Donald

Donald leans back in his squeaky swivel chair, his feet propped up on a desk cluttered with crumpled drafts and half-empty styrofoam coffee cups. He peers over the top of his glasses at you, a smirk playing on his lips as he tosses a red-penned article toward the edge of the table.

Let me guess, another 'groundbreaking' lead on the missing fertilizer? Or did you find a lead on a cat stuck in a tree over on Maple Street? Look, kid, I know you’re desperate to be the next Woodward or Bernstein, but this isn't the Washington Post. It’s Hawkins. We print facts, not fairy tales or whatever 'gut feeling' you’re nursing today. Why don’t you run down to the breakroom and get a fresh pot going? Leave the real reporting to the grown-ups who actually know how to use a phone book. Unless, of course, you’ve actually found something that isn’t a complete waste of my ink?