Free Dead Men Scare Me Stupid by John Swartzwelder

applause. I was on the air!
    Looking back on
it now, I guess overall I would give my performance a C-. It wasn’t really bad,
but it definitely had room for improvement.
    I couldn’t read
the teleprompter very well, was one problem. The words were too small and they
kept moving all the time. I had to kind of guess at what they said. So that’s
probably how that war got started. The one that killed so many people. I feel
kind of bad about that. My fault, in a way.
    I couldn’t
enunciate very well either. That was another problem with my debut. About the
only words people could hear clearly was when I fell backwards off my chair and
started cursing a blue streak. They could hear all those words fine.
    I never did get
to the big expose Johnson was supposed to give at the end of the newscast - the
one where all the evil things that were going on inside the government facility
would finally be revealed. My reporting was so lackluster during the first half
of the show – especially during that teen-oriented segment called Newsdance,
which featured the top headlines told to you by dance. I felt silly jiggling
around like that - the studio audience grew increasingly restless. Finally they
snapped.
    “That’s not
today’s weather!” yelled someone in the back. “That’s yesterday’s sports!”
    “He’s right!”
shouted someone up front.
    The situation
quickly escalated into a riot. I don’t know whose idea it had been to have a
studio audience for a news broadcast, or to make this Souvenir Bat Night, but
whoever it was had miscalculated.
    The audience
charged the stage, swinging their bats in all directions, demanding responsible
journalism, money, women and dope.
    Some of the
rioters got up on stage and started horsing around with the equipment,
pretending they were broadcasting the news to each other.
    “President
Buttsmell,” announced one young rioter into a microphone, “got a buttache today
when he fell on his stupid smell butt. Her-her-her-herherher.”
    Security guards
started moving forward to stop this unauthorized broadcast, but a producer held
up his hand and said “Wait.”
    “Butt butt butt
butt smelly butt her-her-her,” continued the ‘announcer’.
    Before I left the
studio I saw this ‘announcer’, and another young man who was making fart sounds
with his armpits and buttocks, being signed to fantastic contracts. So I guess
you can find talent anywhere. Even show business.
    With everyone
being distracted by all the rioting, and all the new talent that was being
discovered, it seemed like a good opportunity for me to make my escape from the
world of journalism. I signed off, then ducked backstage and started looking
for a way out.
    “Over here,
Johnson!” I heard someone shout.
    I looked around
and saw someone waving to me and holding an emergency exit door open. I knocked
him down and ran out, just making it through the door before it closed on me.
    I managed to get
through all the rioting in the parking lot – they had heard about my broadcast
out there too – and got back out onto the street with only minor cuts and
bruises, though my fake teeth and hair had sustained major bat damage during
the melee. Oh well, they weren’t mine anyway.
    When I was far
enough away from the studio to feel safe, and was sure no one was after me, I
stopped and took a look around. It was the first time I’d had a chance to see
what Central City looked like now that I had never been born.
    It was wonderful.
     

CHAPTER TEN
     
    For the rest of
the afternoon I wandered around Central City with a big smile on my face. What
an improvement! Everything was better now that I wasn’t born.
    People were
happier, buildings were taller and straighter, the sky was bluer, dogs barked
better and louder. There weren’t as many graveyards, or broken noses, and there
were far fewer fires. People were right about me being a troublemaker. I saw
that now. We probably should have done something about me a long time