Halloween descends on the newsroom: Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, had a paper but couldn’t feed her. He put her in a living hell and there he liked her very well…
“Hallo, Lohmann hier!”
“Herr Kommissar, this is John Smith, calling from Kyiv.”
“Glad to know you, Mister Smith. How can I be of assistance?”
“We’ve got a madman on the loose, and death is his game.”
“Uh huh. I zee. Could you be a bit more specific, darling?”
“Yeah, I can, but not by phone. Please come fast before it’s too late. Little children and others too could be at great risk…”
There’s a sharp click heard, then the always annoying busy signal, louder with each pulse, followed by the sudden dead air sound of an abandoned line.
“Hallo, Hallo?” Lohmann barks into the heavy-handled receiver, now leaning into the desk, sturdy and alert.
“Vaat is it Herr Kommissar? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Kyiv again, I’m afraid…”
John Smith awakens to another autumn morning in Podil. It’s raining and still dark. His wife to be is fast asleep, her turned up little nose protruding just above the covers.
The cold blue steel of his service revolver catches the first glimpse of dawn from its resting place on the window sill. The detective already has a crumpled smoke in his mouth, although unlit. The white stripes of his pajamas glimmer in the fading night.
Red, orange and bright yellow leaves, once crisp and lightly fallen just last night, now soggy, some pressed into the mud. The decrepit old elm, denuded by a recent squall, hangs overhead, her crippled fingers helpless to fulfill their obligations of arboreal care…
… Meanwhile, back in the newsroom
“It’s a corpse, I tell you, a foul and rotting rump of former life, lying stiff and pale for all to pass on by in utter indifference.”
“So, what are you going as for Halloween,” says one young female journalist to another.
“Why a pixie, of course, didn’t you know? So I can dance deep into the night like a little girl.”
They laugh to themselves.
“And don’t expect those phantom readers, wherever they may reside, to revive the withered pages of the life that I for one once held in great esteem. No, that’s not going to happen, like some scene from an old movie, where dark apartment windows light up, frantic footsteps hurry toward the street-strewn victim, and a hopeful siren can be heard in the distance.”
“I’m going as a red devil and hope to cause all the trouble that I can,” says the other young female reporter.
Both muffle their laughter with distorted smiles in half-cupped hands, almost snorting to prevent an outburst of hilarity, which only young women and little kids can get away with without seeming coarse.
“Call the press!” shouts Boner, “but wait, there isn’t one anymore,” he smiles maliciously at his audience.
Light laughter ensues among the news staff and then only briefly with growing hesitation and finally a flat-out lull.
The chief editor, pacing back and forth in front of the troops, has dropped his neck, his always long head now hairier than ever – down the cheekbones in full-blown muttonchops, and eyebrows that stand electrifyingly stiff. His forehead has gotten lower too, while his forearms, as revealed beneath rolled-up shirtsleeves, are now a jungle of dark fur.
“Citizen Journalists flee from the scene in horror. Panic ensues among the public,” he howls.
One of the newer reporters, a young man of around 20, takes a surreptitious but heaping gulp of saliva.
Most of his colleagues have their attention evenly divided between the Internet and social media. Their young faces seemingly alight with journalistic passion.
Boner is now on a chair, not sitting but crouching on it. The expression of his face is almost dog-like, unpredictable, like an aging German Shepherd long used to being left in charge of the hen house – so long, in fact, that it’s not clear where his loyalties lie, especially as he’s seldom given his fill to eat, and those hens always annoyed him to no end anyway. So when a wolf comes meandering up to the homestead in the early hours, you wonder which one is the greater threat!
“And what’s that? The call of duty, that shrill whistle of journalistic integrity that cuts through the night like a knife through a fat sandwich of lies,” he pauses, picking his nose and looking up and askance at something unseen by anyone else, hugging his knees while almost rocking back and forth on his heels.
A howl roars into the newsroom and all turn toward the door.
It’s Moe Zaire and he’s got a Jack O’ Lantern on his head, his face strangely illuminated from inside. All laugh, and a general hubbub overtakes the journalistic assembly.
Soon Pixie Stick and Gothic Girl are handing out candied treats and Halloween-themed office supplies among their smiling colleagues.
“Bret is supposed to be dressing like a wolf.”
“Oh my – how scary!”
Both laugh, all laugh while Moe Zaire seems to be all over the room. Pausing in front of the gloomy chief editor, he’s quick to serve him a treat, almost hand to mouth, followed by a pat on the back, more smiling and then again into the festive crowd of journalists.
No one hears the low frequency growl. There’s something at that corner desk, and Hound Dog Face has got it cornered: a rat, a weasel or an invisible deputy editor, no can say for sure. The paper’s masthead is of no assistance.
She goes up on her hind legs to sniff the suspicious-looking pack of sissy cigarettes on that desk and then mopes off into the corner to do some more administrative work.
…
“Hallo… Hallo, Lohmann hier!”
“Herr Kommissar, it’s Kyiv again, but I’m afraid dat the connection simply won’t hold.”
“Hallo … is that you, Smith? Can you hear me?”
“Herr Kommissar, the line is filled with static… either that or an angry dog is chewing on the other end.”
Both laugh. Lohmann reclines in his chair, rubs his chin, and then lights a cigar.
Filed by… “Fritz Lang”, October 31, 2015