51,112 Words and I... AM... DONE!!!

Yay! First, an apology. I have fallen behind on the blogs because I have been so busy with wrapping up my novel and so depressed by it, but finally finished today in a marathon writing session which work kept getting in the way of. I also really didn't have anything to post because I didn't want to give anything away and also, it hasn't been very fun or interesting. Ugh. Anyway, here is one short excerpt, and then I'm off to read Katie and Heather's blogs. Enjoy!

Jake and Gordon drove into Black Wood, the whine of the car’s engine dissolving into sputtering coughs as an unhealthy looking black smoke poured from the tail pipe. It was the White Rabbit’s last ride, and it had been glorious. As they had taken the exit toward Black Wood, Gordon had asked Jake, “do you have a preferred entrance song?” to which Jake had naturally replied, “what the fuck are you talking about?”
“You know, like when you are making a dramatic entrance, what is your song?” Jake continued to look at Gordon with an incredulous look on his face, but the impact of his look was greatly reduced by the fact that he also had to keep his eye on the road. This was precisely why he hated driving so much! Truthfully, Jake did have a preferred entrance song, he was simply having an internal debate about whether or not he wanted to share this information with Gordon. Gordon, sensing that he had lost Jake, continued to speak.
“I think that this moment calls for an entrance song, as we are clearly entering into a dangerous situation in which we are armed with the facts and about to make a daring rescue attempt against all odds.” Gordon said, pouting slightly. He greatly hoped that Jake’s overinflated sense of his own masculinity would not interfere with his dramatic entrance. Jake was moved by Gordon’s speech.
“Ok…” he said, pausing, “I have always imagined myself entering a press conference to the song ‘Let it Rock’, by Kevin Rudolph and featuring Lil Wayne.” This was only half the story, as he also imagined all of the other reporters cheering and pumping their fists in time to the music, and creating a line of high fives for him to run through. Jake had always wanted to run through a line of high fives, but the nearest he had come to this experience had been during his days of playing Timbits soccer, when he ran through his own high five. But Gordon got the picture. Oh yes, indeed.
“Triumphant, Jake!” Gordon actually clapped his hands in glee at this revelation. “What a perfect choice, however, given the intrigue and mystery surrounding this situation we have unwittingly found ourselves in, might I suggest…. ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’ by Coolio? Please don’t consider Coolio’s misguided sartorial choices as you weigh out this option, it truly captures the mood, I think.” Jake briefly considered this, then lifted his fist to shoulder height. Gordon was certain that Jake was about to punch him in the face, until Jake said “pound it out.” They bumped fists, and then made an exploding gesture with their fingers. It was the closest Gordon had ever come to being accepted, and he had tears in his eyes as he pulled out the Dangerous Minds soundtrack that he had packed in advance.
And so it was that as Jake and Gordon made the final turn onto Slanted Road, the top down on the dying white rabbit, the opening strains of “Gangsta’s Paradise’ could be heard throughout the town of Black Wood, Ontario, the sound of a string orchestra against a hip hop beat lending an eerie tone to the darkened street. All of the residents who heard the sound felt their hearts uplifted, as two unlikely heroes rode to the rescue, courage in their hearts and he bonds of fellowship that had been forged between them making them strong.

45,237 Words... The End is Coming?

I have no idea how my novel will possibly be over in 5,000 words. I am seriously going to have to make some things happen. What I had imagined happening throughout the entire book at the beginning is now going to happen in 5,000 words. In any case, one way or the other, it will be over in 3 days.
I have a couple of excerpts for you, trying not to reveal too much, not that anything much is happening, but my characters are figuring things out... too bad I don't really know what is going on!
First, here is Alice and Jackie...

