Day 8

3.

The reporter had been handled in an odd way. He was shot in the head. Not perfectly between the eyes, but actually off center. It was quick, efficient, and relatively painless. That last fact pained greatly some of the members who performed the act. They figured that punishments for his crimes should be slow, painful, and most of all, fun for the givers. The last requirement was satisfied, but none of the others.

The reasons are much cloudier and some of his background might shed some light on the motivation. When the reporter was young he would be the kid who made his own news reports. He would act them out in front of his family. His parent’s allowed, but did not enjoy them. They never told him, nor did they ever try to stifle his imagination or inquisitive nature.

This young man would cruise the neighborhood on his big wheel looking for the next big story. Rarely was a break taken, except for a PB and J sandwich or some lemonade. He was always on the trail. Always expecting the next great thing to be around the corner. He was right a few times. He was a major witness in a few domestic violence disputes, as well as two robberies, a hit and run, and little Cindy’s gerbil being stolen. It turns out that what he saw was not the gerbil being stolen, but flushed down the toilet after someone had accidentally fed it rat poison.

He always took pictures for his editorials, which he submitted to the local paper with great frequency. Not a single article was ever pressed so he decided that his knack for writing was not a knack at all, but a detriment to his future career. The only medium left was television. After years of snooping as a child he went to college.

He studied Journalism with a minor in psychology. Not only did he think he could find a story anywhere, but that he could fix all of the bad people he found. The fact that nobody ever punished him for peeping into windows, or sneaking around other peoples property when he was a kid, had cemented his line of action as a socially acceptable way to act. He was a great reporter, but to be a great reporter you probably have to be bad at something else. His deficiency dealt with social etiquette or his lack of such refinery.

Most of his coworkers found him determined, amazing at his job, but overall, very odd. He had a notebook full of little leads. Some from the general public, some from his family and coworkers. Nobody was safe from his searching eye. If it was big enough news, he would sell out his own grandmother.

His major problems arose from placing a very close eye on the two rising factions. Both parties knew he was looking, but neither new how closely. He had infiltrated their ranks successfully with minimal disguise work. Here is the catch. A face to face confrontation arose while each group was on a leisurely march down the street. They ended up meeting in the middle of the street, well actually four feet to the left. He noticed that, but didn’t expect to be spotted by the opposing side, in which he was a member as well. Before a brawl was about to break lose he was called out.

“Wait,” said one leader.

“Why?”

“You see that guy?”

“Which one,” asked the second leader.

“Third row back, kind of between the fifth and sixth person.”

“So the sixth person. From the left or right?”

“My left of yours,” asked the first leader.

“Yours.”

“My left, your right.” Said the first leader.

“You mean Jack?”

“No, I mean Rudy. Who’s jack?”

“Jack, can you raise your hand please,” asked the second leader.

The reporter raised his hand.

“That’s Who I was talking about. That’s Rudy,” said the first leader.

“Oh really?”

“I’m sure of it. I think you have a traitor.”

“I think you have the traitor. He’s told me everything about your operations. I just didn’t realize how he was actually getting the information,” said the second leader.

“Actually, I think it is the other way around. He’s told me every move you’ve made, or at least I think he has. He did say that your crew would be heading down this street today, at this time.”

“Hmm.. He told me the same thing.”

“So, what do you think,” asked the first leader.

“Kill him?”

“That’s probably easier than killing all of you tonight.”

“It wouldn’t happen, but I do agree,” said the second leader.

“Well then, for tonight we’ll get this done and go our separate ways. That agreeable?”

“Completely.”

So the reporter, or Jack, or Rudy even, was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arrogance would account for a lot of this, but not all. Stupidity played a huge role in the decision to march. HE figured that there was a story here, but that he just needed to force it along. Just a little nudge would have this whole city boiling. His calculations were close, but not quite on. Instead of a massive melee event, it turned into an execution. Only one person was hurt and that person wouldn’t remember any of it. He felt the warmth of the lead entering, rattling, and exiting his skull, but there was no real pain. Just the sensation of losing touch with reality. Losing touch very slowly. In reality it took less than a second for all of his mental processes to cease, but to him this seemed to be an eternity. Then it was over. Just over.

There was no real significance to his death. Both sides fixed a mole problem with one bullet to the brain pan. Both sides were content for the rest of the evening. Their deeds had been done and at least one person had died. They were simple bunches to entertain. Some days killing flies was more than adequate.

The reason the reporter had been there was for a story. He had joined both groups in hope of finding action. Finding that one story. The one story that would never be beaten. He found it, just not in the way he thought.

Every major station picked up on the story, and with a little stretching, one reporter received a Peabody for the story and broadcast. If the dead reporter had still been around, he would have been pissed, but since he wasn’t, he couldn’t be. He was still dead. If the apocalypse was really on the horizon, maybe he would get revenge after all.