12th of August -Tom

Greetings to you, and with all my respect, I need to write this for myself, but also for you. This might be different and it’s not part of my career as a journalist to say that. This is not my job and maybe I won’t be paid for this, but if it’s not me, who will be then? Today, I want to share you the big truth, what you all know, but this time, there’s no need to fake it. I have an announcement that will change the way you see this nation. This will change you life. You won’t be blind anymore.

He have been lying to you all this time, ever since it all started. You chose him after seeing a piece of how our future will look like. People, let’s be honest, you wanted to see some action. A change that could bring us to the next level. Another world. But, as far as we have all seen, this won’t happen, not as long as he has the power. Words are great, they are even greater than the actual truth. You see, this is like a dance, you have to follow the rhythm of the song we chose. And we must follow the moves, we can’t dance in the way we want. There is the talent and grace that will help you find them. You are not alone in the song.

If you start it with the left, you’ve made a big mistake. Unfortunately, you won’t get the maximum score. They won’t like it. You’ll lose the competition. You won’t get paid as much as you wish to and you will suffer at the end of the song, when you’ll realise the lose.

If you start the dance with the right, you will be adored by the ones watching you. You will have some chances to win and rise like all the great ones. The prize will be worth it and everyone will know how good you are at what you’re doing and how free you feel while dancing.

That’s the difference between choosing left or right. It changes you completely. You can fade to black or rise like a bird , reaching the skies.

          It’s your choice. Your in this alone,               


                   with your own mind.

Back to the topic, I’m aftaid I know a little. I trust you. I trust us. I know you’re the greatest people, so I will warn you of what will happen in the next days, months, years….

One week later

I’m so sorry, I don’t know what have been wrong with me…. I feel…. weird. My head started spinning…..I’m so confused…..I….haven’t done anything wrong, it’s just…… Remember? I told you, last week, that this will change your life? Well, my friends, it has changed mine too, because I don’t think I’ll be alive in the next few hours, I’m afraid this is my last goodbye.

It have been a pleasure to say this to you. My career was great, I had a great life. I just want to let you know that I am not sorry at all for confessing this with………………………………………..

"To begin this exposition about the ruler's disposition, I must state my one ambition is to say my soul opinion and explain my one prevision to enlighten our revision on the prior king's decision to have this heir in recognition as king with his permission.

He is awful!

For his statements are fake, promises half-baked to the point you can't shake every one mistake, for there's only so much a nation like ours can take.

In addition, on no condition did the last king say to destroy all opposition and cause social division."

And that's as far as I'd get. As far as they'd let. For the word count was set, and let's not forget! It would make the ruler upset.

I shoved away all regret as I hid behind a cigarette Until the man of the hour came personally armed with threat.

"You're playing roulette, Marquette." he said. "I bet." "Marquette!" I had immediate regret. "Do not fret, Marquette. You're only in debt Because luckily, your poems are objet."

So he liked my talent. Who wouldn't? But this was just to act gallant.

"Truly?" "Fully." "What's the catch?" At that moment, he smiled cruelly. "Your duty is set loosely. To stand beside me. Enlighten me. Amuse me."

"And if I don't?" "You'll be a ghost." "..."

And so my sad story goes a provoked and invoked roast to my quote; Where I'm left to be devote to this shoat.

Promoted from city fool to the kingdom's entertaining mule. The king's newest jewel.

I'm doomed to complain in vain! Such shame! How utterly lame.

Oh well, for now I'll simply enjoy my fame. For now, whilst his anger is tame.

“Mercy for the tyrant is injustice to the weak”.

Never backing down. Never backing down against injustice in the face of overwhelming fear is what our journalist Mr. Ahmed Jamal taught us today.

He showed us what backbone means. Needn’t he cared about his post, any dirty framing or about his own life. He’s sent all of us journalists a string of shame down our spines.

So today, I write this to ascertain to myself that I will not stay put no more, that I shall follow the footsteps of such individuals and that I too do not have a price tag. That I too am a force not to be reckoned with. That I too, no matter what the consequences, even if I am the last one to be exposing you, I will be stand with the right and not the powerful. Even if that means standing alone with my principles, standing alone with my principles.

Raised on grits and eggs, born in a trailer park, high school dropout, with her first baby by fifteen, BillieJo Loggett had gone from single mother waitress to successful business owner to congresswoman. With her hand to mouth upbringing and real world business experience BillieJo could have shaken the rich boys’ club of Congress until it trembled. But instead of the poor man’s friend, BillieJo was just a garden variety vitriolic, narcissistic skin of evil. And Laney Speedwell took a great deal of pleasure in bringing about her downfall.