“I’m not sure. I believe they are hiding. I believe they feel, as you do, that the storm is about to break. I believe these people have learned the hard way to steer clear. I hope that’s what it is. The truth is, though at some point we may have to care, we are going to have to set them aside for now. What’s comin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does…” Jackie finished, a far off look in his eyes.
Words cannot describe how Alice felt as she heard these words, but I will try anyway. First, she felt annoyed to once again hear what she considered the completely forgettable line from Hagrid’s film, The Devil’s Lube. Its ubiquity never failed to astonish her and irritate her in equal measure. Second, it once again brought back memories of Jake, and his insistence on speaking the line in his wretched version of Hagrid’s thick West Country accent. Third, the actual meaning of the words, which she felt had been lost in the shockingly underwhelming context of ‘The Devil’s Lube’ finally struck home. She knew, as she contemplated Jackie’s words, that she would find the courage to face whatever was coming, but most importantly, Jackie had used the word ‘we’, and for perhaps the first time in her life, Alice had someone to share her burden. She wasn’t quite sure yet that he was a friend, and maybe he wasn’t, but they were in this together.
She smiled, tears in her eyes as she outwardly calmly managed the emotion that was overwhelming her on the inside. “Ok,” she said, “I’m ready. Tell me what we’re up against.”

Second excerpt... on to Jake and Gordon...

“This doesn’t make any sense” Gordon intoned, for what was perhaps the fiftieth time that day, as he rummaged through the papers. Jake and Gordon were well over halfway toward their destination of Black Wood, Ontario. Jake had been pressing the pedal of his 1986 white convertible Volkswagen Rabbit to the floor the entire way. This was considerably less impressive than it sounds. Jake had bought the car on a whim, in a fit of nostalgia over the movie “Can’t Buy Me Love,” one of Jake’s all time favourites. The car had not been in ‘mint’ condition at the time of purchase, in 2005, and it certainly had not improved with age. He rarely drove, and when he did, it was usually short distances and typically under duress. Jake suspected, and was quite right, that if the classic car that the film had made the most popular car for teenage girls for 1987, 1989, and 1990, made it to its destination, it would be its last hurrah. Even as the pedal touched the floor, the car was barely making 70 kilometers an hour.
A particularly aggressive driver in a red Nissan Juke had been so incensed by Jake’s highway speed that he had slowed down as he passed the Rabbit, rolled down his window, and yelled something incoherent. Jake had been glad to not understand the advice the driver was offering, but even happier when Gordon had unceremoniously flipped the man the bird. Gordon was a much better road trip mate than he had imagined he could be. Despite this, Jake was losing his patience with Gordon’s repetitious denial of the sensibility of the facts they continued to uncover as Gordon waded through the documents they had taken from the underground archives.
“Okay, let’s just both agree that none of this,” Jake gestured at everything within range “makes sense, and move past it. What have you found out?

43,520 Words.... Iyiyiy am getting nowhere!

Aaaaahhhhh... my story is proceeding at a snail's pace, but I have all the pieces lined up, and now they will start to fall. I think. Unless I somehow manage to spend the bulk of my word count on describing outfits. Here are a couple of excerpts that I think you will enjoy. I had to include both because I couldn't decide which one to include.

