Me, The Journalist

As I left Maher’s office, I had some doubts about the case, but none about the man. The swine was an absolute no-nonsense guy, and always means business. That’s something, you know, that I appreciate in people, unlike most of us, who shiver at the mere idea of the truth and its gory details coming to the fore.
Anyways, I’ll be honest with you. I, Sam Young, am not just any another reporter, who wants to make something big out of herself with a sensational story that garners the first page; no sir, I am sorry to disappoint you about that. I am fresh, and believe in my principles, though everyone around me scoffs them off, saying that this profession of ours does not have room for them. But I, dear readers, am determined to prove to them just how damn wrong they all are, and that they can go screw themselves up.
The Daily Star interview was getting me a lot of attention, though I am not sure if the reason for this attention was a saucy photo of me that was put up on my editor’s behest. “Sex sells, at least more than the news today. And so I need to do that, for I have a chair and a board to answer to at the end of the year, who keep searching for a reason to shove their pens up my ass for not selling the paper enough.” Fair enough, I said to myself then, but now, looking back at it, I somewhere keep asking myself: did I compromise my ethics there?
Anyways, I do my research and background check when I follow a story (this is my first ever!), and try to get to the bottom of every minute detail that there is to understand, till I have unraveled what is real, what is true in the eyes of time. And so, I had gone across the neighbourhood, pretending to be someone from similar areas, asking around about any suspicious movements that had occurred around this place. They all are the same, are people, irrespective of class, creed, colour or sex. They first eye you to size you up, to make some sense out of you. If they can figure you out, fair enough-you’ll get your story; else its tough luck, as they shoo you away like some vile creature who mistakenly invaded their home. And while I got my fare share of shitheads and fuck-offs and “damn you, bitch”, I did get some juice on the whole picture. It seems someone was stalking this Jones, who has since not been seen. Interesting.
I had read while researching on Maher about that dreadful case, where the convict got washed away in the flood. It hid him hard, did that loss, and Maher was never himself again. He aged fifteen years ago to what he was now, and it seemed that he had sensed that I thought on the same lines as him. But he was dead. Or was he really? What if he had survived that flood, and had now, after so many years, come back, and thrown a fresh challenge to an ageing body. Would he pick it up, or was he skeptical that it was not the same guy?
It makes no sense to me that the same guy…what’s his name? Yeah, John Bryant would have survived the massive flood. But then again, the world is a strange place. Truth indeed proves to be stranger than fiction. And I assured myself that I would get somewhere. But, as a good journalist, I need to tell the police about this stalker news, while minting some publicity out of it. But never would I compromise on my principles in any way.
Help me God, for I am starting to contradict myself severely.


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