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T-minus 9 days to DEADLINE.
May. 22nd, 2011 07:13 pmJuly 20th, 2014.
The anchorman had built his reputation on looking sleek and well-groomed even when broadcasting from the middle of a hurricane. His smile was a carefully honed weapon of reassurance, meant to be deployed when bad news might otherwise whip the populace into a frenzy. He was smiling steadily. He had been smiling since the beginning of his report.
He was beginning to wonder if he would ever stop smiling again.
"Again, ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to be concerned about. We have two particularly virulent strains of flu sweeping across the country. One, in the Midwest, seems to be a variant of our old friend, H1N1, coming back to get revenge for all those bacon lettuce and tomato sandwiches. Symptoms include nausea, dizziness, disorientation, and of course, our old friend, the stuffy nose. This particular flu also carries a risk of high fevers, which can lead to erratic behavior and even violence. So please, take care of yourself and your loved ones."
He shuffled the papers in front of him, trying to give the impression that he was reading off them, and not off the prompter. Audiences liked to see a little hard copy. It made them feel like the news was more legitimate. "The second strain is milder but a bit more alarming. Thus far, it's stayed on the West Coast—maybe it likes the beach. This one doesn't involve high fevers, for which we can all be grateful, but it does include some pretty nasty nosebleeds, and those can make people seem a lot sicker than they really are. If your nose starts bleeding, simply grab a tissue and head for your local hospital. They'll be able to fix you right up."
He was still smiling. He was never going to not be smiling. He was going to die smiling. He knew it, and still, the news rolled on. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have to beg you to indulge me for a moment. Some individuals are trying to spin this as a global pandemic, and I wish to assure you that it is nothing more than a nasty pair of summer flus. Please do not listen to reports from unreliable sources. Stick with the news outlets that have served you well, and remember, we're here to make sure you know the real story."
"And...we're clear!" said one of the production assistants, as the cheery strains of the station break music began to play. The anchor kept smiling. "Great job, Dave. You're doing fantastic. Can I get you anything?"
"I'm good," said the anchor, and kept smiling. No one seemed to have noticed that they had no footage, no reports from experts or comments from the man on the street. All they had was a press release from the governor's office, and strict orders to read it as written, with no deviation or side commentary. They were being managed, and no one seemed to care, and so he kept on smiling, and waited for the commercial break to end.
There was no footage. There was always footage. Even when good taste and human decency said not to air it, there was footage. Humanity liked to slow down and look at the car crash by the side of the road, and it was the job of the news to give them all the wrecks that they could stomach. So where was the wreck? Where was the twisted metal and the sorrowful human interest story? Why did they have nothing but words on a teleprompter, and silence from the editing room?
"And we're back in five...four...three..." The production assistant stopped in mid-countdown, eyes going terribly wide. "Dave? Do you feel all right?"
"I'm fine. Why?" He kept smiling.
"You're bleeding."
The news anchor—Dave Ramsey, who had done his job, and done it well, for fifteen years—suddenly became aware of a warm wetness on his upper lip. He raised his fingers to touch it, and looked wide-eyed at the blood covering them when he pulled away again. He smile didn't falter. "Oh," he said. "Perhaps I should go clean up."
When the broadcast resumed, his co-anchor was sitting there, a cheerful smile on her face. "We have an update from the Centers for Disease Control, who want us to reassure you that a vaccine will be available soon—"
***
News anchor Dave Ramsey passed away last night of complications from a sudden illness. He was forty-eight years old. A fifteen year veteran of Channel 51, Dave Ramsey is survived by his wife and three children...
When will you Rise?
The anchorman had built his reputation on looking sleek and well-groomed even when broadcasting from the middle of a hurricane. His smile was a carefully honed weapon of reassurance, meant to be deployed when bad news might otherwise whip the populace into a frenzy. He was smiling steadily. He had been smiling since the beginning of his report.
He was beginning to wonder if he would ever stop smiling again.
"Again, ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to be concerned about. We have two particularly virulent strains of flu sweeping across the country. One, in the Midwest, seems to be a variant of our old friend, H1N1, coming back to get revenge for all those bacon lettuce and tomato sandwiches. Symptoms include nausea, dizziness, disorientation, and of course, our old friend, the stuffy nose. This particular flu also carries a risk of high fevers, which can lead to erratic behavior and even violence. So please, take care of yourself and your loved ones."
He shuffled the papers in front of him, trying to give the impression that he was reading off them, and not off the prompter. Audiences liked to see a little hard copy. It made them feel like the news was more legitimate. "The second strain is milder but a bit more alarming. Thus far, it's stayed on the West Coast—maybe it likes the beach. This one doesn't involve high fevers, for which we can all be grateful, but it does include some pretty nasty nosebleeds, and those can make people seem a lot sicker than they really are. If your nose starts bleeding, simply grab a tissue and head for your local hospital. They'll be able to fix you right up."
He was still smiling. He was never going to not be smiling. He was going to die smiling. He knew it, and still, the news rolled on. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have to beg you to indulge me for a moment. Some individuals are trying to spin this as a global pandemic, and I wish to assure you that it is nothing more than a nasty pair of summer flus. Please do not listen to reports from unreliable sources. Stick with the news outlets that have served you well, and remember, we're here to make sure you know the real story."
"And...we're clear!" said one of the production assistants, as the cheery strains of the station break music began to play. The anchor kept smiling. "Great job, Dave. You're doing fantastic. Can I get you anything?"
"I'm good," said the anchor, and kept smiling. No one seemed to have noticed that they had no footage, no reports from experts or comments from the man on the street. All they had was a press release from the governor's office, and strict orders to read it as written, with no deviation or side commentary. They were being managed, and no one seemed to care, and so he kept on smiling, and waited for the commercial break to end.
There was no footage. There was always footage. Even when good taste and human decency said not to air it, there was footage. Humanity liked to slow down and look at the car crash by the side of the road, and it was the job of the news to give them all the wrecks that they could stomach. So where was the wreck? Where was the twisted metal and the sorrowful human interest story? Why did they have nothing but words on a teleprompter, and silence from the editing room?
"And we're back in five...four...three..." The production assistant stopped in mid-countdown, eyes going terribly wide. "Dave? Do you feel all right?"
"I'm fine. Why?" He kept smiling.
"You're bleeding."
The news anchor—Dave Ramsey, who had done his job, and done it well, for fifteen years—suddenly became aware of a warm wetness on his upper lip. He raised his fingers to touch it, and looked wide-eyed at the blood covering them when he pulled away again. He smile didn't falter. "Oh," he said. "Perhaps I should go clean up."
When the broadcast resumed, his co-anchor was sitting there, a cheerful smile on her face. "We have an update from the Centers for Disease Control, who want us to reassure you that a vaccine will be available soon—"
***
News anchor Dave Ramsey passed away last night of complications from a sudden illness. He was forty-eight years old. A fifteen year veteran of Channel 51, Dave Ramsey is survived by his wife and three children...
When will you Rise?