Jackie did not rise from the armchair, but instead took a moment to straighten the doily on the left arm, whilst commenting in a surly voice “can’t you read?”
Alice was a bit taken aback, both by his words and the barely concealed aggression beneath them. “Uh… I did see that you were closed, but I hoped…”
“No! Not that one, the other one!” He said, pointing to a small handwritten sign that was taped to the window at the front of the house. Alice approached the sign, and saw that she would have had to have been standing on the front lawn of the home/bar in order to read it. She could just make out the words as she approached the glass, though she was reading backwards. It said ‘This Ain’t The Hilton.” She straightened up, then bent back down, rereading the words just to make sure she had them right. What a strange place this was!
Jackie was looking at her expectantly, and she realized that he expected her to understand the meaning of the sign. She decided to go with asking the obvious.
“Why would I think this place was the Hilton?” she asked.
“You tell me, City Slicker,” he replied. Alice was indeed confused. She looked down at herself, to see if there was any hint that she might have given that a) she was a city slicker, and b) that she was looking for the Hilton. She was dressed casually, in acid washed jorts, a graphic t, and a fitted red hoodie, artfully faded to add to its casual allure. She had purchased the outfit at a local boutique in Toronto, called “Iyiyiy Am Wearing You!” just for the purposes of traveling incognito throughout small town Ontario. The small blond imp who ran the store had assured her she would blend in perfectly. Perhaps she shouldn’t have taken his second piece of advice, which was that when you were feeling conspicuous, the perfect cover was to pull out your phone and text someone… ‘1-4-3’ being the perfect text to send when words failed you under pressure. Alice knew in her heart that pulling out her phone and texting someone was bad form, and she was reasonably certain that she it would not make her less conspicuous under these circumstances, but she had gone ahead and done it anyway upon entering the bar. Damn her infernal nerves! And damn the blond imp with the adorable dimples! It was the last time she took advice on how to behave socially from a 12 year old.

And the second excerpt...

If there was one thing that Joanne didn’t want to hear about, it was the importance of love. But she had heard what she needed to. They weren’t planning on using the research for their doctoral dissertations. Joanne was sick to death of self-important blowbags coming in here and acting like their doctoral research was life or death. They never wanted to hear about her Master’s thesis, and sneered in the face of her credentials. If there was one thing on earth that Joanne hated worse than people who misunderstood the Dewey decimal system, it was doctoral students. She had heard everything she needed to.
“Okay. You can take the documents.” Jake and Gordon both breathed a huge sigh of relief. “BUT!” Joanne pronounced loudly, her finger raised didactically in the air “…so help me God, if you do not come back here within 24 hours with those documents with you, INTACT,” she issued a warning glare with this word, “I will not hesitate to contact my union president and I will complain bitterly.” Jake and Gordon had no doubt that Joanne had every intention of doing so. Librarians were well known for not being afraid to go straight to the top with their bitter complaints. They nodded vigorously, scooped up the documents, and fled to the elevator before Joanne had the opportunity to change her mind.
Gordon pressed the button to the top floor, the location of the offices of To(Ron)To(!).
“What are you doing??”Jake asked, chagrined. “We need to get to the lobby! We have to get out of here!” he cried. He was truly panicking in his desperation to get to Alice.
“I have a couple of things in my office I just have to grab. It will only take a moment.” Gordon said mysteriously. When they reached his office, Jake was trailing behind him and whining like a sulky child. “Enough!” Gordon said imperiously. “I cannot travel like this.” Jake raised his eyebrows. “I must change.” Jake was slightly grateful for this. Though being embarrassed by Gordon’s gothic creepy demeanour was the last thing he was thinking about, he would feel better traveling with a companion who minimally appeared slightly less insane than the situation they were racing to encounter. He took a seat and waited as patiently as he could while Gordon slinked into his office.
True to his word, Gordon was quick. He must have had what he referred to as his ‘traveling garb’ packed and ready for just such an occasion as this. Strange behavior, but this was to be expected by To(Ron)To’s brilliant but incredible strange editor. His ‘traveling garb’ consisted of a blue tank top (a tank top!?!) with a white triangle pattern and white trim, paired with grey sweatpants that were more tailored and fitted than any sweatpants Jake had ever seen before (and this was saying something, as at one point in his life, Jake had considered himself something of a sweatpants aficionado.) Finally, Gordon was wearing a pair of bright white sneakers that were obviously just out of the box. They had eyelets for laces, but no laces. Must have been slip-ons, Jake mused.
“I thought it best to try something new for this road trip. The cape is a poorly understood item of clothing, and I believe it is our desire to appear inconspicuous. The young gentleman at “Iyiyiy Am Wearing You” assured me that this outfit is de rigeur among the farming communities of Southern Ontario.” Jake highly doubted this, but there was no time to argue. But he made a mental note to check out this boutique Gordon had spoken of. It sounded like the young gentleman really knew his shit. It was then that Jake noticed the leather bound volume that Gordon had tucked under his arm.
“What is that?” he asked, though he had his suspicions that he knew exactly what it was.
“It is my doctoral dissertation.” As always, Gordon pronounced this ‘doc-TOR-al’. “Just in case.” He said, and with that… they were off, to parts unknown and quite possibly to one or both of their dooms.

