Fake News

I love lazy mornings—lounging in pajamas, Sunday papers scattered about. It’s luxurious sipping coffee on my terrace with a penthouse view of the lake.

I used to enjoy relaxing this way with Clare, but that was in another life.

But I won’t think of that. Today, my better angels have triumphed over my worse spirits and I’m actually content, if not happy, and I haven’t felt that way in two years—not since Clare left, to be precise. But as I said, I don’t want to go there—not today, the second anniversary of our breakup.

I want to savor the afterglow of another successful late night show—the price I’ve paid to stay relevant.

It’s no time to go maudlin, and besides, I had no choice, as Tom Barossa, my producer often reminds me.

For a while there, we were riding a magical balloon to the stars, but Clare brought along too much baggage. Foolish me—I wanted to open and go through that luggage with her—jettison what wasn’t needed—and we tried, yes we did, but in the end, it wasn’t Clare that was the drag—it was me.

Oh, I still follow her at a distance through Facebook and the social columns—Clare is now an anchor on the local six o’clock news, so a celebrity in her own right—but I’m not too intrusive, and certainly not in a creeper, stalking way. I guess I’m just wistful and nostalgic for what could have been, and let’s face it, sorry for the path I’ve taken.

Cole Nightly—that’s my balloon to stardom—a late night network television show that showcases celebrity talk, live entertainment and the most scandalous examples of attack journalism on TV. It’s made me a household name, earned me millions, and, need I say, the undying hatred of morlocks.

If I added up all the death threats I’ve received the number would be staggering, but as Tom says, when they stop hating you, you’re irrelevant. So, using that yardstick to gauge my impact, I’d say I was extremely relevant.

Lucky me.

The phone rings, jarring me from my reverie. It’s Tom doing the usual morning after follow-up.

“Hey Cole—just checking in. Great ratings on the show last night, but don’t you think you were a little hard on Marissa Ferguson?”

“Was I?” I retort sarcastically.

I can picture Tom rolling his eyes.

“Well, it’s her dad that’s the wealthy industrialist, Cole—Marissa does a lot of charity work. Questioning her motives and sending your Kamikaze Corps to antagonize her was low, in my opinion. I think you crossed a line last night.”

“You think? Well, too bad, so sad—but Daddy will come to her rescue—probably hit me with a law suit.”

“You know, Cole, with the money Blaine Ferguson has, he can arrange any kind of 'hit' he wants, if you get my meaning—and as for lawsuits, the network execs are blanching at the prospect of going head to head with Blaine. They could drop your show.”

“Let them—the money the network has already made from me should more than cover any legal costs—besides, wait until they see my next show. I’m going to do an expose on Trump’s finances—including his tax returns.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and then Tom’s voice, came back an octave higher: “You’re not telling me you managed to get hold of the most sought-after documents in America?”

“Well, let’s put it this way—I got to see a man about a dog tonight—and you know, dogs are pretty expensive these days. I know the network has deep pockets and they’ll pay well for my intel, and if not—well, there are plenty others that will.”

There was a note of panic in Tom’s voice. “Now, now, don’t be hasty, Cole. I’ll make a call and get back to you.”

“You do that, Tom—and you better hope your network execs can leverage some of that money I made them in order to acquire these assets. They like to balance risk-reward? Let them balance this—it will be Huge!”

“I hear you, Pal. I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear from them, but between you and me, I think you just knocked this one out of the ballpark.”

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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