February 22nd
550 days to the miracle.
Later that day, somewhere at the Kingston: Borough 5.
"Mrs. Magnus on the second line." She informed him. To which immediately signed he off the call.
Possibly in an act of defiance for the distraction she had caused him—not his secretary—but his heedless main mistress whom he legally called wife, and whom he insisted she does not call him at that particular hour, ostensibly on the grounds he was having a closed meeting. Although you might jump to conclusions, presuming such was but a false justification, the same old tactic tiptop philanderers had long abided by, so as to dump their battle-axes on certain dubious circumstances, our man's excuse nonetheless appeared to have been bona fide, as he indeed did have a closed meeting.
Notwithstanding however the fact he never wore his wedding ring, under the pretext he lost it—again—a questionable statement considering he did indeed lose it, but only after he purposefully hid it somewhere, before another strictly tête-à-tête meeting—one including him and a certain business partner of his—doing so with the intention of retrieving it later, just to completely forget where he actually stashed the ring.
Gordon Magnus Jr., a blustering cynical character in the twilight of his sixties.
A declamatory magnate of the fourth estate hoping to soon attain a mogul status. Meticulous about each and every detail. Hair short and slick, parted at the middle. Wearing a Shenandoah style beard, neck-length, mustache shaved off. Dressed in a striped double-breasted suit whilst brandishing a paunch of average girth preceding his gluttonous ambition to rise to the top of the mass media business.
Gordon Magnus was the publisher and editor-in-chief of the weekly Cosmopolis Herald. Popular for its counterculture unabated gonzo journalism, it had concerned itself with a combo of gobsmacking issues ranging from insider reports on the secret societies trend gripping the country to the most grotesque of crimes and unconventional fashion fads, besides a load of other news topics. All that and more, the publication presented in a candidly biased unobjective style, typical of the gonzo school, where each article carried the blatant imprint of its writer, through an intriguing narrative based on first-person perspective, with a dash of sarcasm, humor and sometimes, profanity. Out and away, the Herald had earned itself a widening committed readership finding expression primarily among the cosmopolitan youth of the city-state.
On that morning, at the mogul's headquarters the closed powwow was taking place.
"We're underperforming!" said he, whilst with a fine sleight of hand did some noteworthy pen mawashi tricks. "We're way down there!"
"Down where?" Matthias Harrison, the photographer, inquired back. The guy's low-quality sneakers, threadbare jeans and Letterman jacket, all put him in stark contrast with his boss sitting behind his desk in the lap of luxury.
"Hoy hoy! Here we go again." Magnus snapped back. "Down under there moron! Sales going nowhere!" argued he, pointing to the sales targets board.
"If I may say," she barged in. "Last quarter's stats surely been a disappointment! But hear me out, if anything it got to do with the nationwide censorship, they're cracking down on everyone! Our sponsors under pressure to honor the least of their dues! So I suggest you save Matt and I the blame...so long that's what you imply!" Maya said.
Maya Reynolds. Matt's colleague and the publication's rising star. Their spoiled girl with a vivid sense of what is vogue and what is not—within bounds of the conventional—for the day sporting a navy blue two-piece pantsuit, transparent aviators in some shade of orange, and her hairdo of choice, the high and long ponytail. Beauty and brains. The girl knew how to put her looks to good use, giving one the wrong impression of her being something else, far from a low-paid recent-graduate journalist.
Paid for by a longtime sugar daddy type of admirer, Maya lived in downtown, inside a large studio with a fox for pet whom she called Ronin. Loved drinking brandy—her favorite kind of out-of-the-blue little-reminder-of-his-existence gift—at the bathtub night after night. Driving her jeep to work each morning, roof down. And sometimes making weekend reservations for one, at restaurants she can't afford, but dines at, anyhow, somehow. In every respect Ms. Reynolds was a model of the single-by-choice no-care-in-the-world carrier-comes-first type of woman.
"Just don't! Don't give me the talk!" Magnus fired back.
Shaking head she mumbled. "Am I?"
"Yes pumpkin."
"No I assure you that wasn't on purpose and please don't call me that!"
"Have I said you're the best thing ever happened to this firm?" retorted he. Suddenly sounding her praises—and his. "After me of course!"
"Oh..."
"Oh yeah!" the man interrupted. "So I tell you what, we got a couple surveys that agree, more or less, our readers have quite the pernickety preference when it comes down to content of interest! Anything out of the ordinary! But the extraordinary is exceedingly hard to find." Emphatically said the man in overdramatic tones. "The harder we push through the extremes, through the bottleneck of the Overton Window to satiate the freakish tastes of our embarrassingly deviant readership, the harder censorship gets! Like what am I to do? What the heck am I to do? Screw it all goddamnit!"
"That's a tough one for sure!" Matt replied, with his two cents to put in. "But for better or worse, my camera's locked and loaded, get you the best cover shots worthy of a stirring story honcho!"
The man scowled then grouched. "Would you not utter these buzzwords evermore? No?" Leaving a muddled Matthias to ponder his words, Mr. Magnus proceeded to elaborate in a most collected manner. "In any case people, you sure heard of that incident dragging last year's games through the mud? That's my kind of news! The greater the shock value the better! The best stories are true stories, but without the long lasting shocking factor they aren't worth a dime! I want both, you get it? Matt regardless of your judgmental flaws, as I think you're deliberately being moronic, you nonetheless have something which others don't! Gathering intelligence is your strength, I mean from a watchdog's perspective! I give you that...and you my Maya, simply put, you are the artist!"
"Sir don't get me wrong but you're making it very hard for us to understand what you're aiming at here!" said the girl, suavely voicing her disapproval in a subtle show of locking horns, at the middle of which was Matthias.
"And what are you implying exactly Ms. Reynolds?" vehemently came the man's response in an abrupt change of attitude. "Am I not articulate enough for your hoity-toity intellect?"
"No, that's not what I meant." Retuned she. Playing by his rules for as long as she had to. "I just was of the impression that censorship is our primary concern for now but I guess that is not...anymore?!"
"To hell with that!" Rising to his feet Gordon cried out. The dramatic overtone had found its way back to his mouth. "I have given it much thought, what I want from you is to keep an eye on the games to come. The massacre to come. The horror the gore and heartbreak. Give me all! What I need is a tragedy, a Greek tragedy of modern times—" Throwing arms in the air, hands clinched into fists, eyes fixated on the ceiling, the man was lost in a trance.
"Understood..."
YOU ARE READING
DUSK
RomanceCadet at the city of Metropolis' prestigious military academy, Dusk Lancaster on the outside was a man to envy. Yet, behind his uniform, a beast having lost his compass thrived on the thrill of bloody duels, whilst the orphaned shoeshine boy he once...