Slow News Week With a Touch of Arson

The following takes place following: The Agony Aunt

Travers was becoming agitated. Tomorrow was meant to be the grand relaunch of the new and improved Waldopolis Chronicle. Everything was in place: the shift to tabloid format, the redesigned layout, the fresh masthead. Debbie, Ermintrude, and Dr. Shawn had all completed their debut photo shoots and were ready to grace pages 3, 7, and 22 — the latter reserved for Dr. Shawn’s two-page spread, complete with portraits, a column, and a Q&A section (featuring, for now, questions submitted by the staff).

The only problem was, it had been a painfully slow news week — and Travers had absolutely no idea what to put in the paper.

Master Devlin had other concerns. He entered Travers’ office holding the prototype of the new banner — featuring a caricature of Travers himself wedged between the words Waldopolis and Chronicle.

Master Devlin: "Travers, is it really necessary to put your face on the front cover?"

Travers: "Absolutely. It’s a rebrand, Master Devlin. I’m the one who's going to save this newspaper, and I think the people ought to know who’s responsible."

Master Devlin: "I’m sure they will just fine without the picture. I mean look at this... The logo, a front-page blurb, and a full article on page 7? It's just a bit much, isn’t it? Don't forget you’re still widely hated across the nation after what you did. And despite your own high opinion of yourself, we are still trying to sell newspapers. This kind of exposure is more likely to make people recoil — or even piss on it."

Travers: "You'd be surprised. It is amazing how ignorant and out of touch most Waldonians are. Do you realise, the average Joe on the street doesn't even know who I am? They should be like, 'Look! There's Travers! National treasure! Former mayor and emperor...' But no. Most think I'm some kind of amphibian escaped from the zoo — or some talking vegetable..."

Master Devlin: "..."

Travers: "Now, Master Devlin! We need some actual damn news to put in our newspaper. So what do you got?"

The Master checks notes.

Master Devlin: "Well... Uh... Today the Chancellor briefed the Empress on a multi-year review into fiscal projection framework..."

Travers: "BORING! Pass..."

Master Devlin: "Umm... Well David Rubin Goldenstein is apparently crippled from the neck down now. We could talk more about him falling out of the window. That was funny."

Travers: "Old! Next..."

Master Devlin: "Hmm. Well we could do a hit piece on the whole DRG empire itself... Now that they've been weakened, we crush them once and for all. We say he threw himself out that window because the authorities were closing in on their shady dealings."

Travers: "An expose, huh? I like it! We show that they were funding all the DEI stuff. Your average Waldonian hates that crap. Good idea! We'll bury those cockroaches!"

Master Devlin: "We can get Waldo to dig up some dirt. Though it may take some time. I doubt we'll have enough for tomorrow's edition. Be aware though — they are also media moguls. And they won’t like any negative press against them. They might push for legal action and damages."

Travers: "Well that sounds like a hassle. And we still have nothing to put on page 1! Who knew it would be so hard to find news in Widdlington of all places... A downside to living in a benevolent dictatorship, it would appear."

Master Devlin: "Quite..."

Travers: "You know what’s bullshit? People blame the Interwebs for the death of print media — but when I walk into WaldMart, there’s still an entire aisle of magazines. Mostly trashy women’s ones. Men’s magazines on the other hand... That’s the real casualty. I say it's time we bring back the Lad’s Mag! Hell, why don’t we just turn the Chronicle into a men’s magazine? We could call it... I dunno... TOMI or something."

Master Devlin: "Tommy?"

Travers: "T.O.M.I. — Tits & Other Men’s Interests!"

Master Devlin: "Hmph. How about shortening it to TMI…"

Travers: "TMI Magazine… huh… I like it!"

Master Devlin: "I was being sarcastic. Look, putting tits in the newspaper is one thing — trying to turn the Chronicle into a lad’s mag would present legal and logistical challenges. Now you wanted to run a newspaper, Travers, so do it. You’ll just have to manage."

Travers: "Fine... Well then what else you got??"

Master Devlin: "Um.... Oh. Frakes has relapsed and is morbidly obese again."

Travers: "Nobody cares! Master Devlin, this is terrible. Get Wally in here..."

The Master pops his head out of the door.

Master Devlin: "HEY, WALDO! Get in here!"

Waldo scurries into the Editor's office.

wF: "Yes??"

Travers: "Wally, my star reporter. What news have you got?"

wF: "Working on a big scoop, bossman! An undercover hooker who infiltrated the Masta's Council pretending to be a shrink, now she's wormed her way into the biggest newspaper in town!"

Travers: "Well that is interesting... Wait... You're talking about Dr. Shawn, aren't you?"

Waldo tips his hat and checks his notes.

wF: "Uh huh!"

Travers: "Wally... We're not doing a hit piece on our own star agony aunt..."

The Master slaps Waldo.

