Marcy Harper

             A decidedly anal man with a decidedly pompous haircut walks into what is essentially a solemn concrete bunker. On one side sits a very brightly lit and neon colored stage, on that stage sits a desk, fax machine, and spinny office chair. On the opposite side sits many large cameras, thick bundled cables, screens, and above it all an observation window where a lone soldier sits. He anxiously takes a seat. He solemnly clears his throat and picks up a paper and squints. A countdown starts from ten and he takes a shaky breath. “‘I hate it in the torture cube! I hate it in the torture cube!’ Reports blameless victim of circumstance.” The stage lights turn off with a distinctly unnerving clunk. The cathode-esque glow of the on-air sign faded like a singular and monolithic ember. The man furtively blinked, adjusting to the darkness. On the opposite wall sat the solitary lightsource, a live viewer count and underneath it in bold text, “IF VIEWERSHIP DROPS BELOW 2 BILLION, ORGANS WILL BE HARVESTED.” The numbers at this particular moment displayed 2,000,100,000. The fax machine located to his right side gently whirred to life, birthing the warm stack of papers that would be his next stories. The cameras slowly shuddered, getting ready to beam his image into his loyal yet not particularly forthcoming viewers. The countdown begins again. “Good evening once again, this is Goy Station Live, Multi Media News coming at you live from your host, Mr. News.” Strangely large bulbs of sweat started precipitating from his forehead as he looked down at the papers. “Now, here is tonight's news. 13 adorable puppies found dead in preventable mass shooting after failed no-knock raid! Authorities claim it was an ‘unfortunate negligence’ moving on, is god real? Our nation's top scientists plunge themselves into medically induced comas in droves to finally meet him.” The man's  smile betrayed his inherent weakness. The viewership counter now read, 2,000,000,100. “Billions rejoice as the last uncontacted tribe is re-educated to work in sweatshops all over the world!” The silhouette of the soldier in the observation deck window could be seen getting ready to descend the stairs towards the stage. After clearing his throat, Mr. News continued. “First team sent to survey the new Australian nuclear exclusion zone ripped apart by a roaming pack of giant wolf spiders on camera!” The soldier with a heavy gait descended the last stair, reaching the ground and could be heard turning the safety of his rifle off. In the wide aperture of the studio cameras tears could be seen beginning to stream down his face with his mouth now wide in horror. He stands up like a wild animal backed into a corner, shaking, arms outstretched towards the gunman. “Please! Please-please-please! F-famous news reporter Mr. News shot dead on stage, on air in front of millions!” His mouth couldn't even finish the partially open shape required to utter the final syllable of “millions!” before a bullet ripped through the space twixt his collarbone and shoulder and out erupted a very fine yet at the same time not fine spurt of blood. The studio microphones peaked and approximately 1.9 billion people flinched to the sound of a man being killed on air and then promptly continued about their business. The soldier walked on stage in front of the now prone shrieking man and knocked him unconscious before fireman carrying him down towards the dissection room. Things remain quiet for a few seconds when a decidedly anal man with a decidedly pompous haircut walks into what is essentially a—