40,046.... A New Alliance...

Wow, I did not want to write today... and man, no idea how I'm going to wrap this up in 10,000 words, but I've really got no choice. So close to the end now, I really can't wait to be done!
So, Jake continues to search for clues and today formed an unexpected alliance.

Jake popped his head into Gordon’s office, intent on controlling the conversation this time around. “Hey Boss, got a second?” he asked. Gordon primly looked back at Jake, and opened his mouth to launch into what surely would have been a lengthy diatribe about the meaninglessness of time as a measure of anything, given the fluidity of reality. Jake anticipated this move, however, and used a countermove of his own. He interrupted.
“Great. So listen, first I’m going to need access to the basement floors, as I need to do some research.” Gordon looked at him agog, this was a word that Gordon would have used, and Jake cursed his internal narrator for choosing it at this moment but this was not a time for internal reverie. It was a time for action.
Indeed Gordon was surprised at Jake’s request, because the historical archives located on the bottom three floors were rarely used by any of the reporters, least of all those on the sports beat. Jake once again interrupted before Gordon had a chance to speak.
“Ok, awesome, and second, I’m going to need to take a leave of absence, so get someone else to cover my articles. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” A voice inside his head said I don’t know if I’ll ever be coming back, but he ignored it, as he was not a man prone to flights of fancy.
Jake paused expectantly hoping for a simple yes, Jake, here’s the key to the archives, and yes take all the time you need. What he expected on the other hand, was either a series of relevant, hard hitting and difficult to answer questions, or a lengthy soliloquy with little relevance to anything. What greeted him instead was a protracted silence, though Jake was happy to see Gordon reach into his desk to retrieve the key to the archives. After a long pause, Gordon spoke.
“First, a leave of absence will be no problem, since we will not be covering the sports beat for the next few issues, maybe even weeks. We’re up to our eyeballs here in the shitstorm that has emerged with the shock engagement of Avril Lavigne and Chad Kroeger. I have to dedicate at least one entire article to educating the unwashed masses about the correct pronunciation of the rock legend’s name, the prime minister has asked us to run a full page photograph of the Canadian homegrown supergroup receiving the Order of Canada, accompanied by a pleading note to name him as Best Man at what is sure to be the wedding of the year, if not the decade (yes I am including the Royal Wedding in this assessment). I think also that this is the moment we’ve been waiting for to write a stunning expose on the role of mommy bloggers in the both the election of the prime minister AND the decision to award said Order of Canada to the much maligned Canadian supergroup, as well as the connection of these events to the complete and utter demise of Paul Martin as a public figure in this country.” Gordon pause to take a breath. He indeed seemed to have his hands full. “So, I guess that yet another article bemoaning the state of Toronto sports teams will not be missed.”
Jake disagreed on that score. Gordon obviously didn’t understand the rabid nature of Toronto sports fans, nor did he understand the extent to which they are reliant on a steady diet of cynicism, bitterness, and disappointment. But Jake had bigger problems than the peculiarities of Toronto sports fans and the media outlets that serve them. He needed to find out more about what exactly Alice was mixed up in, where he could find her, and how he could help. Jake remained silent, and waited for Gordon to finish.
“Now,” Gordon continued, “with regards to your other request, I have two questions. Does this have to do with Alice?” Jake nodded. Gordon nodded back, considered for a moment, then responded. “Okay. My next question is… how can I help?”

