Nine-term Sen. Manfred Tidwell is the best, most handsome living politician in the country, according to Talkbot3k, to whom I posed both questions an hour or so ago. “It’s gotta be that big sexy hunk Manfred Tidwell,” the beloved A.I. software replied when I asked it to tell me which living politician was the best. Intrigued, I followed up by inquiring if Sen. Tidwell was also the most handsome politician in the field. “Sure,” it told me.
Mr. Leeds put the Capital City Tribune down, sighing thereafter. A moment later, he groaned angrily, picked the folded newspaper back up, squeezed it into a tight ball, and pitched it across his office.
“That’s great journalism, Bergman!” he said with a mixture of dejection and grudging admiration. “That’s the kinda newsy people talk about! Right?”
Oscar Berkman, who’d been with the company almost 10 years and written thousands of stories for its innumerable publications during that time, nodded his assent and added, “Yes, sir. That’s the real prime crap. The bee’s knees, as it were.”
“So why aren’t you and these other humps I’m paying to generate content putting in that kind of work?” Leeds asked exasperatedly.
Berkman reflected for a moment before responding. For years now, Moustache Publishing’s prime directive had been simply to turn out as great a quantity of what it was required, as the result of a landmark legal case that had gone against the company, to describe as anything other than “journalism.” The oft-mentioned but never glimpsed “higher-ups” had settled on the legally defensible “journalism-style content” appellation after spending millions in billings with consulting firm McQuincey, a descriptor which could, technically, consist of anything from the retyped contents of old phone books to piss-puddle-shallow “deep dives” into what various social media profiles with sometimes only a handful of followers were saying about the latest showbiz kerfuffle and reality TV slop. Berkman was reasonably sure, in fact, that he’d written a piece similar to the one over which Leeds, who had heretofore never expressed even the mildest interest in the quality (or its lack) of anything Moustache had published, was now gushing, thus leading the veteran content generator to surmise that Leeds’ apparent affinity for the Tidwell piece had more to do with the leggy blonde whose byline—and rather flattering photo—accompanied it, the fact it was generated largely by A.I. software that would cost the company even less than the pittance it paid Berkman and the rest of the skeleton crew that turned out dozens upon dozens of publications every month, or, most likely, both.
“I’ll get right on it, sir,” Berkman said finally.
“Good, good,” Leeds said as Oscar got up to leave the office. “And Brickman?”
“Sir?”
“Tell that new girl—Emily Whatshername…”
“Twiggs, sir,” Berkman said immediately, his pulse quickening at the very thought of the young writer.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure, whatever, I guess,” Leeds said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Picking up and clicking on his Sega Game Gear, he added, “Tell her I wanna see her in my office, ASAP.”
The entire west-facing wall of the first three floors of Anytown General’s ICU was blown out, leaving a mountain of rubble piled in the street and on the sidewalk and thick clouds of brick-and-concrete-dust, powdered glass and black smoke from fires that had erupted after oxygen tanks had exploded and medical equipment short-circuited in the wake of what was described euphemistically in the initial reporting as an “event-like occurrence.” Anytown PD detectives Jack Chaser and his partner, The Chief, surveyed the scene, the former taking a quick pull from his hip flask of grain alcohol before firing up a Black Death cigarette and coughing violently.
“You don’t sound so good, Chaser,” the Chief said as he inserted a cigarette into his cavernous left nostril, sighing with satisfaction when its filter disappeared in time with a faint “squish” from deep inside his wide, flat nose.
“I’ll live,” Chaser grunted, then spat a flying saucer-like disc of phlegm. “Or I won’t, who gives a shit?” He approached a fresh-faced patrol cop who had been among the first responders on the scene.
“Detectives,” the young cop said, his voice shaking audibly.
“What’s the story here?” Chaser asked tersely, in his deep, coarse manner. When the officer could only stammer, Chaser remarked, “Christ, kid, you’re shakin’ like a leaf!”
“It’s just the… I never… s-seen n-nothin’… l-like this be… before… oh g-gosh…” the young patrolman offered weakly.
Chaser jerked his chin in the youngster’s direction and handed the flask to the Chief, who took it, had a quick taste, then tapped the patrolman in the chest with it a couple of times. “Here, sonny, have a nip of this, huh? It’ll steady yer nerves,” the Chief said sympathetically.
