Navbar’s dark underworld of seedy misdirection.

It’s Heuristics, After All

It was raining. It was always raining when I stepped outside to conduct my research. I guess that’s part of the misery of it all. Wet and tired, I slid into a dark, wooden chair at the Koebel Library.

Millions of Americans go to counseling each year. It kind of makes you wonder, ya know? Four in ten have seen a counselor, ‘ole Barna says, and thirteen percent say they’re currently seeing a therapist.

I’m no man to judge though. I don’t go in for stereotypes. But one thing couldn’t be overlooked: this was a big business, bigger than I knew.

More Text!

And then I found it, the lead I’d been waiting for. Well, stumbled across it really.

Kelley Gray, LLC is none other than the famed counseling group of high reputation once featured in 5280 Magazine. They’d continued to grow, only their website hadn’t. Before they knew it, people were clamoring for their attention all over the metro area, but S. Navbar’s gang wouldn’t allow it. Why? I never knew. So he sent T. M. Text to bust up their storefront.

I beat the street and found out that T. M. Text was an underling. He didn’t much matter. So I decided to start there, to see if he’d squeal.

That CTA Though

It was time for action.

I found him tucked away in a little cafe in Fleet Town. He was sipping cheap whiskey and trying his best to chatter up the bartender.

“You?” he screamed. “I don’t know nothing, I swear it!”

He made a break for it out the back. I ran into the alley in pursuit, but I was too late. Somebody had beat me to him.

It was ugly, but T. M. Text was no more.

I went back to my client and explained what’d happened. They nodded quietly and watched in silence as I stripped away all the damage that T. M. text had done to their site.

Your CTAs, Be Like . . .

I was without a witness. I knew I needed to track down I. N. Accessibility next, S. Navbar’s right-hand man. I just didn’t know where to find him. Maybe the clue was in the signifier?

Doth My Eyes Deceive Me?

I started from scratch. What had I. N. Accessibility left behind? For starters, a bright blue CTA hovering just beneath the client’s couch. She was so bright, so blue. At times, I found that I couldn’t look away, but she had to go.

It was the second thing that I. N. Accessibility left behind that really gave me nightmares. It was his trademark move, too — bright blue next to a vibrant green. The colors were hard to look at. They tricked your eyes, made you think you were seeing things that . . .

And then it hit me.

The Forms, Oh The Forms

I swallowed the rest of my gin and tossed my bitter cigar. I was on the hunt. I knew where I. N. Accessibility had gone, it was the footer that did it.

I found him in a small hideaway. A cabin in the woods, perched on the edge of lake Dillion. He didn’t go easily though. There was a lot of shooting, a fair amount of blood, but in the end, I got what I needed.

I cleaned up I. N. Accessibility and was ready to take on S. Navbar.

The Confusion Sets In

I thought I was a close then, real close. I’d been on his trail for far too long. But he kept evading me, twisting and turning. I was all kinds of confused. I didn’t know which way to go. Out there, in the world, was nothing but chaos. And who was I, if not a man of law and order, a man of fedora and gun?

My client was getting anxious. They wanted to know what progress I had made. “Where is he?” they kept asking. “Where is S. Nabar?”

A New Day

I didn’t know! I had nowhere to turn. T. M. Text was dead. I. N. Accessibility had clamped his hairy mouth shut after our shootout.

It was bad, real bad.

But I didn’t get into this business because it was easy.

I retraced my steps. I beat the mean streets of Denver. I looked high and low. I returned to the scene of the crime for inspiration. My fedora tipped low over my eyes, my overcoat heavy with winter snow — and there he was, lounging in a Barcelona chair.

It was an ugly site.

Clean And Intuitive

“You finally found me,” he said, cool as a cucumber. “I didn’t think you had it in ya.”

He shot first.

I stumbled, fell to my knees. And then it was over. Smoke swirled around the room. S. Navbar slumped in his chair.

I worked quickly.


I trimmed the fat, reduced the clutter, moved him up top, and made him transparent. Yeah, that’s right, I made him transparent. Why? Well, that’s a story for another day.

Nimble Like A Pronghorn Antelope

I’d done what I’d set out to do, but it was time to make a change. I needed a new direction. This took a lot out of me. I needed rest.

No More Hyperlinks For The Writing

The site was clean now, maybe even too clean. But it was clear, direct, and intuitive, like a nimble antelope lifting into the air, escaping the jaws of a lion.

My client was grateful. They walked away never knowing what’d really happened though, what the job had cost me.

A Better, Cleaner Contact

But that’s the life of a man in a fedora.

Moving On . . .

I’d served my purpose. It was time to go. Was it a risk? Sure. But I’d do it again. T. M. Text, I. N. Accessibility, and S. Navbar got what they had coming to ’em. But I was spent. I needed a break. So I left town, found that little hideaway of I. N. Accessibility’s, and rested.

Now That’s What I Call Information

From now on, it was just going to be me and my fedora, living a life in the cold shadows of darkness. Don’t be sorry for me. I left behind a monument of clean and clear design. I only hope I’ll be remembered for it.

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