A short history of the Auction Block.
Colonel Reginald Hammersworth III spent forty-two years calling livestock auctions across the heartland. Cattle, hogs, the occasional ostrich. He could push a herd from the gate to the gavel in under ninety seconds.
He retired in 2019. Six months later, his daughter Cassidy — a perfectly capable thirty-one-year-old marketing manager — moved back home because she “couldn't find a place with good vibes.”
She had been looking for half a year. Her list of must-haves had grown to twenty-three items. It included the phrase “a kitchen that feels like a hug.”
The Colonel took one look at her spreadsheet and did what he had done for forty-two years. He stood up, planted his feet, and started yelling.
“SEVEN, Cassidy. I want SEVEN. Not a hug. Not vibes. Seven things you would WALK AWAY for. GOING ONCE!”
She signed a lease in eleven days.
The Auction Block is the Colonel's methodology, ported to the internet. The constraint — exactly seven, no more, no fewer— is the whole point. It forces the prioritization that real apartment hunters refuse to do.
The Colonel is fictional. Cassidy is fictional. The methodology is real.