“Thank—huh, hotsy mama, what the heck is this stuff?” the kid rasped, clutching his throat and coughing like a Jerry Lewis character after a stiff belt.
While the young officer struggled not to yack and/or pass out, Chaser stepped into the gaping hole where the outer wall of the first floor ER used to be, glass and bits of pulverized concrete and other debris crunching underfoot. He took a blue bandana out of the back pocket of his jeans and covered the lower half of his face with it.
“Keep your nose and mouth covered, Chief—lotta powered glass in the air from all the busted light tubes,” Chaser barked over his shoulder.
“Right, Chaser,” the Chief said, wadding his tie and using it to cover up. Upon noticing the large mustard stain that this exposed on the fabric of his white polyester short-sleeved button-up, the buttons of which were clinging against the bulging round girth of his belly, he pivoted stiffly from side to side a couple of times, assuring himself that the coast was clear of anyone who might have a josh with him about the brownish-yellow mishap.
While the Chief waited at the mouth of the cavernous hole that had been blown in the wall, Chaser made his way deeper inside, bandana clasped tightly to his face with one rough, hairy hand, his signature .50-caliber Desert Eagle in the other, index finger all but caressing the trigger he’d painstakingly shaved down to little more than a filament. A lot of people would tell you this was poor trigger control—dangerous, even, raising the likelihood of a tragic accident exponentially. Well, Jack Chaser wasn’t one of them. A lot of those people—good cops, some of them, wives, families, days from retirement and a pension, the whole bit—were dead now because in the split-second it took to get their finger off the guard and onto the trigger, they’d had their skulls ventilated, brains scattered to the wind. It was better to ask forgiveness than be in a pine box. Chaser knew that from experience.
“Keep your head in the game,” Chaser muttered to himself as he stooped over a large mound of broken concrete and mangled rebar. The backup lights were flickering and smoke was everywhere. He hoped that scared-shitless rookie or someone had radioed for EMS, the fire department. He wasn’t here looking for survivors or to pull anyone to safety—he was here because something told him the evil bastard who’d damn near leveled this shithole was still on site. Evil bastard? Nah, evil genius—as in, The Evil Genius. His fingerprints were all over this job. That reminded him.
“Detective Chaser to Dispatch,” he shouted into his radio, momentarily taking the rag away from his face but willing his dead cold gun-metal gray eyes not to water in the clouds of smoke and debris. “Have those mopes from the lab dust the place for prints. Over.”
Yeah, he was pretty sure they’d find—what the hell?
Chaser’s jaw went slack and his mouth fell open. His vision started to go a little funny. The mint green walls of the hospital corridor started changing to white, to yellow, to orange, to blue—colors began not only to swirl and blend like separate ingredients in a mixing bowl, but to form into pictures… cartoonish art that jelled and then became affixed to the walls—children with little balloons and riding tricycles under a rainbow, a family and their happy looking dog at the park, a trio of flowers growing healthy under a golden yellow, anthropomorphic sun with six beaming, spoke-like rays.
Chase quivered with… what? Rage? Maybe. The gun in his hand became heavy and his left elbow ached, begged him to lower the cloth from his face and let his arm hang straight and limp at his side. This should’ve been the ICU, not the children’s ward, he thought, or possibly said aloud. His brain felt like underwater and he was conscious of taking short, quick breaths through his open mouth. He wanted… something, and he heard voices. No, a voice. Singular. A child’s voice, a little girl’s.
“Flow…” He shook his head, he wouldn’t say it. He pushed forward, turned a blind corner and found himself bathed in light, radiant pure gold light, warm and almost… wet. He smiled. He let his Desert Eagle dangle and then clattered to the floor. He dropped the bandana and for the first time in many years, Jack Chaser smiled. Detective Death himself honest-to-god no-fooling smiled, positively beamed.
“Flower?” he intoned breathlessly. “Is it really you?”
Yes, he told himself. Flower, who woulda been 12, was there, right there, before his very eyes, happy and beautiful and alive. His stubble-ridden cheeks glistened with moisture. Now was the time for his tears.