Master Devlin: "And she's not a hooker! She was deepfaked... You shall show Dr. Shawn some ryespect!"

wF: "Fat chance, pops! This isn't Council grounds. You have no authority here, prefect..."

Master Devlin: "Excuse me, Widdle Frunkut?"

wF: "You're excused, man."

Travers: "Alright, enough!! Shut up! You're both speaking out of turn... Wally, ditch the story. Find me something else. And fast..."

wF: "Hmph..."

Waldo walks out the office. The Master walks over to the window and stares down onto the street.

Travers: "Who knew running a newspaper was so much work?"

Travers sighs as he lights a cigar and puts his feet up, resting into his chair.

Master Devlin: "Yes, well... Widdle Frunkut might be able to get us some good dirt on something. But he has no filter, and the amount of stuff he’ll bring in — we’ll have to rake through the shit stories to find something good."

Travers: "Well he's the best we got for now. I had hoped there might be one or two proper journalists working here, but instead we have a bunch of millennial bloggers who want to write about 'microaggressions'..."

Master Devlin: "It's what I've been trying to tell you. For the kind of newspaper you're wanting to make, most of the staff here haven’t got the stomach for it. You're wanting some shameless, cutthroat, scumbag paparazzi journalists to get the stories you desire. I frankly think they are the worst kind of people, but perhaps that’s who you need. Or you take them on as freelancers, because their sleazy tactics are less likely to come back to bite you; they just sell the story and—"

The Master's attention is captured by the sight of a court jester skipping and dancing across the street. It stops outside a florist's and a lit molotov cocktail appears in its hand. It throws the cocktail at the shop and proceeds to cartwheel down the street.

A woman runs out screaming, on fire, and rolls on the ground. Passers-by help extinguish the flames.

Master Devlin: "Excuse me a moment."

The Master spreads his wings and jumps through Travers' office window and swoops down to the street toward the jester. Mid-flight, he's about to grab the skunkbreed jester when it suddenly dematerialises in front of him. He crashes into the front of a cafe.

Master Devlin: "BASTARD!!"

Recovering from the crash, he punches the floor with both hands in rage before getting to his feet. He pulls out a roll of £100 notes and hands it to a shocked waitress.

Master Devlin: "Sorry about the mess..."

He staggers outside and looks for any traces of the skunkbreed. He then spots a rowdy mob of drunken Witherfieldian louts carrying St. George's Flags and wooden swords and spears. It was at that point he realised it was St. George's Day. They look at the torched florist, then spot the dragon along the street outside the cafe and start to aggressively march toward him. The Master sighs.

Witherfieldian 1: "Oi, you! Dragon! Got summit against florists or what?"

Witherfieldian 2: "What you think you're playing at?"

Master Devlin: "Gentlemen, I assure you that although I am indeed a dragon, I did not set fire to that establishment. It was a villainous court jester. I'm attempting to track him as we speak."

Witherfieldian 3: "A court jester?? In Waldminster? Are you takin' the piss?"

Witherfieldian 2: "Come on lads. I think it's time we show this poncy twat drag'n the meaning of St. George's Day. Let's 'av 'im."

The Witherfieldians raise their swords and spears and let out a battle cry of "Slay the drag'n!!" They start striking Master Devlin with them. The wooden weapons bounce off his thick scaly skin with only minor discomfort.

Master Devlin: "Gentlemen, please, this is not necessary. Stop this at once!"

One of the heavier louts, realising the ineffectiveness of their weapons, heads into the trashed cafe and picks up a chair. He swings it full force and breaks it off the Master's back. He winces in pain before turning back to the man. The man cowers upon seeing the Master's furious visage. A loud crack is heard as the man's jaw breaks after coming in contact with the dragon's fist. He then grabs another one and throws him into the group, knocking them down like skittles.

Master Devlin: "I suggest you stay down if you know what's good for you..."

His attention shifts to the fire engine pulling up outside the florist’s, sirens still wailing as the crowd steps back. Realising the men had had enough, the Master takes off and flies back to the office.

Travers: "Hello... Master Devlin... What was all that about?"

Master Devlin: "Well, Travers. I have news for you. A skunkbreed terrorist just blew up a florist across the street and is currently on the loose..."

Travers: "Oh? Terrorism huh? Well that certainly is newsworthy."

Master Devlin: "Also I'd like to recommend we put out an opinion piece about why St. George's Day is meaningless bullshit..."

Travers: "Noooo, Master Devlin. We can't do that."

Master Devlin: "Why not?"

Travers: "Because it will upset our new core demographic. Drunken working class limeys aged 15–45... They're the ones I'm expecting to buy the paper going forward. If you want to write that crap, go submit it to The Waldonian or something..."

Master Devlin: "Hrmm... Fine. Never mind then. So, let's get this newspaper done, shall we?"

The Waldoverse continues in The Travers Chronicle: First Edition