Note: People, stop calling him evil. He’s not evil. He’s just a reporter.
Addendum: an evil reporter
Addendum: A regular reporter.
Addendum: Elmer season
Once upon a time, there was an evil reporter. (Addendum: a regular reporter! Addendum: no, defs evil – patterns) He was from a small, no-name town in the backwaters of California, and he wanted to know everything there was to know about all of the inhabitants of that sleepy little town. (Addendum: You guys, it’s just called Littlefield.) And so he watched. And he waited. And he followed people into their homes. Sometimes, when they were sleeping, he would watch from the windows, peering in to see what they kept on their desks and dressers. If they were to wake, he would lean in and whisper, “go back to sleep. It’s only the wind.”
And he would photograph them, and collect files on them, collating notes, scanning old receipts. He would go through their trash and print off any public records on them. He lived for gossip; he always stood just out of sight, waiting for someone to let a juicy detail slip. And he knew things, so many things, about all of his neighbors. Oh, he would publish an article, from time to time, but that wasn’t enough for him. No, he wanted more. His pinboard collages weren’t enough for him, anymore, his carefully curated recordings, his neatly typed manila folders with the names of everyone in town going back five generations. But only so much was of interest to the rag that employed him.
And so he stalked to the roof one night. He screamed to the heavens. Rain poured down. Lightning flashed. And when he was struck by a particularly powerful bolt, it was no ordinary lightning – it glowed the sickly green of radiation, and held steady for an hour or more. (Note: Randall, seriously, you have got to stop reading that tripe.)
And what powers did he gain? Why every power known to man or god, of course, and some known only to the whispers between the stars themselves, knowledge lost forever to the deeps of space, echoing back too slowly from the walls of the ever expanding universe.
(Addendum: Randall, really? Addendum: Not actually Randall that time; that lovely sentence is courtesy of Mic, who had the misfortune of meeting Evil Reporter and Slightly Less Evil But Still Sinister Journalism Student during sweeps. Addendum: Mic reads too much SF and/or physics, not sure which. Note: Mic wrote that sentence??? What are we, exquisite corpsing this shit now???)
(Note: In the interest of making clear, here, Evil Reporter does not in fact have every power known to man. So far as we can isolate, he has charisma, some sort of honesty/babbling type power, x-ray vision (Addendum: not an accurate name Note: Shut up Jameson no one cares), and basically every memory enhancement under the sun. (Addendum: You SEE?? EVERYTHING UNDER THE SUN.) He also has access to a fair amount of memetic equipment, but there’s no way most of that is without some sort of technological aid.)
And never was the Evil Reporter the same again. He had POWER now, and could no longer be confined by the dreary manacles of small town life.
AND SO HE MOVED TO OUR FAIR CITY. THIS IS WHERE WE BEGIN OUR TALE.
(Note: Yeah, our tale began a while ago. Also, this is not a tale. This is an indecent report. Addendum: incident report. Addendum: Caught that before I sumbitted it, thanks.)
Winter, in our fair city. The dead of night. Now.
The Evil Reporter stalks the city streets, hungry, ever hungry, for a tale worth telling, a tale that will line his pockets and fill his cabinets, a tale that will bring him renown.
Or better yet, a tale he will take to his grave.
(Addendum: Smoke, when you do that, no one can tell whether it’s a threat or hyperbole. If so, thanks, we get it, he likes to know things for the sake of knowing them. Otherwise, no stalking, bad.)
Now the Evil Reporter comes upon a fair maiden in the blush of youth. Now the Evil Reporter feeds her lies, plying her for shards of truth. Now the Evil Reporter whispers love in her ear, now the Evil Reporter plays on her fears. (Addendum: Now the Evil Reporter sees through her clothes. What? With that power, no one ever knows.) Now the Evil Reporter demands of her facts, now the Evil Reporter yearns to learn of Evil Acts. (Note: Is this really how we’re playing this? She slapped him; it’s not like she was some sort of ingénue.) (Addendum: click for video of slapfighting bliss; it deserves love and view after view after view. Addendum: dance remix is life)
And then, of course, there was the time that he secretly videotaped that interview, like it wasn’t at all important to blur everything out for, oh, I don’t know, secret identities reasons, and then leaked it onto YouTube and we had to do a time jump. (Addendum: reclassified level 6-;::) (Note: for all interested parties, yes the actual file concerning that is locked, no you cannot request it, and there’s not actually anything interesting in there, we just swapped out half a dozen body doubles) (Addendum: gots to protect the timeline – patterns)
Addendum: Correction, guys, and then, of course, there was that time the Evil Reporter nearly destroyed the space time continuum by secretly videotaping an interview, apparently.
He went through my bag once.
Did he know you were watching him?
I wasn’t watching him. I don’t think he even knew I worked here.
Wait, went through it, like pawed through it with his Evil Hands? Why didn’t he just look through it with his cross-sectional perception?
Why would he infiltrate the Oscars just to look at all the winners early?
Why would he steal doodles from senators? Addendum: I think he was aiming for minutes, or at least relevant notes or something.
Why would he sort through the entire trash of the Met?
So, there he is, the Evil Reporter, snug tight in his very favorite locker in the locker room of the