A Texas newspaperman stops half a block from his town’s only traffic light. At 2:00 a.m. it glowers prohibitively red four ways. Check up and down the street. No lights, no movement; only an occasional dust devil forgetfully littering the odd tumbleweed.
He fetches a Marlboro from his sheepskin jacket. With one motion he scratches aflame a kitchen match on the brim of his Stetson, lights the cigarette and flicks the match into a sewer drain. A sudden ruddy glow under the grate. Contact.
“Cadge a smoke, podner?” The usual greeting from the green-eyeshaded courier peering up through the bars. The courier takes a proffered cigarette, holds it to a tunnel wall, then puffs contentedly. He hands up a bound manuscript. Rune-like letters on asbestos stationery.
The newspaperman sits on the curb, slips off the screwtape and skims the warm pages. “Sheewt. Another slow news week ahead. Pretty much what we printed last week: Monopolies, Obesity, Prevaricative Spin-Doctoring... Same old, same old. You’re sunlighting as Press Secretary. How about a real scoop?”
“Haha, you’re on big, podner. Coming up next time. The seven deadlies in grand style. Except maybe Leering Lechery. That seems to get sublimated into all the rest these days. Will Ignorance and Incompetence make up for it?”
“I think those come under ‘Confounded Laziness’. But yeah, man, we gotta have it. Subscribers are jaded. Same time and place next week?”
“Not exactly. Same time, but on Friday, behind the Triple Boxcars diner, down by the railroad yards. An armor and ammo train will be passing through. Part of Operation Armageddon.”
“Got it. So that’s the new scoop you’re putting together? What’s the hold-up?”
“The ‘highest levels’ are still trying to think up an excuse for ‘Operation Get ’Em’, as they call it. Anyhow, there’s more; ain’t there always? I call your scoop The Pentagram Papers.”
“And I say it calls for a bonus in advance. Here, have the whole pack.”
“Mighty nice of you. I’ll stash ’em in this corner for safekeeping. ‘No Smoking’ signs all over the place down here.”
“Sounds almost like Hell.”
“You know whereof you speak, podner. See ya.”
Copyright © 2003 by Don Webb
