“So how was the movie?” asked Rita, a perky brunette who worked as a gossip columnist at Hot Tread. She was wearing a hot pink tank top and a long skirt with a slit up the side. The gossip columnist had spritzed her hair with glitter so that her hair sparkled whenever it moved.
“Hm?” Mel was leaning against the wall of her tiny cubicle. She had a mug of coffee in her hands. She was hardly awake. Just one sip, she told herself, and make sure it doesn’t spill on the new lavender blouse. One sip, and then maybe the question would finally register. But if she was awake, that would mean that she would have to work in her cubicle. Doing paperwork. She hated that. But at least she could take off her new pumps which were pinching her toes. If only she had an assignment! But first she would have to be awake.
“The movie,” Rita repeated. “I assume the two of you did see it. Or did you two just go back home and neck like horny teenagers?”
Stuart was finishing a bagel. He swallowed and brushed imaginary crumbs off a bright orange t-shirt with the logo “Computer Quest” written in blocky letters across his chest. “There’s nothing wrong with necking.”
Mel finally took a sip of her coffee. In measured tones, she said, “Rita was asking about the movie, Stuart, not your disgusting courtship rituals.”
“Last time I checked, you didn’t find them so disgusting.”
“Shut up, Stuart.” She turned to the gossip columnist. “The movie was okay, I suppose. Not really a brilliant piece of work. I guess you could say it was more suited to the made-for-television kind of thing.”
“But I love made-for-television specials!” exclaimed Rita.
“It’s different when you’re seeing it on the big screen,” the photographer replied. “It just feels wrong, you know?”
“Well, probably. But I think I’ll go see it anyway.”
“I suppose we can’t dissuade you, can we?” said Stuart. “Even if I say that it would be better to rent the thing than to waste the eight bucks or so to see it in the theater?”
“Nope. Not when it has my favorite actors in it.”
“Figures,” Mel muttered. She took another sip of her coffee and felt marginally awake. “So Stuart, did you talk with Mad Dog? I heard that the final proof for the Gavot article went to his desk yesterday afternoon.”
The reporter shrugged. “No. Mad Dog hasn’t come in yet.”
Rita tapped her chin with a manicured nail. “That’s strange. Mad Dog is usually here quite early. I mean, he was here quite early the past week despite his illness—same as his usual routine. Maybe he got caught up in traffic.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Mel. “Mad Dog, caught up in traffic? He runs over the traffic with his supped up motorcycle.”
At that moment, the front door to the offices of Hot Tread burst open and the familiar figure of the burly biker stumbled through. With one hand, he hastily closed the glass door and flipped the lock. He was breathing heavily as if he had been running up the stairs to the offices instead of taking the elevator. In a free hand, he was clutching a rolled up newspaper.
“Damn the Times!” Mad Dog bellowed after he got his wind back. He tossed the newspaper onto Stuart’s cubicle desk. “Roubere, Ang, I want you two to get on the story right quick. I want to find out where that new celebrity reporter—Eddie Outman—came from. And make sure no one disturbs me in my office today. Oh and another thing, good work on that Gavot assignment. I knew you two had it in you!” Mad Dog rubbed his neck. “Although I can’t seem to remember where I misplaced that necklace…”
As the editor of the magazine Hot Tread slammed his office door shut, Stuart pulled out the newspaper that Mad Dog had so carelessly tossed. He opened The New Halis Times to the front page and began reading the headlines aloud.
“New Halis’ most eligible bachelor receives inheritance. Ralph “Mad Dog” Bartlett, the editor of the up and coming magazine Hot Tread and most eligible bachelor of New Halis came into his inheritance that was willed to him by his great-uncle, Rodger Pellington, billionaire and founder of Pellington Industries…”
“Mad Dog?” said Rita, wide-eyed.
Mel peered over Stuart’s shoulder. “Ah, so that’s where his latest idea came from. That article is written by Eddie Outman.”
A loud bang suddenly diverted the three journalists’ attention from the newspaper. Plastered against the glass door was a horde of screaming women. Even from the closed door, they could hear chants of “Bartlett! Bartlett! Bartlett!” One of the women held up a sign that had been written with marker. It said, “I love you Mad Dog!”
“No wonder he locked himself in his office,” said Stuart.
