The Journalist From Krupp

In response to the scene starter.

This is me–journalist monkey of The Corner, a small media company in a small town in the middle of Washington, dressed all in black as I parade to the funeral of my latest article. My boss, Andrew, insisted that I write a full article on this new dog movie that came out over the weekend.

Batter Bulldog. Yes, because that’s so capturing. How was I supposed to write an article about a bulldog that bats just as good as a Mariner, especially when the title sucked? Basically the article about the bulldog was bull-crap.

My sneakers squeaked against the floors as I walked down the dimly lit hall to his door. His name was fading on the side of the wall, but it’s not like this downhill company could really fix it. We simply weren’t making enough money and if there was another, better journalist job offer for me, I would jump on that train and go anywhere.

I rapped on the door before entering. Andrew, all dressed casual and smoking a cigar, was on the phone looking like Al Capone’s pauper. He even had the pin-strip suit and hat, just not the charitable heart.

“Ah, Brant, good,” he said after he hung up the phone. “I need to talk to you.”

“It’s Brent, sir.” I’ve told him this at least three million times. “Stacy Brent.”

“Whatever. Look. This article? It’s good. Real good. I mean this will sell us big time.”


“Yeah. The whole of Krupp will love it! Spokane won’t even know what hit ’em. This is good.”

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t think it will hit Spokane.”

“Listen, kid. If you keep writing this stuff, Spokane will notice. Now. I got something new for you. Want a smoke? Never mind. I need you to write another article. But this time, make sure it’s real good, got it?”

“Um, what about?” I asked.

“I want you to write about the incident with the water over on the east side. You got it? I want the people of Washington to know the experience.”

“You want me to write about the hurricane?”

“Yeah, I mean, you did wonderful with the fire, right? So you got good things going for the natural crap.”

“Sir, I didn’t write about Phoenix. I wrote about Batter Bulldog.”

“Oh, really?”

I nodded.

“Well, then write the hurricane article anyway. But do better. The bulldog one was horrible.”

“I know.” I turned around to walk out of his office.

“Oh, and Brant?”


He paused, looking at me like I was an enemy or something–or like he’s about to tell me to be careful as I go on a dangerous mission researching on the computer.

“Get me a sandwich,” he snarled before turning back to his computer and picking up his phone.

And that is why I need a new job.


About writethisdownnow

Bibliophile; avid writer Biology major studying veterinary medicine.
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