38,392 Words... Things are Progressing

Hey everyone, my writing has been progressing, as I said previously, I have a lot to fit in in the last week of writing but it hasn't been particularly fun or interesting. A lot of it is dark and kind of sad, or kind of boring. I haven't had any fun little excerpts, though I expect I will have some more in the future as there will be some surprising collaborations as the story nears its conclusion. Here is an excerpt showing I guess how emotionally invested Alice is in both Jake and her dog, Queenie. I'm trying to make someone, anyone care that something terrible is happening to them.

Queenie once again whined deep in the back of her throat, a low sound in the dark car. All of a sudden Alice was struck by a memory so vivid it took her very breath away.
She remembered the moment she had realized that she was in love with Jake. It had been at the office, and she had been hard at work at her cubicle, lost in the story she was pursing, its twists and turns having pulled her far away from the real world for a time. What pulled her back was the sound of laughter. She had looked over and had seen Jake at the office coffee maker, which as in many office spaces had become the unofficial gathering spot. Around Jake were three or four other reporters, Alice didn’t even notice who they were. Jake, as he always did, had them in thrall. He was recounting a story, she couldn’t hear the words and she didn’t know what he was saying, but she could hear the soft rise and fall of his voice, and she could see the way people listened to him. He just had a way about him that drew people in.
It was because she had been so far away that she was struck in that moment, her normal defenses lowered. Luckily for Alice, she couldn’t see what she looked like as she watched Jake, because she truly looked gormless, with her head tilted to the side, and a look of such love on her face; it was as wide open as she had ever been in life. At that moment Jake caught sight of her, and in that way he had, though he was across the room and talking to a group of people, he made her feel like she was the only person in the room that mattered. He smiled at her, a secret smile just for her. In that moment, Alice realized that she loved him. Giving in to that feeling was just about the easiest thing she had ever done in a life full of complications, but the force of the feeling and its implications overwhelmed her. It was such a bittersweet feeling, of happiness and love, heavily tinged with sadness and loss, for she knew she would have to leave one day. She knew that it could not last.
“Oh, Lord, what have I got myself into this time,” Alice had wondered aloud, and was surprised to find herself close to tears.
As the memory faded, Alice was struck by such a longing for Jake that it was almost physically painful. She saw that Queenie had rested her head on Jake’s t-shirt, and for the first time, Alice felt a rush of guilt for the life she had imposed on this beautiful, loving dog.
“There’s no going back, Queenie,” Alice said, her voice raw with emotion. “We can’t go back to Jake, not now.” Queenie looked at her, her eyes still sad. “But I promise you, that if we get out of this, that we will go back, and we will find him.” She realized as she said the words that she meant them. She realized how little she had ever thought beyond the moment, beyond the now, to consider what it was that she wanted. She was always driven by the impulse within her to go, to move, to keep running. She had not realized until that moment how much she had become a slave to it, how much she had sacrificed to her personal demons.
She continued to speak to her dog, who had been her only companion, and who in this moment was her only friend in the world. “But right now, we need to get out of this car, and we need to walk into that house and meet whatever is there. I need you to do this with me, Queenie, because I’m afraid and I don’t think I can do this alone. Will you come with me this one last time?” Queenie looked back at her with mild reproach as if to say ‘of course I will follow you. How could you even ask me that?” Alice knew in that moment that Queenie would follow her to the very gates of Hell and beyond, if she asked her to. Alice fervently hoped that that was not where she was leading her now.

35,199 Words, and Shit is Getting Real

I knew I was going to reach 35,000 words last night, and I knew it was time to get my story rolling. I still only vaguely know what is going to happen in these last 15,000 words, but it was time to get on with it. I thought about including another excerpt about Torts, but decided to include this longer, semi-serious one, so you can get a picture of where things are headed. Tonight I will start 'Part 3' of the book, and I think I'll have no choice but to push the plot forward, as much as I have enjoyed wasting words on overlong descriptions of things that are not even in the same vicinity as the point.

So, here it is... interspersed storylines of Alice and Jake as they both come to a realization...

