I thought I’d gotten out of this dirty business. But they always find a way to reel you back in.
The whole damn affair began when I got a call from my editor asking if I would investigate a new story none of the rooky journalists would touch. Classic—the profession’s going to hell these days. These kids get done with Writing 101 and think they’re ready to be a big-shot Chronicle reporter: but it takes guts. You gotta be able to see things no goddamn person this side of sanity’d ever want to see. [Editor: Hi Bron! Try not to use contractions when you write for The Chronicle—use ‘got to’ instead of ‘gotta’. Thanks!]. But I guess most of us, the good ones at least, we’re not what any quack worth their salt would properly consider "sane".
The editor’d heard tell that campus was on the brink of a crisis like it’d never seen. For the first time in living memory, all the paper towel dispensers on campus were going to run out. A public health pandemonium like you couldn’t imagine: all those people having to wipe their hands dry on their pants? It’d be like a goddamn germ paradise. Sickness, stress, and riots on the streets. [Ed.: Just a reminder that we don’t use Oxford Commas at The Chron. Thanks again.]. Retirement be damned—I was the last thing standing between this ungrateful campus and Bedlam. I picked up my pen and notepad and went to work.
First port of call was my old info-broker. She had tabs on every Tom, Dick and Jerry in this godforsaken institution. I met her at the loading bay under the BC Plaza. It was cold out and rain peppered the harsh concrete. She stood, back to the wall, zipped up in a long trench coat. I could only make her out in the light of her cigarette’s glow.
“Bron. I figured you couldn’t stay away from the game for long.”
“Only temporary, Dean Zue. I’m getting this job done and then I’m never writing for The Chronicle again. They ain’t got no right to keep me any longer after all I’ve done for them.”
“Uh huh. Sure. But I don’t think it’s their requests that keep you coming back. I think you don’t know how to live without The Chronicle.”
Damn—I’d forgotten. This gal can read me like a third grader reading Clifford the Big Red Dog. Takes me back to our younger days when we were nigh on inseparable—back before we got so cynical. I guess she really is the one who got away. [Ed.: Erm, Bron? Can you refrain from implying you have romantic history with Duke administrators?]. Who knows? It’s a crazy world, maybe one day we can re-achieve those glory days... [Bron please stop]. But never mind that. I had a job to do. I pushed Sue for what she knew. Apparently, there had been regular movements of crates of paper towels over the past few weeks, all going from the HDRL warehouse to the Gardens. The next towel transport was slated for the next night. In the meantime, I decided to reach out to some other sources to get info on who the perp might be.
[Bron I’ve just gone ahead and deleted the entire scene where you have sex with a rent boy for information. Like, I applaud your journalistic integrity with describing your sources and all, but lines like "His stogie-like fingers tap danced their ways between my nipples" aren’t gonna win you any Pulitzers.]
So I had an ID on the perp and a belly full of shame. But that just pushed me all the harder to write the groundbreaking story I knew this would be. The next evening I found a spot in the gardens hidden under some bushes—and I waited. And I waited and I waited and I waited. And then—headlights in the distance. There was a truck, just as expected, but then also three expensive looking black cars. They pulled to a stop. Sure enough, getting out of that truck was the exact man my source had informed me about: President Rich Brodtead.
Opposite the truck, getting out of the black cars was a gaggle of Mafiosi. It suddenly all made sense—Brodtead has been selling Duke’s precious paper towels to the Mafia in a lucrative system designed to fill his own pockets. [BRON WHAT THE F*** ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT] Truly, this was corruption at the highest levels. But wait! I must have made a noise—they were looking in my direction. They began to head my way – I had no choice but to draw my gun [WHY DO YOU HAVE A GUN? WHAT THE HELL BRON?]. What I hadn’t planned for, though, was the Mafioso henchman who had been sneaking up on me this whole time. He grabbed me from behind and dragged me into the clearing. Rubbing the dirt from my eyes, I looked up and saw Brodtead walking towards me, pistol drawn. He kneeled down, took my face in his hand, put the gun against my temple, and whispered:
“This is for your regular misquoting of me in The Chronicle.”
And then he fired.
[Okay, you know what, this article is already 9 hours late so I’m just gonna go ahead and publish it. Do better Bron, Jesus.]
Bron Maher is a Trinity junior. His column runs every other Wednesday.
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