Tonight was one of those nights. Down the street from the Daily Chattanooga Choo Choo, the city's biggest hostage crisis was unfolding. And there was Robbie, stuck at his desk between the sports and general news sections.
The clock on his desk was slowly lurching toward 11. There was no way he'd make it home in time for the Hogan main event. "It's probably gay anyway," he said as he squinted again at the story he mostly wrote up.
The editor-in-chief left him in charge to go cover any updates with the police. Robbie broke the story himself, though. He heard it over the police band. A robbery, multiple hostages, one of them being the Vice President. Five hours later, he was 3/4 through the story, outlining its characters and the meticulous descriptions of the North Face ski masks they wore.
"Chris!" he yelled over the cubicle wall. "What color shirt was the Vice President wearing again?"
Chris Derps already tuned him out an hour ago.
Robbie shook his head and winged it. "Light azure," he wrote. He leaned back and smiled, and the chair once again threatened to disintegrate under him.
His masterpiece, all 1,700 words of it, was ready as far as he was concerned. But the editor insisted he wait for another update. Apparently something big was about to go down.
The clock finally passed 11. He got up to stretch and grab a Mountain Dew from the cafeteria. It was risky; Cliff could call at any second.
Angelica was in the cafeteria, pulling a late night drawing up the paper's art. She was staring at the bulletin board intently.
"So, Angelica," Robbie said, pulling a can out of the fridge. "D'you know if Legacy won?"
His booming voice was enough to startle her. She spun around, barely holding onto the cup of coffee she held.
"Who?" she asked. Her wide, bulging eyes met him.
"Legacy! Y'know, Orton and the gang?" He tilted his eyebrows up and down. She knew what he was talking about.
She didn't know what he was talking about. She just turned and fled back to her work.
He walked back to the cubicles. Derps was still working hard at something. Robbie never really knew what he did but it looked difficult. "Did Cliff call yet?" Robbie asked.
"No," said Derps, desperately keeping as still as possible.
"Y'know, it's amazing," said Robbie between sips. "The VP walks into a bank, and a robbery breaks out. In our town. This is the biggest story of the year, and we're right in the middle of it?"
"No we're not," said Sue, the copy editor. "Cliff is. You just have to write the backstory."
"Hey, I first brought it to his attention," said Robbie. It was his finest moment. He felt like a real reporter, like Clark Kent, telling Cliff that the Vice President was a hostage. And if Cliff was quick enough, the Choo Choo would be the first to blog about it.
"It'll be my blog," he said. "The ODaniel Report. Do you think maybe it should be RobBlog, though?"
Just then, he heard the phone ringing in his cubicle. He flung himelf towards it, nearly taking out the garbage can next to his seat. He picked up the phone with his free hand.
"Daily Chattanooga Choo Choo, Robbie ODaniel speaking, how can I--"
"Robbie, shut up," said Cliff's voice. He was breathing hard and the sound of sirens was clearly audible in the background.
"Robbie, are you listening?" asked Cliff.
"Right here, sir," said Robbie.
"Get this out now: the Vice President is dead. The cops tried to storm the bank but he was killed in the crossfire. All the robbers are dead, none of the other hostages are harmed. Okay?"
"Wait," said Robbie. He couldn't type anything in this condition. He chugged back the remaining 8 oz. in a few seconds, then tossed the can. "Okay, so wait, did the cops enter in the side entrance? The one with the yellow bushes?"
"Robbie, did you hear me? The Vice President is dead!" said Cliff. "Hurry up and get this out! I'm the only one who knows so far and we need to be on top of this!"
"Okay okay, I got it," said Robbie through a scowl. He hung up.
"'The sound of gunfire was all encompassing,' he began the next paragraph. 'Soon, after approximately 152 shots (his guess), there were a number of casualties, all of them fatal. The shootout had claimed lives this day. One of them was a very special life.'"
"Robbie, what happened?" asked Sue.
"The cops attacked or something. The VP's dead," he said. "What's a better word? Perforated or blown away?"
"What?" said Sue. Her face soon appeared over the cubicle wall, along with Derp's.
"Perforated or blown away," said Robbie.
"No, the VP! You said he died?" said Sue. Derps started flipping through the channels on the overhead TV. NBC, CBS, CNN and Fox were still reporting it as a mere hostage situation.
"Yeah, I guess," said Robbie. But he had no time to waste. This story needed to go out, fast.
His fingers raced like never before. The scene was recreated in pristine detail. Maybe it wasn't authentic, but it would be real to the readers. The smell of gunpowder. The screams. The crackling plaster and chipped bank counters. He pressed on past midnight. Past 1:00. Past Sue and Derps leaving. Past 2:00. Past printing. 3,000 words. 4,000 words. 5,500 words.
"'And so a nation mourned once more a great man who was shot.'"
He leaned back. At last, it was ready. He clicked the SUBMIT button. Seconds later, it was up on the newspaper's blog. The scoop of the decade, and his face was right next to it.
He only went back to edit in Cliff's name as a "contributing reporter," but he was never more satisfied with a story he wrote. He got up, slung his jacket over his shoulders, donned his stetson and walked out of the office onto the streets, still busy with federal agents and police taking stock of the situation.
* * *
"Bank Held Hostage by Criminals" was the 1,174th most-read blog concerning the tragedy that occurred that night. The Daily Choo Choo's blog took a total of 14 hits, the most ever for a Robbie ODaniel News story.