Anastasia Pemberley was a woman that Jake had always imagined meeting. He was that sure of his relationship with Alice. After all, even the most heartily disapproving mothers wanted to meet the people their children considered important. Eventually. He knew very little about Alice’s mother besides the fact that she and Alice had a strained relationship. That they had moved around a lot. That Anastasia had been a single mother, Alice’s father’s whereabouts unknown. It wasn’t a subject that Alice was wild about discussing, and he had never pressed. He thought he had time to get to know those things. Also, Alice was a woman who could not be pressed. She could not be rushed. She took her own time with things.
Though he had been confident of their meeting someday, he had never imagined that he would be meeting her this way, in Alice’s absence, having achieved her phone number through somewhat clandestine means, but here he was.
“Mrs. Pemberley, my name is Jake Dempsey…”
“Who?”
“I’m a friend of your daughter’s. Alice.”

When Alice opened her eyes, at first she only saw a sea of faces, looming over her. They didn’t look quite right; they were overly pale, and their eyes overly dark, as though they had no corneas. She sat up quickly, suddenly and overwhelmingly terrified, and the darkness swam around her vision again, drawing her back into unconsciousness.
“Easy…” said a voice, soothingly, softly. It was a voice Alice could listen to. Alice slowed down, breathed deeply, and the blackness faded away, and the faces returned to normal. She looked into the eyes of Si(mone), the woman who had sent her away to oblivion, and was now bringing her back.
“Where am I?”

“Where is she?” Anastasia asked, an edge of hysteria in her husky voice. Whiskey and cigarettes had deepened her voice, but it was still a musical voice. Jake remembered that she had been a singer when she was younger. Alice had mentioned it once.
“That’s what I’m calling about. I need to find her. I think you might know where she is.”
“Who did you say you were again?” she asked, hysteria giving way to suspicion.
“Jake Dempsey. I work with Alice at the paper.”
“Ah yes, the sports writer. Dempsey. Yes, she did mention you. I thought you sounded like an idiot,” she said, and Jake felt a twinge, not for his own sake… he was quite used to being called an idiot. But for Alice’s sake. A woman who could be that casually cruel to a stranger must have done a real number on her daughter.
“Yes, that would be me. I am a bit of an idiot,” Jake said, trying to make it a joke and failing. Anastasia did not laugh.
“I’ve read some of your work.” Anastasia said dryly. Jake waited patiently for her to continue, but apparently that was the only comment she intended to make about his work. Whether it confirmed or disconfirmed her belief that he was an idiot remained unspoken, but he would have erred on the side of idiocy, as was his custom.
Jake made an uncomfortable throat clearing sound, as he wasn’t sure whether he should say thank you or not. He thought small talk a waste at the best of times, and he certainly wouldn’t describe this phone conversation in that way. He thought it best to get straight to the point.
“She said she was going home, do you know what she meant by that Mrs. Pemberley?”
The gasp that he heard on the other end of the line told him that she did know what it meant. That she knew it very well.

“Where you are isn’t important, you know that, don’t you?” asked Si(mone), still using a calm, soothing tone. Alice looked at her, and knew she was right.
“No, of course.”Alice said, shaking her head slightly, smiling at her own foolishness. It didn’t matter where she was at all, only where she was going.
“You ought to wait until the morning to go there. It won’t do to arrive in the dark. It won’t do at all.” Si(mone) said, and once again, Alice knew exactly what she meant. She also knew it didn’t matter.
“I don’t have a choice.” Alice said, her voice soft, dreamy, but determined. She knew that for her, time had run out. It was time to go.
“I know,” said Si(mone), not unkindly. She would have helped Alice if she could, but she saw that Alice’s immediate future was set. She would have to go, and she would have to go tonight.

33,385 Words on Day 20

I am going to post a longer excerpt than usual, I just really loved this press conference that I wrote today, it was very fun to write, and inspired by a friend who gave me a list of questions that he thought would be funny to ask Ron Tortellini. Naturally, I borrowed heavily from others. Those of you who aren't Katie, please excuse the lengthy hockey reference, I think you'll be able to battle through it though. Ron Tortellini is becoming a bigger character than I had imagined he would.

