Post by kylun on Jun 21, 2007 1:14:15 GMT -4
"As always, Ah thank ye fer lettin meh inta yuir homes to share todays top stories. This is Colin McKay wishing ye all a good night, and may tommorra bring ye more good news."
The smile McKay wore was still on his face after the lights dimmed, the technosynth music played, and the director yelled cut. The smile didn't come off until he was alone in his dressing room. Every single word that he had said tonight was propaganda and psychodreck. If he was still running that pirate broadcast on the Isle of Barra, he'd be able to say whatever he bloody wanted to say about His Excellency Magneto, and the government's methods. But like any other surviving journalist in this era, one had to pay lip service if one wanted to be seen and heard giving the news, rather than becomming the news.
Only two things kept him from reporting the truth, and they were waiting for him at home. He cleaned himself up, changed into something a little more casual, and checked himself out of the studio. Upon arriving at his building via a taxi cab, he entered, and pushed the gold button in his private elevator. The elevator shot up on an express speed to the North Corner Penthouse. He exited the elevator and entered the home Carosella had provided for him. The only other residents of the Penthouse were there to greet him: Mr. and Mrs. Widget. Two flatscans in thier mid-fifties who acted as his butler/part-time chauffer and cook/houskeeper.
"Another day, another pile of manure spread over the airways. But Ah'm glad to have ye both still with meh. Mum and Dad."
The three of them came together for a loving embrace. One of the few upsides to being an Imperial Mouthpiece was the money. There was enough of it to pull a few strings inside certain slave camps, bribe a few burecrats concerning the lineage and progeny of certain homo-sapiens. And have some new identities and records made up that would not set off any governmental alarms.
The smile McKay wore was still on his face after the lights dimmed, the technosynth music played, and the director yelled cut. The smile didn't come off until he was alone in his dressing room. Every single word that he had said tonight was propaganda and psychodreck. If he was still running that pirate broadcast on the Isle of Barra, he'd be able to say whatever he bloody wanted to say about His Excellency Magneto, and the government's methods. But like any other surviving journalist in this era, one had to pay lip service if one wanted to be seen and heard giving the news, rather than becomming the news.
Only two things kept him from reporting the truth, and they were waiting for him at home. He cleaned himself up, changed into something a little more casual, and checked himself out of the studio. Upon arriving at his building via a taxi cab, he entered, and pushed the gold button in his private elevator. The elevator shot up on an express speed to the North Corner Penthouse. He exited the elevator and entered the home Carosella had provided for him. The only other residents of the Penthouse were there to greet him: Mr. and Mrs. Widget. Two flatscans in thier mid-fifties who acted as his butler/part-time chauffer and cook/houskeeper.
"Another day, another pile of manure spread over the airways. But Ah'm glad to have ye both still with meh. Mum and Dad."
The three of them came together for a loving embrace. One of the few upsides to being an Imperial Mouthpiece was the money. There was enough of it to pull a few strings inside certain slave camps, bribe a few burecrats concerning the lineage and progeny of certain homo-sapiens. And have some new identities and records made up that would not set off any governmental alarms.