Miss Fortune

1. Disaster Strikes... Three Times

"You couldn't type a decent sentence if Stephen King himself was standin' over you whispering advice into your ear." Mr. Mayfield just about hollered at me. He had his angry face on, and there wasn't much anything in the world that could fix his anger 'cept twenty-four hours and a bottle of anything behind a bar. Once the Lancaster Gazette's Editor-in-Chief put on his angry face, the whole town seemed to know not to go within a few feet.

I was leaning forward in the uncomfortable wooden chair that I'd been assigned when I'd first been hired as a reporter. The computer in front of me was rather old, just like the newspaper house, and just like the town. Which could most likely explain my current predicament. What with the town being so old and boring and all that, you might imagine how tough it would be to formulate an interesting story. Especially when all you've got to work with is last week's Annual Chili Cook-Off, and next week's Church Bake Sale. Of course, you've got the little stories in between about Ruby Waters getting her hair permed, and Little Buck finally learning to walk. Sometimes during a slow week, stories like those would be considered cover material on the damn front page.

My eyes went from my computer screen to Mr. Mayfield's fury. "Look, sir, I know the town technically wasn't overrun by a herd of diseased, wild cattle overnight, and everyone was forced to rebuild, but I just thought-"

He held up a finger, looking ready to bite my head off. "You thought what? That it was more entertainin'? Well, guess what, your writing is absolutely awful. Puttin' aside the topic for a moment, the spellin' and grammar is enough to make an illiterate cry."

While I was insulted through and through, I still required some form of clarification. "Mr. Mayfield- let me get this straight, you're angry because I misspelled some words and put 'won't' instead of 'will not'?" I almost laughed. "Why, this is just my rough draft. I've been working here for what feels like my whole damn life and you're just now noticing that I write two drafts for every article?"

My boss appeared a bit taken aback, but he was never one for admitting defeat. Besides, what with his record of twenty-four hour fury, it wouldn't be fair to the town tradition to be angry for anything less than that. So, with a swipe of his toupee, Mr. Mayfield hardened his glare at me. "Jonas Daniel Hill, I hereby fire you. You have done nothing but disgrace this newspaper since the day you joined the staff as a scrawny, sarcastic ten year old. And those darn comics you always wrote- they weren't funny, just so you know."

Now it was my turn to be taken aback. I'd always known Mr. Mayfield to hate my guts to Heaven and back, but I'd never thought I'd seen the day that he'd drop me from the paper. After all, I gazed around the small news station quickly, I was one of only six other people writing for the paper. "But, sir, there's been a misunderstanding- I just-"

"No, no. No misunderstandings here. I have told you time and time again that turning the events of our town into fictional apocalypses for that mad mind of yours is quite frankly unacceptable and downright disgraceful. I ought to have fired ya sooner but I just hadn't ever found the right person to replace your sorry soul. But now I have, and now I can finally say goodbye to you for good, Jonas." He adjusted his tie that rested bumpy on his round stomach, and then nodded at another staff member to open the font door.

With a back drop of the pouring rain outside was a clear view of a tall, skinny, angular looking woman dressed head-to-toe in pure grey. Her black hair was positioned firmly back into some kind of braid, and her round-framed glasses sat all the way back on her nose. She was carrying a single suitcase and a grim expression.

"This is Susan Darkwood. I've hired her as Lancaster Gazette's new reporter." Mr. Mayfield announced, a smidgen of his earlier anger slightly dissipating.