Beppppp. Bep bep bep. Here is my paper note pad and here is my pen, in my mouth along with the note pad. Hello I’m here for the interview. A real professional, live on the scene.

Now let me ask you, ma’am: where where you when it happened? Who and why? Give me phone receiver, also in my mouth, as well! The Berlin Wall! I hear the sound of talking! News man coming through live and full color!

Who’s a black sheep? What’s a black sheep? I will get to the bottom of this with grit and elbow grease and moccasins on my feet and a pep in my step. Yes, hello, a wild man is here to see Mr. Rogers, I believe he is expecting me. As you can see I have brought along a jar of journals and my sidekick Pepe, the inchworm who increases my skills. No dodging the questions today. Is it true, sir? Is it true what they are saying out there? Pepe, he’s escaping—inch after him, microphone glued to your flexible back!

What’s the angular? Where’s the periscope? Who is peeping on the secret committee men? Is it I, a slick-haired Clark Kent eating a half-melted Clark bar I snatched from an unsanitary streetside bin? I’ll never tell.

If you’re the nail, sir, then I’m the hammer. Here I come with my pencil writing out what can only be described as the truth. Pitter-patter following you even as you sleep? It’s only the haunting sound of me, ace investigator, fella of the first order, trailing you to discover how you roam. Where do you rest, sir? What do you eat, sir? If it is waffles, may I have some?

Sir, some waffles?

Stop the presses! Press the stops! It’s time to cross the street and talk with the average chicken. What’s your take here? What’s the old scoop, mister? Which way is the wind blowing and where’s the odorous straight poop? I know the lay of the land. I eat at the tables of power and other tables too. I eat at the floor and the underground sources. Someone put a newspaper into my crowded mouth—now!

Yes, Mr. President, thank you for taking my question. Argle bargle here, from the Bugle Gazette Top Trumpet Daily of the Moon. Woo woo woo woo woo. And now I wait, sir. A woo woo woo woo woo I say. The people deserve an answer. The people deserve an entire package of Jimmy Dean frozen sausage links, browned in a skillet for three to five minutes and doused in a bottle of syrup. I can wait all day, sir. Watch me wait.

I didn’t get into this for the approbations and the applauseum. This business is in my blood. Chase the story! Chase the ball! Chase the car! Chase the butterfly! Snatch the butterfly’s scaly wing in my snarling incisors! Crunch the butterfly’s exoskeleton triumphantly! Eat the butterfly and lick my lips. And then, if there’s not an old discarded hot dog bun to be found underneath one of the picnic tables, it’s time for the next butterfly. That’s how I’m working here. With my hat and my trenchcoat I prowl the happening places in search of only the finest information and old gristle. I’m a news machine, baby. Ooo! I live for whatever this is.

[Image by Jim Cooke]