Page 9 of Reptile Dysfunction

“I don’t care if it’s legal, Charlotte, I care if it’s something worth printing. This isn’t even worth the paper I used to print it out on.”

I blink, mouth hanging open at the audacity of his offense.

“Are you a wyvern now? Cause you look like you’re trying to catch flies.”

I snap my mouth shut and furrow my brow. “Something is wrong in this town. I intend to find out what it is.”

“Yeah, well, when you do, let me know. Until then, this isn’t just nonsense. It’s dangerous. Do you realize how close we are to the mayoral election? Printing something like this makes it look like the paper is taking sides. We work hard to stay neutral.”

He points a finger at my article. “Facts only. Evidence only. Writing about how the monsternet might have nefarious purposes is baseless conspiracy nonsense. I’m gonna have to do some serious editing on this to make it printable and tag it as an opinion piece.”

I shake my head and bite my lower lip. “He’s dirty. I’m going to prove it. All the evidence shows!”

“Circumstantial evidence.”

“Still!”

“It isn’t evidence. Bring me something real, and factual, and I’ll print it. But until then, ah, speak of the devil.”

I turn my head as the door behind me opens. In walks, or shambles, Fred. He sits down in the empty chair next to me and smiles his empty-headed, dimwitted smile.

“You called, Eddie?” Fred asks.

“Yeah, I did. Charlotte, you could learn a thing or two from Fred here.”

My eyebrows fly up in shock. “Excuse me?” I ask. Fred leans back in his chair and smiles wide, glowing from the praise.

“His weekly article is a hit. I know I sound like an echo, but it’s true. I get so much good feedback from readers. It’s purposeful, thematic, and consistent. What he needs now is real journalism training, out on the field.”

“You can’t be serious.” I groan.

“You two are going to work together on this.” Eddie pulls a bright yellow piece of paper from his briefcase and slides it toward me.

“A flea market?” I ask.

“Yeah, next week. You two are going to gather information on who’s participating, what they’re selling, and how much fun the town can expect to have there.”

“A fluff piece!” I cry.

“That sounds awesome, Ed!” Fred says.

Eddie leans over his desk and points his finger at me. “Do not disparage the power of the fluff piece. In a town like this, that’s our bread and butter. Now it’s your job to teach this guy how investigative journalism works. Go investigate the flea market.”

I shake my head, crumple the flier in my hand, and walk out. There’s no way, absolutely no way, I’m covering a glorified yard sale. I went to college!

“So what’s first, Ms. Reporter Lady?” Fred asks as he shambles up behind me.

I uncrumple the flier in my hands and slap it onto Fred’s chest. The force of it almost makes one of his arms detach. I wince but don’t apologize. Journalism can be just as brutal as warfare, both literally and figuratively. If you’re doing it right, that is. “Go find out who runs this thing and ask them the questions Eddie just said.”

“Oh. Okay, cool! Just, uh, who runs it?” Fred asks.

I turn to him, frowning in frustration. “Read the flier and find out. That’s how investigating works.”

“Oh! Okay. Yeah, cool, cool. So… how do I contact a flea? Do you think they have tiny flea phones, or…?”

I slap my hands over my face and groan. “No! A flea market isn’t run by fleas. It has nothing to do with fleas.”

“Actually, it does,” Jeff says, interrupting me. “Yeah, old man Jenkins raises fleas for his flea circus and sells them at the market every year.”