Perched on a wobbly stool in the printer room, Laney typed on her laptop. The Aurora Gazette had switched from private offices and a cubicle crowded bull room for its journalists to a open concept desk sharing nightmare. Ted French and the other big name columnists and reporters worked from home while the big names’ assistants and the byline jockeys battled each other for space like the thunderdome. Laney worked on her latest BillieJo Loggett article amongst stacks of copy paper.

On the Education beat, Laney used to cover local school board meetings. To keep up for student loan payments, Laney cleaned office buildings with her mother and aunties. Cleaning ladies always knew where the true dirt hid.

Because of old Miss Lucy from over at Clarke Middle School Laney learned that the Loggett twins had gotten very ill and spread COVID to teachers, staff and classmates. Apparently BillieJo’s businesses were super spreader sites. Laney’s expose on underaged drinking and lack of COVID protocols at The Rifleman made the front page and made the county issue a restraining order against the bar for public safety.

Soon followed stories on food poisoning at BillieJo’s chain of watering holes as well as employers not receiving wages. Laney had hoped to get assigned to bigger stories on workers’ right and universal health care. But her editor wanted sizzle not steak. Her sources continued to come to her. She received messages in texts, emails, notes slipped under her battered Honda’s windshield wiper. BillieJo like shingles was the gift that kept on giving.

The Lopez sisters who cleaned for Shooter City police department informed Laney that Tucker Loggett, BillieJo’s husband was picked up for indecent exposure and public drunkenness. Laney discovered that Sheriff Kane had hushed all the incident. That crime and the even more important coverup made the front pages. For her investigating, Laney got a state inquiry into police corruption and a cinder block thrown through her parked car’s window. She moved back to the trailer park with her folks for safety.

BillieJo, with her sassy cowgirl comebacks, was a media darling for the national press but in her western Colorado district of farmers and miners their congresswoman was dollar store lunchmeat. BillieJo’s re-election campaign was DOA. During Laney’s article series on the law and disorder candidate’s coverup, Laney’s folks’ trailer was firebombed. Luckily Crazy Pete put out the blaze and there was minimal damage. She convinced her parents to visit kin in Arizona.

Laney smuggled into unoccupied hotel rooms at the Hilton, Hampton Inn, Courtyard by Marrott, the Wyndham. In cleaning carts or dressed as staff she spent her night eating twenty dollar room service burgers and researching. Her stories caught the national interest. TikTok and morning news shows only focused on BillieJo’s more hilarious alternative facts. Colorado residents who appreciated a functional legislature weren’t laughing.

Laney uploaded her article comparing the congresswoman attacks on other politicians’ family members to her pleas for compassionate for her own son’s recent felonies to fact-checking. Her whole body sagged. Laney leaned on a box of 92 Brilliant White Recycled paper. She just wanted to go home, take a walk, drink hot coffee and read a book at a sidewalk cafe without worrying about one of BillieJo’s fans to take a pot shot at her.

Rolling her suitcase, Laney headed out of the printer room to meet up with Lupita to be snuck into another hotel. She would take a bath and eat dark chocolate. In front of the printer room there was a brass jacketed rifle cartridge. Her name was scrawled on the ammunition’s side in Sharpie.

With a plastic baggie from her jacket, Laney picked it up carefully and added the cartridge to others she had come across this week. She was working with the Colorado Bureau of Investigation to identify the individuals making threats against her. Yawning, she thought how the growing list of people, including police officers, pastors, government officials, and a few Loggetts, was going to make another great story.

Walking into the castle, guards and people lock their gazes on me. Their whispers pinch my ears, reminding me of my mistake. “That’s Violet, the journalist…” “I heard it was all a hoax…” “Dang, she’s gorgeous..” I roll my eyes at that last comment. I suddenly feel a tug on my wrist; Prince Holt steers me away into a large room, one I can guess to be a meeting room. A large table sits in the middle with the king at the far end, looking down upon me with disgust and anger. “Violt Solup, the journalist who wishes to bring my son to ruin,” the king’s powerful voice rings. I stiffen. I bow my head and say quietly, “My apologies, Your Majesty.” Holt laughs beside me, his eyes lighting up. I look at the king and see his eyes calculating and observing. A smirk appears. “To bring back the prince’s image, Violet, I have come to find some terms you’ll be quick to accept,” the king says. A deal? “Please do say,” I ask. The king stands and paces. “You will stay in the castle and act as one of my son’s suitors. You and my son will go into public and act as though you wish to marry—“ “Your Majesty,” I start, but the king interrupts, “I am not finished. You two will act in love and you, Violet, will make Holt likeable and admirable.” Holt steps before me and argues, “Father, the people love me already.” “The article has wounded you.” I clear my throat and ask, “What would I be getting in this…act?” The king’s face turns grave. “Violet, your article has put you and your loved one in great danger. Many people out there support and love Holt, and you’ve just insulted and offended them. They won’t take this kindly unless you shape this into a joke or a playing card in a game to win the prince’s favor.” I consider the king’s words and glance at Holt, his piercing blue eyes already on me. “I accept,” I say. Holt smiles and grabs me by the hand, “Let’s go make them believe it.” “Now?” I ask. He nods as he rushes us to a balcony overlooking hundreds of people. They all turn their attention to us. Pretending to not notice them, Holt whispers, “Just play along. It’s only an act, nothing real.” His hands brush against my cheek. He holds my gaze and softens his eyes. He bends down and kisses me with passion and elegance. I lean in, playing in the act. This is only an act. It is not real. When we break, he turns to face a wide-eyed cheering crowd, but my eyes are still on him. What if I dont want this to be fake…what if I want Holt for real?

