A Friendly Visit
The following takes place following: The BOAC Scoop
The Waldopolis Chronicle — Sep 12, 2024, 11:47
The Master emerges from the lavatory with his catalogue, leaving a horrendous stench that quickly spreads throughout the office. The smell reaches Travers. His moustache begins to tremble, followed by his whole body. He looks like he is having a seizure. Ermintrude, who is standing next to him, starts to turn green. She calmly reaches into a nearby filing cabinet and sprays an air freshener aerosol around the room in an attempt to mask the smell.
The Master walks back into the Editor’s office.
Master Devlin: “I do apologise, Ermintrude. It was curry night yesterday down at the Sasshole Lounge. Mr Travers insisted that we go there.”
Travers: “Good Ed! Master Devlin, that was atrocious…”
Travers tries to mask it with cigar smoke as the Master sits back down in the corner. There’s a buzz on the tannoy. Ermintrude answers. It’s the slug-lady receptionist, Rosalind, from downstairs.
Roz: “Miss Maine-Anjou, I have a Mr James McDonald from the government here to see the Editor-in-Chief.”
Ermintrude: “Just a minute, please.”
Master Devlin: “James McDonald? How do I know that name? Is that not the PM’s new spin doctor?”
Ermintrude: “Yes, he is. The Director of Communications.”
Travers: “I hear he’s quite ferocious. Like a caged badger on cocaine.”
Master Devlin: “Well, we are both Scottish — maybe he’ll go easy on me. Besides, there is little he can do to the press. He’s probably looking to find out how we came about this information Waldo stole.”
Travers: “Scottish? Wally told me you were Dutch-Irish... or maybe it was French-Welsh...”
Master Devlin: 😤
Travers: “No matter. Send him on up.”
A few minutes later Jamie McDonald steps out of the lift and walks into the bustling office, only to be greeted by a stench that hits him like a brick wall. Jamie grimaces but quickly composes himself as he approaches Ermintrude's desk. He recognises her instantly from Page 7. With a smirk, he leans in slightly.
Jamie: “Ermintrude, isn’t it? Gotta say, I’m a huge fan of your political coverage page. Truly... inspirational work.”
Ermintrude, good-natured and blissfully unaware of the condescension in his tone, beams at the compliment.
Ermintrude: (sincerely) “Thank you, Mr McDonald! That means a lot coming from someone like you.”
Jamie nods, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Jamie: “Aye... politics and tits on the same page — real public service journalism. And, hey, the writing’s not too bad either. Now, if you’ll excuse me, love, I need to have a word with your boss.”
Without waiting for a response, Jamie strides confidently into Travers' office. The goblin and dragon look up as Jamie enters.
Travers: “Hello! You must be Mr McDonald. I’m Harris Travers, Editor-in-Chief, national treasure and star of the Waldoverse. This is my Deputy Editor, Master Devlin.”
Jamie nods to the Master.
Jamie: “Alright?”
The Master nods back, then lights one of Travers' cigars and silently takes a draw.
Travers: “So, Mr McDonald. What can we do for you?”
Jamie: “Just a friendly visit, lads. Thought I’d drop by to see if we could have a little chat about that juicy story you’re cooking up. You know, the one that’s bound to cause quite the stir.”
Travers leans back in his chair, his expression guarded.
Travers: “We’re a newspaper, Mr McDonald. Stirring the pot is what we do.”
Jamie: “Aye, I get that. But you see, there’s stirring the pot, and then there’s throwing a grenade into it. I’m here to make sure we all don’t get splattered when it blows.”
Travers: “I’m not the one who pulled the pin, Mr McDonald. Thirty million pounds being misallocated is your mess, not ours. And then there’s the small matter of the cover-up attempt. That’s not something we can ignore.”
Jamie: “No one's suggesting you ignore it. I'm simply trying to find a way we can help each other.”
Travers: “Help how?”
Jamie: “You know, the usual. Exclusive access. First tell me what you know and then we can talk.”
Travers: “Friendly visit, huh? Alright. It seems the brain trust over at B.O.A.C. supposedly managed to gift £30 million in taxpayer money to build the Masters Council a new luxury sauna and then they tried to fudge the numbers to cover it up. We have a wealth of documentation to prove it.”
Jamie: “Well, that sounds like quite a scandal...”
