An American Sickness
Deborah Feyedick twirled her pen, waiting for the commercial break to end. Occasionally, the pen's tip would tap her knuckle, and the inky excrement dripped onto the tabletop, dotting the papers which were jabbed to stillness by her elbow. It reminded Deborah of blood. She licked her lips.
It had been a boring day. This morning she was bludgeoned with the reporting of a severe drought. This afternoon she had talked her mouth dry- dryer than California- about that Hurricane Patricia, a weather formation so powerfully at odds with the drought. Don't get her wrong, the hurricane attracted viewers, but if a large amount of North Americans didn't die in the destruction, they would eventually lose interest and fade away. Now, there was only one definite thing that would have people flocking to watch, but she couldn't even dare think of this thing's name, else she start salivating.
Deborah crossed her fingers. Maybe if another of these... things occurred, it'd boost their ratings high enough to allow her to receive a raise. Then she would be able to afford a cleaner to remove the stains on her house carpet. Maybe. They were quite profuse.
She began losing hope. The last commercial was playing before the segment began. Would she really have to cover the conflicts in Russia again? The country was far enough away to not matter!
Thirty seconds remaining. Twenty-five. Twenty- Confetti exploded across the newsroom. A heavenly bell chimed. The director, behind the camera, began jumping up and down shouting, "We have a celebrity! We have another celebrity. Yes!"
"What is it? What is it? Someone tell me!" Deborah refrained from throwing her pen at the director.
"Another shooter. Another shooting. A mass one!"
"How many?" Her chest fluttered. "What's the shooter's name? How many children were lost?"
The director smiled. "Enough to boost ratings!"
"Yes!" Deborah turned to the camera as the final seconds on the teleprompter tocked down. "Hello. I'm Deborah Feyedick, and we have some good ne- Breaking news!"