Free Kornwolf by Tristan Egolf Page B

two weeks earlier. Meaning:
The Plea
was critically understaffed one dependable field reporter. Attempts to fill the position had, for whatever reason, come to naught. For the moment, two city reporters were splitting the sudden barrage of complaints down the middle. This, in effect, had demanded their overtime, travel through unfamiliar terrain and, as Jarvik pronounced, “more common sense than either fool can manage to summon.”
    â€œBesides which,” he kept on, “they don’t know a thing about farm equipment.
And
they can’t write.”
    These were the circumstances into which Owen had blundered haphazardly, however strange. Even though he probably knew less about farms, and farming equipment, than anyone in town, he had managed without even trying, somehow, to land a position writing about them. Which, in general, seemed to be one of his stronger and more consistent talents. “The luck of the Celts,” his grandfather called it. Despite the fact that he hadn’t exactly been offered a shot at deposing the mayor, he
had
secured a job he could not only live with, but work without blowing his focus.
    Or so he had thought on accepting the offer.
    Then he had gone to the game reserve.
    From there on, nothing had happened as planned. And nothing had been short of frantically paced.
    His second day on the job, Friday, October 8th, as the perfect example:
    He was called to the office at two p.m., an hour early, on Jarvik’s orders. Two other daily reporters were present, neither of whom extended him a greeting, or even a handshake, upon introduction. They both seemed annoyed with him right off the bat. And so did Jarvik’s assistant editor, a pasty-faced honky named Timothy Kegel. They all struck Owen as miserable assholes.
    Then he found out why they’d been called in.
    The
Blue Ball Devil Returns
edition had already gone into four printings. By evening, a fifth was expected to go to press, with further demand projected. Regional TV was phoning nonstop,along with a paper from nearby Rudding—and numerous local residents calling to verify similar “sightings” of their own.
    So much for the cozy reception, thought Owen: his basket looked like a public spitoon. It would overflow the next morning, when the
Philth Town Inquiry
ran his story, front page … No doubt, the regular staff was irate. And not without reason. After all, who was he?—this Owen Brynmor, this slovenly kid drifting into their midst on an unscreened, trial-run basis, apparently, to fall under some kind of cracked and delirious favor of their aging city editor—who, incidentally, introduced him as “someone who might help you idiots think”—then go on to triple circulation by landing an AP smash on his
first
report—and with tales of Bigfoot, no less …
    They all looked insulted beyond their capacities.
    Owen himself found it hard to believe.
    Beforehand, of course, he’d expected a smash. There was no way this story could
not
have sold. But to watch something actually rip as intended was a rare and genuine marvel to behold. Twice in the past, he had lost what should have been national copy to turn of luck—the first to a presidential scandal, the second to the fall of the Berlin Wall. He knew not to blink till the check had cleared—and even then, with residual caution.
    Jarvik, on the other hand, was openly thrilled. (Tripling circulation tends to have that effect on city editors.) Having called everyone into his office, he assigned his regulars each to a task—two of them to telephone duty, and the third, a furious Kegel, to screening messages, while Owen, overtly exempt from the old man’s disdain, was encouraged to follow up his story. He could start by reporting to the Intercourse Market to verify rumors of livestock attacks.
    Already, Owen could feel the resentment building around him. He left quietly.
    Outside, in the car, his window jammed.