Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Read it!

Psst! . . Pssst! . . . Hey you.

Yes, you. Who do you think I’m talking to?

(I’m whispering.) I have something that I really need to tell you, but you need to be a little closer to the screen to hear it.

Come on . . . Lean in a little bit . . . I’m not going to bite.

Thanks. That’s better.

Uh . . . Could you back up a little? I think you’re a little too close now. My personal space is feeling particularly compromised at the moment.

Thanks.

Okay . . . here’s the deal. I’m bringing you this last installment from inside a secure and as yet, undisclosed location.

As most of you know, I try not to overreact to things or make up situations that don’t exist. However, it seems that all the Pulitzer hype surrounding this investigative report is starting to generate hostility among the traditional reporting community.

(I’m still whispering, so stay close. You were leaning back a little too far.)

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah . . . As my shining journalistic star continues to rise in the Pulitzer sky, so rises the unbridled anger and jealously of many unPultizered veterans of the newsroom. It appears that my solar flares are creating electromagnetic waves across their journalistic universe—and they don’t like it.

Around 3:00 p.m. yesterday, I was busy grilling a snitch in the news business (the newspaper guy at I-10 and Fry Road). This highly reliable media insider sorta suggested that someone said something that could be considered unflattering, but he was not quite sure that it actually was, because he wasn’t really paying attention. He went on to say, it could have been a snide remark, but it could also have been a burp. He wasn’t actually sure that I was the even being talked about.

Being a highly trained reporter, I grilled him for information on this potential threat to my life. As I continued to question him, he became increasingly agitated and finally said that he was no longer comfortable talking to me. He said he didn’t know me and that I had to leave—unless I bought a paper.

This was obviously code for—he’s got information—but needs a few Benjamins before he’ll sing like a canary. I told him that I only had a few Lincolns, but I’d happily pay him on Tuesday. (The Tuesday after I win my Pulitzer.) He then told me I had to leave. He said I’d wasted enough of his time and I was scaring away customers, because I was wearing a trench coat in 107-degree weather. This surprising and completely uncalled for reaction was my first clue that a jealous journalist had put a hit out on me.

I had no way to confirm this, but I felt it to my core. That’s when the second clue revealed itself.

(I’m still whispering. You need to get closer. Seriously . . . I don’t want anyone to overhear this.)

You see . . . yesterday afternoon a young woman rang the doorbell. Nothing suspicious about that, right?

I opened the door slightly, because I didn’t recognize her. She’s wearing a brown uniform and says she has a package for me.

I reply, “Uh . . . Hmmmm . . . Really? . . . You have a package for me?”

She says, “Yes.”

Okay . . . Now, you gotta admit—this is some seriously suspicious behavior.

If that weren’t enough, here’s where it starts to get really hinky and my Spidey senses start tingling. I say, “But, I didn’t order anything.”

She then says . . . “Are you Tom Russell?

That’s when it hit me . . . A jealous journalist had sent an assassin to kill me.

Before I can think, my body reacts. I slam the door and run for cover. I’ve seen Kill Bill Vols. I & II at least a dozen times, so I know bad things can happen if you don’t react quickly.

(12 hours have passed since the failed assassination attempt.)

It’s 4:00 a.m as I write this latest installment. I’m tired and I’m hungry and my butt is a little sore.

I know in my heart that there is only one way to move beyond this life and death situation, and that way requires me to . . . ask the last question . . . get the answer . . . and let the Pulitzer cards fall where they may.

I sit here huddled next to my keyboard, crumpled 5 Ws list in hand, as I feverishly peck away at the keyboard. The soft glow from the monitor provides just enough light for me to make out the last remaining question.

The last question on my list is . . .

Why Did It Happen?

A brief look at what caused the event to occur.

Oh! I’m sorry guys, but I’ve gotta run. The SWAT team is here and I’m being whisked away to another secure location.

Please don’t be upset. I promise I’ll report back as soon as I have internet access.

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6 Responses to “Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Read it!”

  1. jayardi Says:

    • • •Ooh Tom, are you safe now? I never imagined your quest for glory could be so dangerous. What determination you have to stick with this story. Especially after your life has been threatened. Please stay safe and as soon as you are in the clear, give me a call.

    • Tom Russell Says:

      I am safe for the moment, but the situation is still very volatile. I never imaged that my life would take such a turn either, but telling the news is sometimes a dangerous business.

      I’d have called already, but I think my phone is being tapped. I didn’t want to put you at risk.

      I’m doing everything I can to stay safe. I’ll contact you once the threat is over.

  2. jessica Says:

    Love this!

    You best get that Pulitzer soon… everyone has turned suspect!!

    • Tom Russell Says:

      What? Suspect? Why? I’m just reporting the news in a clear and straight-forward manner. Nothing suspicious here.

      Nope. Nothing suspicious at all.

  3. jessica Says:

    BTW: The quilts in your post are both wonderful and beautiful!

    • Tom Russell Says:

      Hi Jessica, Thanks. The larger quilt was my entry into the Men of Biblical Proportion exhibit. The other quilts are small quilts I made so that I could learn new techniques.

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