conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Paperback, San, Francisco with the genre: History, Military
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Marauders'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Marauders
  At first Grimes protested. Why him? Why not someone who never stepped foot in southern Louisiana? After all, he was born in the Barataria, and as soon as he graduated high school he couldn't leave fast enough.
  Ingram said this was precisely the point. "Those swamp people will notice a Yankee right away," he said. "And we want to send somebody who seems like they have a stake in the place."
  In the thrall of his deviousness, Ingram continued. "Tell them whatever huge payoffs and settlements they're waiting for? A mirage. Which is true. You know how many forms they'll have to fill out? How many of their forms will be quote-unquote lost? It'll drive them crazy. They'll never want to see another piece of paper as long as they live. Then there will be one appeal after another. As all that so-called settlement money gathers interest. A win-win situation."
  Ecologists worried about the crude washing into the marsh. One tropical storm, one unlucky shift in the winds, would bring in a black tide that laid waste to the ecosystem. Herons, terns, cormorants, laughing gulls, frogs, lizards, alligators, redfish, mullet, oysters, crawfish, deer, muskrat.
  Last spring, a few months ago, as the desperation and confusion grew, there was mention from oil company executives of top kills and junk shots, talk from congressmen of setting fire to the sea. "Setting the sea on fire!" Baratarians marveled. Why not just bomb the goddamn town and get it over with?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Wes told him hey, raked his fingers through his bed-headed hair, opened the gate and slid out of the truck.
  Then he told Wes that they'd be out there for at least a couple of days, to think it through. Wes said he didn't need to and was up for it. Any work would do.
  It was harder work than he imagined, just as Lindquist warned him. The bugs, the heat, the methane-smelling muck. By the end of the first day his fingers were blistered and his hands were crabbed from so much shoveling.
  And by their second day out Wes no longer knew where they were in the Barataria, they'd drifted so far. He was used to sticking to one part of the swamp, and these islands looked unfamiliar. Five or six hours' sleep a night, bloody hands, an aching back, and neither Wes nor Lindquist had a thing to show for it. But Lindquist's enthusiasm burned unabated, as if he were driven by a force stronger than faith.
  On the eve of their fourth day out Lindquist was metal detecting in the canebrake fringed along a little island's shore when his machine blipped. It was early evening, the last light leeching from the sky, tatters of purple and pink and orange above swag-bellied clouds. Gnats swarmed around their heads, thick as wreaths of smoke.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gnats swarmed around their heads, thick as wreaths of smoke.. It was early evening, the last light leeching from the sky, tatters of purple and pink and orange above swag-bellied clouds.
  On the eve of their fourth day out Lindquist was metal detecting in the canebrake fringed along a little island's shore when his machine blipped. But Lindquist's enthusiasm burned unabated, as if he were driven by a force stronger than faith. Five or six hours' sleep a night, bloody hands, an aching back, and neither Wes nor Lindquist had a thing to show for it. He was used to sticking to one part of the swamp, and these islands looked unfamiliar.
  And by their second day out Wes no longer knew where they were in the Barataria, they'd drifted so far. By the end of the first day his fingers were blistered and his hands were crabbed from so much shoveling. The bugs, the heat, the methane-smelling muck.
  It was harder work than he imagined, just as Lindquist warned him. Any work would do. Wes said he didn't need to and was up for it.
  Then he told Wes that they'd be out there for at least a couple of days, to think it through.Wes told him hey, raked his fingers through his bed-headed hair, opened the gate and slid out of the truck
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The township also came to life. In backyards skiffs were reared up on cinder blocks for repairs. Along dock pilings nets were stretched like colossal webs and shrimpers worked at mending them with spidery fingers. The talk in the Barataria buzzed about the imminent shrimping season: where the shrimp would be, how long the season would last, who would catch the biggest hauls. No matter what they said on television, no matter what crap BP said in their commercials, everyone knew the oil was still in the water and would be for a long time. But people were buying Louisiana shrimp and oysters again and it seemed that Jeanette had already weathered the worst.
  Wes shook his head and eyed the boat doubtfully. "We don't even have a trailer big enough. How would we get it to the water?"
  Wes's father called Teddy Zeringue and Davey Morvant. Wes called his friends Archie and Donny. Soon there were twelve people in the backyard. Twenty. Forty. Faces Wes had known his whole life, friends and neighbors. Chuck Jones, George Ledet, Elmer Guidry. Several guys Wes knew from high school, and a few brought their brothers and sisters. Wes saw Lucy Arcinaux, the jolie blonde he'd dated for a few lucky weeks. Young mothers brought their screaming and giggling toddlers. Long-necked beers were passed around as the crowd gathered in the rusty light of the evening sun.
  Wes started the engine and it sounded with a loud purr. He geared the boat and eased into the bayou. It was growing dark, but there was still enough daylight to see the faces in the crowd watching him as he drifted away. He spotted his father, but Wes was already too far out to read his face. He knew him only by the wiry shape of his body, the hunched set of his shoulders. What did you call feeling nostalgic for a moment before it was over? He didn't know, but he felt that feeling now as he cast further out into the Barataria. As he drifted farther he couldn't tell one face from another, nor soon after that man from woman, then man from child, until finally he was so far away that who he was looking at could have been anyone. Anyone at all.