If he would have been paying attention, he would have seen that the press conference was a real ‘corker’, not that Jake would have used the word, since he generally disapproved of its use. It seems that all the sports reporters in the room, not just Jake’s friends, had cottoned on to the fact that this was quite simply, a clusterfuck. Tortellini was uncharacteristically unflappable. Perhaps it was because the season hadn’t started yet, and he hadn’t yet had to endure the Leafs firecracker October start, only to slide into a winless funk sometime in November, which would run until some time in April, at which point the Leafs would wake from their narcissistic slumber, take a look around, and notice that they were sharing the shit bottom of the standings with the likes of the goddamn New York Islanders for Christ’s sake, as well as the Montreal Canadiens, who absolutely fucking imploded this year and yet here we are. Yes, perhaps it was because that was not only something he had not yet had to endure, but something he might not have to endure at all, given that the season might not happen. In any case, Tortellini was in a fine mood, which led to a complete devolution as the questions ceased to even be about hockey, but just to try to piss of the man who people loved to see pissed off.
“Ok…” Ron looked around the room, “Phil Carr, let’s hear it.”
“Yes sir, I was just wondering, briefs or boxers?”
“Damien Cox.”
“What do you think are more effective, toothpicks or dental floss?”
“Christie Blatchford, what are you doing here? You don’t even report on the news, you just write slanted, right wing bullshit for the worst paper in town. Shouldn’t you be somewhere writing an article about how global warming doesn’t exist?” Ron asked, sneering.
“Well, sir, I’m actually here because I don’t need to do any research or background work to write my articles. In fact, I often find that the facts get in the way of the stories I want to tell.” Christie Blatchford replied. “So, what I want to know is, can you confirm that despite statistics gathered by pinko commie ‘criminologists’ that demonstrate that all types of violent crime are on the decrease in all of Canada’s large cities, and have been since the 80s, violent crime is in fact on the rise, that anecdotal evidence is vastly more useful than carefully gathered objective data and also, while you’re at it, that most modern day scientists are indeed in league with the socialists who want to turn Canada into the next Cuba?”
“I cannot confirm that. But I would like you to quote me as saying that Farmers Feed Cities.” Ron responded. It was the only question he answered that day, and he answered the question, not out of respect for Christie Blatchford, who he knew would never publish a word of it, but for the cameras. He was hopeful that it would make its way onto YouTube and that people in cities everywhere would rise up in support of farmers, when they realized the shocking truth. That farmers provide food to cities. It was a brilliant manoeuvre. Well played, Torts, well played indeed.
The questions began to come faster now, with Ron no longer even calling upon reporters to ask them.
“Do you like pasta, Ron?”
“Did you see 24/7?”
“Were you a fan of Happy Days, and if so, do you remain a fan?”
Jake heard none of this, though later he would have the opportunity to perform a google video search, where he entered the words “Toronto Sports Reporters Drunk”, and if he scrolled down, it would be the fifth video on the list, and he would be able to watch the entire press conference. If Jake would have been paying attention to the press conference, rather than to his inner turmoil, he might have delivered the question that might have shaken Ron Tortellini to the core. “Is it true that a secret organization exists in support of fighting in hockey, that this secret cult calls itself ‘Five for Fighting’, that this group is often confused with the American singer-songwriter with the aforementioned stage name, despite the fact that those goons clearly couldn’t write a song as tender and insightful as ‘100 Years,’ or as pain-ridden as ‘Superman (It’s Not Easy), even if given liberal access to 100 typewriters over the course of 100 years?. And further, is it true that Justin Bieber is widely believed to be not only a member, but the group’s choreographer?” Sadly, Jake was not paying attention, and this insightful series of questions would remain unasked by the Toronto sports journalism representatives.