See you cursing my name See you crushing my fame I’m not a player in your game So I’m not going to play it safe

See your name smudged Your red face Furied Revenge

I was at a party R&B music blasting Head pounding Dancing all night long

You storm in With a lethal weapon Pointed at me And i lay on the ground, bloodshed

“Are you sure you want to print this?” Jack’s boss asked after setting down the stack of papers he was reading. “Your name would be on it, Jack…”

“I’m sure, Phil,” Jack responded quickly. “He can’t keep getting away with this, and if no one says anything he will.”

Phil scratches his chin and leans back in his chair. “Jack, I respect your work and your morals. You consistently write the truth without embellishment, which is rare these days… but if this is true it’s going to be dangerous.”

“It’s true: I’ve been collecting evidence for months and left no stone unturned.”

“Mayor Brinely moonlighting as the infamous McCoy makes sense… it would explain how he gets his drugs into the city, why the police can’t catch him, and how he avoids every raid. However, if you got the wrong guy it’s more than just a bad expose; McCoy kills people who cross him.”

“Brinely is McCoy. Everything is in there: he has been at every questionable shipment, raid location, and suspected drug house within 24 hours of anything happening. June 30th he shows up to the old train station, then July 1st it’s raided at 2 AM only to be found deserted. August 7th he-“

“I understand, I’m just asking if you understand how dangerous this is for you… and for anyone you care about…”

Nodding, Jack cleared his throat and repeated himself, “I’m sure about this, Phil.”

With a nod, Phil turned back to his computer and Jack turned to leave. The moment he got to his desk Jack slumped into his chair and grabbed the picture next to his computer. A beautiful blonde woman with grey eyes hugged a four year old girl with sandy blonde hair who was beaming at the camera. Jack smiled at the two girls as if they could see him.

“Thinking about Alexa and Gracie again?” A soft voice questioned.

Jumping out of his chair, Jack looked up to see a short redhead standing behind his desk. “Oh, hello Ashley,” he responded.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you!” Ashley looked at the ground and clasped her hands together as she often did when talking to Jack. “Just was worried… you have that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one where you almost look happy…” slumping her shoulders Ashley paused for a few seconds. “Because you are remembering them…”

“Yeah… I wish I could hold them one more time.” Jack sighed. “It’s been over a year now.”

“That’s right,” Ashley agreed, looking up and squinting as if the answer she was looking for was written on the ceiling. “I can’t believe it’s been a year since… since…”

Jack looked up at Ashley, who avoided his gaze and bit the nail on one of her thumbs. “Since they were killed in the McCoy massacre,” Jack finished Ashley’s thought. “Caught in a crossfire because that psychopath had to send a message.”

“I’m sorry…” Ashley muttered. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay, Ash. I think McCoy is finally going to answer for it…” Jack let a grin spread across his face for the first time in over a year.

“You got him?” Ashley asked. Her face light up and she leaned forward expectantly.

“We are just reporters; we don’t really get people. However, McCoy’s identity might be exposed this Sunday.” Standing up and stretching, Jack grabbed his coat and turned to leave. “Keep an eye on the news!” He called over his shoulder as he waved to Ashley.

Monday morning Jack walked into the office triumphantly. His quick pace had an extra spring in it as he threw open the doors and grinned. The entire office stood up and cheered when he entered, and for the first time in a long time Jack was smiling.

“I can’t believe McCoy was Mayor Brinely!” Someone exclaimed.

“You got him Jack! I watched the arrest live!” Another coworker shouted.

“He’s gonna get what’s coming to him!” A voice yelled and everyone cheered.

Beaming from ear to ear, Jack sat at his desk and put his hands behind his head. Tears fell from his eyes as he recalled the morning news article he read. “Finally, I got you justice,” Jack whispered to Alexa and Gracie.

He was waiting for a response when he noticed it: a plain Manila envelope was placed on his keyboard. It wasn’t there when he left on Friday, and no one seemed to be crowded around his desk to watch him open it.

“Strange…” Jack muttered, picking up the envelope. He opened it slowly, and peeked inside. There was a single sheet of paper inside.