Jamie turns his gaze to Devlin.
Jamie: “And if that were true, I imagine the government would be expecting that money back. It's not like the Council need it.”
Travers: “Funny thing is, my deputy here — who I'm sure you're aware is a member of the Masters Council — says they've received no such gift...”
Jamie: “Eh?”
Travers: “That's right. Apparently the Masters Council hasn’t gone through any kind of renovations. Nor does it have any plans for a sauna. It’s just the same old dump. Ain’t that right, Master Devlin?”
The Master gives Travers a slightly disgruntled look.
Master Devlin: “Well, yes, sort of right, apart from the ‘dump’ part. But yes, I checked this afternoon. The Masters’ Council hasn’t received any such thing. So your £30 million is unaccounted for. This could mean a couple of things: either your government minister is a moron and has lost these funds down the pisser; or you have been deliberately misled, and the corruption runs deeper.”
Jamie is clearly caught off guard. His fake smile drops. He leans in, voice cold and threatening.
Jamie: “Are you taking the piss? Because if this is some kind of sick joke, it’s not fucking funny.”
Travers: “No joke.”
Jamie: “Alright, enough fucking around. I want to know where you got this story in the first place, and I want to know right fucking now.”
Travers: “What are you kidding? We’re not divulging our sources. So, Mr Director of Communications... care to make an official comment on the missing £30 million?”
Jamie: “No comment. But off the record? Let’s just say, Travers, that there are things in this world that should stay buried. You run that story, and you’ll find out exactly what I mean.”
Master Devlin: “Is that some kind of threat, McDonald? We print the truth. If that’s inconvenient for you, maybe you should retire this career. You are supposed to be a spin doctor. But I’ll be honest — Mr Travers and I aren’t impressed.”
Travers: “No, we certainly are not. Besides, what’s the worst you can do? Launch a smear campaign? We’re journalists, Mr McDonald. We invented smear campaigns.”
Jamie: “Oh, I don’t need to smear you. I just need to remind you what happens when people poke their noses where they don’t belong. How’d you like your ad revenue to dry up tomorrow? I can make the Chronicle so unpopular you’ll be handing it out for free at the fucking bus station.”
Travers: “Uh-huh. Well, it was nice meeting you, but we should really get back to work. Big story to publish…”
Jamie: “This is your last chance. Drop the fucking story before I punch a hole in that smug little face of yours...”
The Master silently stands up and steps forward, towering over Jamie.
Master Devlin: “You’re welcome to try. But just remember, Mr McDonald, I am responsible for Mr Travers here, and I don’t take kindly to threats. Now, I think you’d best be running along. I reckon you have a government minister you need to speak to.”
Jamie backs up towards the door but still snarls.
Jamie: “Alright, fine then. You want to play it that way, you got it. But you will fucking rue the day you crossed me. You think you’re Woodward and Bernstein, but you’re just a couple of clueless cunts with a word processor and a death wish. If you so much as think about hitting ‘publish’ on that pile of horse shit you call a story, I will personally make it my life’s mission to ensure you’re so unemployable that the only paper you'll be able to work for is caked in Rupert Murdoch’s spunk. Fuck you both.”
With that, Jamie storms out, slamming the door behind him. Travers and the Master exchange a look, and then chuckle.
Travers lights another cigar.
Master Devlin: “He’s all bark and no bite. Just like the rest of them. But we should get to work on publishing the exposé as soon as possible before they can come clean and throw the minister under the bus.”
Travers: “What’s the rush? Plenty of time to make the morning paper.”
Master Devlin: “We need it online now—before Fiona Malone slips away with a resignation letter. If she quits first, the story loses half its punch.”
Travers: “Bah. Online... Nothing beats a morning headline. Let them stew. If we drop it now, she resigns—sure. But where’s the fun in that? We want squirming. We want maximum humiliation.”
Master Devlin: “You’re suggesting we delay this for your amusement? This isn’t gossip about a minister shagging her aide. It’s a government scandal—public funds vanished, and they tried to bury it. People deserve to know their money’s been pissed away.”
Travers: “I’m saying we wait because we’re not just breaking news—we’re crafting it. Any clown with a smartphone can post a scoop. But what we do is an artform, Master Devlin.”
The Waldoverse continues in Jaywalking