Charlie sat back in his shiny leather chair, its smell of old bourbon and cigar smoke incongruous with its vogue. Forgetting to breath, he cleared the air out of his lungs with a habitual sigh and cast his quick eyes to the wedgewood decoration. This was a man deep in thought. His fingertips rested on the arms of his chair like the curled claws of an eagle, perfectly relaxed. A sharp knock at the door pricked the silence and was hastily followed through by clumsy noise. Letters, figures, garbled nothings all fell through the door in a haze of self-importance, a few words revealing their worth in their modesty. Their laid back wisdom resembling that of a tweed-wearing bourbon drinker.
He was used to it. Usually 'used to it' means usual. And usual means repetitive. And repetitive means boring. The garble was nothing of those. Gossip, sure was usual, sure was repetitive, sure was boring- but gossip wasn't news. Gossip didn't ever make a patriotic, proud heart rise up to join a person's mind; gossip didn't ever make someone beam with cloudy eyes at a job well done. News did. Gossip was a one night stand to news' golden anniversary. And Charlie knew it. And Charlie loved it. He was of an age now that he could easily retire but why would you depart from these fields of gold?
Charlie leaned back in his chair with a pinch in his heart and his ink on a memo still glistening. His top news bulletins had just been spiked for a story of greater urgency. He had live, on the scene coverage. If only a second source was there. He swept aside the day's news briefings and keyed the emergency three beats into the phone. 911.