Removing it, Jack felt a chill travel down his spine. The paper was a letter addressed to him; however, it was not handwritten or typed. Rather, someone cut words and letters out of the morning newspaper and glued them together to make a cliche ransom note style message that Jack read silently:

Jack,

It’s nice to finally get to address you like this. You seem like a busy man, so I’ll get to the point. While you didn’t quite catch me, you did take something valuable to me. Brinely was useful because of his position, and without him my business will suffer. I suppose you might like that, but I think it’s only fair that you pay me back.

While I’m angry enough to put a stop to your meddling through force, I didn’t get to my position without having an eye for a bargain. Your position and public perception make you dangerous, but they make you valuable. The entire city trusts you, and they all believe they are safe from McCoy. There is no reason any of that has to change.

Use your new found fake and popularity to run for mayor, and wait for instructions to resume my operations in Brinely’s place, or else…

-The Real McCoy

Jacks hands trembled as he put the note away. Amid the chaos on the office, he knew he only had one choice.

After three days in the empty pool, with cold weather and lack of food and drink, Val turned his eyes to the thrum of an engine over the cement rim. A man dressed in a black long coat and smiley mask appeared next to the edge.

“Mr. Coover wants to talk with you.” The man threw down a rope ladder.

Val shuddered from the cold, but made it up the ladder. His limbs hurt and his lips were parched worse than his voice.

The man with the mask walked back to a limo, opened the door, and used his hand to point in. “My mother taught me to be polite. You first. You need it.”

As he entered the limo, he fell into the seat. His eyes watered from the warmth. After clearing them, he saw Coover across the cabin. A cane crusted with a jewel big enough to remind him of a song sung by Marilyn Monroe. “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

“Oh, there you go with that mouth again. What was it last time?” Coover laughed.

The man with the smiley mask landed next to him.

Then Coover picked up a bottle of water and it to Val. “I remember now. You said the pen was mightier than the sword. The paper ran the story, and shortly after, ran a retraction after you we’re indisposed.”

Val grinned. “It doesn’t matter. I won.”

Smiley chimed in, “The poll numbers don’t seem to think so.”

Coover said, “Driver, Lava Avenue.” He hunched forward and looked at Val. “Smiley is right. No one paid mind to a single word. That’s how I know no one will pay mind to you at all. You were ballsie, but what did it get you?”

Val started on the water. After the bottle emptied, he dropped it. “Peace of mind. I’ll sleep better knowing I spoke the truth.”

“You know, when you first asked for an interview, I thought we were brothers of the same mind. How alike we are to brothers to torture each other, but I think you now know where the power lies.” Coover looked out the window.

Val wanted to say something like they’d never be brothers, but found himself speechless. The ride lasted an hour in silence, except for the occasional joke between Smiley and the driver.

Val stepped out into the busy sidewalk. Behind him, the car rolled away as he walked down to the apartment at the bottom of a set of concrete steps.

A hot shower and bowl of cereal later, he laid down to sleep. Being home, he thought he’d sleep, but the night seemed endless as he tossed until the wee hours of the morning with one thought rolling through his head. His sacrifices meant nothing.

Today is the day. The day of explosion of rheir nasty corruptions. I’ve been searching and investigating on the politician’s secret negotiations with the firms. Whenever they were encountering the conflicts, they went to the firm. An assination company. From revealing their dark side, I could outline the victims whom are suffering and vexed monetarily, as if the rats inside the track. I click the enter button to post the wxceedingly stark truth of the brutal politicans. Click. As soon as I click the enter button, thousands of spam mails are sent, just to distract me. I go through the journal report. I tried my best to destroy their confident reputations.

They say don’t make your work your life, but Erin had always existed to write. From the morning to night, they would sit at their computer and type away. First, creative stories. Then, non-fiction, documentary-type stuff. Now, they had made a career for themselves in journalism. Nowadays, the hot topics were always about exposing corrupt people, politicians, usually, and when they wrote about Nash Knillgh, the article was accompanied by photos of the senator sitting at elegant tables, making deals with drug lords, snorting drugs off gilded glass, ignoring his wife’s calls. Erin didn’t take those pictures, but they took their article to a new level, one that drew the attention of society - especially the Knillgh family.

Erin eyed their hands, bound with rusted metal above their head. They spit out a chipped tooth, although they thought they had nothing left in their mouth. Before them sat a computer with the camera on, showing Erin’s full, naked body to a live audience. Across the globe? Probably. Erin couldn’t see that close, but did see the messages flying through. They didn’t try to shake themselves free of the shackles, just stood there in pain as large font erupted on the screen: “PLACE BID,” it flashed. “1,000 FOR EYE. 5,000 FOR LIMB. 50,000 FOR DEATH.” The messages flashed large enough for Erin to see and understand that they were now a product.

And the bids began rolling in.