A wicked novel by Andrew DeKoning

"Senator Chuck Manstud! What is your stance on gay marriage?"
"Back when I was held captive by the Nazis in World War Two I made love to a man in my jail cell because we had nothing better to do. I believe that if you are really bored then being a homosexual is acceptable."
"Senator! You always say that you were imprisoned during World War Two so I did some research about your history. After looking at your Wikipedia article I learned that you weren’t even alive during that time."
"What? Of course I wasn’t alive. How can one be truly alive when you can barely walk around and you're only fed the bare minimum to sustain life?"
"No sir, I mean you weren’t even born th-"
"What is this man talking about? These questions have nothing to do with my running for president! Security will you please escort him out of here?"

That was the last press conference I did before losing my job as a reporter. The man won the election somehow. As far as I can tell, it was the first time a truly mentally retarded person was ever elected president. He even had his named changed from Gordon Sully to Chuck Manstud because he thought the American people would like it better. Apparently they did.

After the conference I took a taxi back to the office to report to my editor, James Durand. Durand somehow managed to capture the true essence of looking like a stereotypical editor after only a single year of being one. Honestly, it’s like J. Jonah Jameson was his idol. Not only did he look the part but he acted it as well. He was nearly insufferable. Regardless, he was my boss and I had to give him a story.

I entered his office to find him puffing on a cigar with a couple of other people. I didn’t bother to take the time to notice who they were. The only thing my mind registered was that one was white, the other black, and both were male.

"They probably just work here somewhere." My mind says.

I handed over my notes of the conference to Durand. I knew he wouldn’t like them but I wasn’t in any sort of mood to care. Although, if it came to my job I knew I would have to argue to validity of my work. If I lost my job now there’s no way my kids would get into college.

"What is this shit?" Durand says as he skims over my notes.
"That’s all I could get out of him." I reply.
"This isn’t enough to do a full article! Why did you have to get kicked out of the conference?" He presumably yells in anger despite the fact that it is hard to tell when he actually is angry because he yells everything. The only time you really know that he is angry is when he tells you directly that that is what his mood is.
I try to respond reasonably. "Listen sir, he doesn’t function on the same level as normal people. It impossible to get anything that makes sense out of him. The moment you question his not-even-presidential judgment he considers you unpatriotic and unworthy to be in the presence of his inane babbling."
"I don’t care if he doesn’t make sense. He makes good news."
"Not news that matters." I butt in.
"But news that sells." He snaps back. He walks towards the window and takes a puff of his cigar as he looks outside.
"We’ve got nothing better at the moment so this’ll have to do." He says, "I want a front page article on my desk for tomorrow."
"WHAT?" I retort, "Front page? Since when did this man who currently holds one percent of the popular vote become front-page material? We could not run this story at all and no one would care. Did I mention that he is also retarded?"
"You did and I don’t give a shit."
"A good front-page worthy article on this much information can’t be done." I argue.
"So you’re saying it’s impossible?" Durand asks.
"You want one good enough for the front-page?"
"Yes."
"Then, yes, it is impossible."
"So you won’t do it?"
"What kind of person do you think I am? Writing a front-page article like would kill my career as a reporter."
"You know what else would kill your career as a reporter? You getting fired. You’re fired, Peter. As to what kind of person I think you are, I think it’s obvious that you’re the kind of person that doesn’t care about his children’s future. Get out of my office."
"This is bullshit!" I yell.
"So are your stories!" Yells Durand, probably in glee because he was a sadistic bastard who loved to make people lose their jobs.
"Fine" whatever. I can find work elsewhere." I say. "Good luck because you’re gonna need it. Now leave." He says.
"Fuck you." I said as I walked out of the office.
"Well, this has been a good day, where the hell am I going to get another job?" I thought to myself as I left, "Wait" did he call me Peter? My name is Jeff. Whoa, it’s true! J. Jonah Jameson really is his role model!"

And that is how I lost my job as a reporter. After this my life became very strange and definitely not easy and if someone ever asked me if I’d like to work as a reporter again I’d say "Fuck Yeah!" because it would be a hell of a lot better than what I do now.

I left the office building at a casual pace so as to create the illusion that I didn’t get fired to save myself some public embarrassment. The sidewalks of New York were as busy as usual and cold wind was biting my face as if it knew that I was already having a bad day.
"Well? What do I do now?" I think to myself, "I don’t want to go home just yet. Christine will kill me if she finds out I lost my job. I need to find a job fast. The kids need to go to school somehow."
With nothing better to do I began walking around the city with no destination in mind. I walked the streets for several hours just thinking about how I could have handled the press conference or the confrontation that lost me my job better. Then I realized that I was in the right and the only reason I lost my job is because the world is too polluted with retards. This epiphany didn’t make me feel any better though. In fact, I would go as far as to say it made me feel worse" much, much worse.

The sky was getting darker as I continued to trudge along aimlessly. Hours had passed and I still felt like shit. Just when I had nearly pushed Senator Chuck Manstud out of my mind I came across an electronics store and saw his face on the TVs in the window. It was a piece of footage from the press conference earlier today. Apparently from after I left as well.

"If you elect me president," He spews forth, "I promise that everyone will be millionaires because I said so. Every child will have parents somewhere. A fence will be put around the entire country so that filthy Cannucks and those people with ugly Mexi-staches can’t invade us. And that Pearl Harbour" Will. Not. Happen. Again!"

The room erupted in applause. I threw up a little. Just then a hand was placed on my shoulder.

"Don’t move." Said a male voice, "Get in the alley." "What, are you going to rape me?" I say nonchalantly because for some reason it didn’t occur to me that he might have a gun pointed at me.
"I will if you give me enough trouble." He replies, "Now move or I shoot."
Just then it occurred to me that he had a gun. "Fine, fine." I say as I head towards the nearest alley.
Once we were in the alley he pushed me away and pointed the gun at my head. He looked pretty much like I expected; jeans with holes in the knees, a black jacket, a black ski mask" a gun.
"Give me your wallet." He says.
"You know, all I have is five bucks." I say, "I’m not really worth your time. Besides couldn’t you lay off of a guy who just lost his job?"
"I don’t give a crap if your mother has cancer." He says, "All I want is your wallet, and if you don’t give it to me, you die."
Not wanting to give him my wallet but not particularly wanting to die either (yet), I began glance around for something to hit him with. I found nothing.
"Well, it looks like I’ll have to make do with my fists."
"Hey!" The man yells again, "Quit holdin’ up and give me the fuckin’ wallet!"
I raise my hands in the air. Sweat starts trickling down my face.
"I can take him, I can take him, I can take him" oh god, let’s hope I can take him."
"Listen man." I say, "I’m just a poor guy who doesn’t even have a job anymore. I don’t have any money. I’m not worth your time."
"No! You listen!" He shouts, "I’m not taking your shitty excuses. Now hand it over! This is your last warning, man."
"Fine." I say.

I slowly lower my hands towards my pockets. Right when I was about to grab my wallet I take a low dive at the thief. He fires a couple shots my way. I didn’t feel anything painful and even though I had never been shot before I made the assumption that I had not been hit. I went for the arm that was holding the gun in an attempt to keep it from being pointed at me. We wrestled for what seemed like forever.
Every now and then a shot would go off but nobody screamed in pain meaning it probably missed. I needed to take him down quick and since I didn’t know how to fight I resorted to dirty tactics. While still struggling to keep the gun away from me I reached for his mask, grabbed a handful of it and yanked it off.

"Owww!" He shouts, "You yanked some of my hair out!"
"Heh, you think that hurt? Get a load of this!"
I grabbed another handful of his hair and pulled as hard as I could.
"AAAGH! You fight like a fag!" He screams.
"Yeah well, you suck dick like one!" I yell back.
I continued to yank. Noticing that his grip on the gun was loosening I pulled it out of his hand.
"Give that back, you faggot fucker!" He demands.
"No! Asshole!" I yell.
"What? No asshole? That’s not possible because you love men’s assholes! Fag!"
"That’s funny! I thought we agreed that you were the fag!"
"Whatever, chump!"
He makes a grab for gun.
"Hey what’re you doing?" I cry.
"Taking what’s mine!" He retorts.
"No!"
"Let go!"
"No you!"
"No y-!"
BLAM!
"Oh shit! Did I shoot him?"
I looked at the ground. There’s a bullet hole directly in the middle of his forehead. I slapped him on the cheek, thinking that it would do something. He doesn’t twitch.

"Well it looks like you’re still alive"

I spun around to see two men in overcoats and fedoras walking towards. One was white, the other black, both were lean, clean-shaven, and had an air of self-importance around them.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"You don’t recognize us?" Says the black man.
"Uhhhh" no?" I reply.
"We were with you in your former boss' office." He says.
"Ah." I say, "I never really took the time to notice you guys."
"Apparently not." Says the white man. "Regardless, we’re here to offer you a job. We want you to be a hitman for us. We’ll pay you well. You won’t have to worry about paying for your children’s tuition if you work for us."
"A h-h-hitman?" I stammer.
"Yes." They say in unison.
"Like one what kills people?" I ask.
"Yes." They say in unison again.
"I don’t know, guys"" I say.
"What else can you do? You have no job and not much money and little Jimmy and Claire need to go to college." Says the black man.
"You know my children’s names?"
"We know a lot of things." Says the white man, "Now, what’s your answer?"
"I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I?" I ask myself rhetorically.
"Uhh" sure." Says the black man.
"Fine I’ll do it."
"Good." They say.
"Meet us tomorrow at that restaurant that they used for that Seinfeld show at twelve noon." Says the white man.
"Why there?"
"Because we said so." They say in unison, which was officially starting to get creepy.
"So, umm" do you guys have names?" I ask.
"You can call me black." Says the white guy.
"And you can call me white." Says the black guy.
I gave them a quizzical look.
"Come now." Says White. "We can have a sense of humour too, you know. Now, go home and be happy with the knowledge that your family will be cared for."
"Alright, but just one question." I say, "Will you guys be, like, teaching me karate and sharp-shooting and shit?"
The looked at each other chuckled.
"Sure we will." Says Black as he pats me on the shoulder.
"Cool"

End of Chapter 1

Will Chuck Manstud get elected President? Will Jeff suck as a hitman? How will Jeff get the name MURDERMAX? Are Black and White secretly gay for each other? Will Pearl Harbour happen again? SO many questions! Tune in next time to find out or something!

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