Cranston Ludwig

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  No Houses

All the news that's fit to embellish!

Cranston Ludwig sat all alone in his rat-infested one-room apartment that he rented for quite a few bucks a month from a slum lord who's cufflinks cost more than anything he owned.  This certainly wasn't his dream apartment; nothing in his life was his dream anything.  He had zip, not even a beat up Junker of car.; no girlfriend that wasn't inflatable (he was kidding about that!); and he had a degree in journalism that allowed him to start working for The Jimmyville Times, where all his hard work had paid of in the form of a big pile of crap! 

 

He became more and more depressed when the reality of his miserable existence hit full force.  It took all of his energy to rise from the duct taped-together third-hand bean bag chair that served as his seating, both for him, and for his guests, not that he had too many of them.  For some reason, people wanted little to do with a loser; and he saw himself as a definite loser.  Popping open another Regal Select Beer was the sum total of his exercise, but to get another would require him to physically lift his dead ass up off the chair, and he didn't think he had the energy.  Getting up would burn off all the calories he'd carefully acquired from eating nothing, with a dessert of zip, he'd been able to afford by way of dinner.  He'd scrounged through his pockets for enough change to be able to afford either a couple of candy bars, or the beer.  True, his decision of the Regal Select was looking and tasting like the wrong choice, but now he was completely broke, so it was too fricking late, wasn't it?  He was sitting there lamenting his shit life when his phone rang.  Luckily, he'd had the presence of mind to put it on the dingy-white shag carpet, or at least what was left of it after damn near forty years, so he could reach it without having to do the excruciating act of physically rising;

"Ah, hello?"

"Cranston, it's King."

King Whopper was the editor of The Times.  "Hey K-Whop, wazz up my man?" he slurred into the receiver.

There was a disgusted pause and a terse reply, "Damn, Cranston, I feel like I should squee-gee myself off after that spit-take; and K-Whopp, what the hell, Cranston?  Who in the hell do you think you're talking to?  Are you drunk again?"

"As a matter of fact, yes I guess, although this shit doesn't taste like any beer I've ever had."

"Well you may want to stop sucking that shit into your face-hole cause I've got an interview I need you to handle."

"What; is the big swap meet in town?"

"Ha, ha; no, I just thought you might be interested in an exclusive interview with the Governor, but never mind, I'll give it to--"

"You mean the actual Governor?  Knekk's really consented to that?  I mean, so far he hasn't exactly taken a shine to me or any media."

"Well, I guess I caught him on a good day; when I called with the request, he said yes, much to my surprise."

"Well I'll be!  Sure I want it, but why me?  There's got to be other reporters to do it."

"Well, I just figured you've been paying your dues for a while now, working human interest pieces, and I thought I'd throw you a bone in the political arena as a reward for your patience."

"Well, I really appreciate this King, and you won't be disappointed."

"I'm betting that I won't be."

 

Whopper hung up the phone and thought, bone my ass--err--bone, my ass; nobody else wanted to deal with that crook!

 

******

 

Ludwig entered a mansion in the sprawling hamlet of Jimmyville, that housed the governor's offices.  Just why he'd demanded the Governor's Mansion be moved here, nobody had a clue.  It was a dumpy little town with no gas station yet three taverns, including the one he'd seen out his window, 'The Blind Funnel'.  He had been ushered into a room that sported, not a painting, but the famous Farrah Fawcett poster from the 1970's.  He'd been staring at it for the last twenty minutes and was getting extremely restless.  He had just decided that maybe he had the wrong room, when in staggered a balding nightmare of a man; what little was left of his hair reminded him of a bad-fitting toupee made entirely from old limp, reddish-brown noodles, sort of haphazardly plopped on top of his head.  His beer belly looked to be in danger of escaping from his 'I Iz Da Guvner!' tee shirt.  He lumbered across the room and extended a hand,

"Helo dare; sory bout da loweng wayt; butt Eye hayad importent guvernmint bisnez two taak kare ov."  Actually, he'd been finishing his malt liquor and finishing perusing the lovely ladies pictured in 'Nice Heavers Magazine".  He had only agreed to this interview because of increasing pressure from the voters that he was always out of touch with them; never making himself available for interviews. 

Wel, kno sheit Eyem knot avalibal, cinc Eye cud giv an flyen fuk wat yew basterds tink bowet sheit!  he answered his own statement silently to himself.

"Oh, no problem at all Governor."  Bullshit!  "I want to ask you what was the key to your success; how did you get here?  How did a virtual unknown become the governor of Alabama?"

"Wat kine ov a ambus iz dis?  Y, wat hav yu herd?  Eye Catigoriley deni awl ov da chareges!"

"I wasn't accusing you of anything; I simply want our readers to understand how you rose to such heights?"

"Owa, yeyah,  wel, iyat wuz ninty parsent perseraton and fifety parsent preparaton."

"Can you give our readers more details?"

"Kno."

Cranston stared at the body with a missing cranium and beads of sweat dripping down his cow-like face, and thought to himself moron!  How did a man this appallingly idiotic EVER become Governor? "Moving on, I wonder..."

"Ar wi goin sumplace?"

"No, Governor," suddenly he couldn't get away from this idiot fast enough.  He'd be better off just making thing up, and that's exactly what he was now going to do.  "by moving on, I meant me; I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut the interview short, I apologize, but, ah, something's come up and I must see to it right away."

"Owa, alwrite, iyets probly fer da bess, ass Eyea bess bee geten bawak two mi guvernen shiet."

And with that, the Governor bloated his way over to Cranston, and in a cloud of alcohol vapors, said, "Iyat wuz nise meaten ya;

 

******

 

Back in his office at The Times Cranston sat looking at his computer screen, reflecting on the non-IQ-Governor he's just had the misfortune of meeting.  How a man as dense and disgusting as that had made it into the Governor's mansion was beyond him; it was beyond belief, really.  King expected him to write an in depth article chronicling that idiot in a suite?  Well, not even a suit; a stained tee shirt?  His big break, and the man had been about as smart as a stump!  There wasn't enough there, and nobody would believe it anyway, so he might as well embellish a little; a little?  Better make that a lot!  He struck the first key, and just kept typing;

 

"The story (at least that wasn't a lie!) of the incredible journey of your new Governor Earle Edgar Nekk from uneducated farm boy to Governor (still uneducated; he wanted to type; incredibly uneducated!) begins in a log cabin on the frontier, well, Frontier Street, anyhow, one ball-chilling freezing winter's day (January 27) in 1953..."

 

There, he had at last finished racking his brain, trying to breath life into the dead carcass that was Earle Edgar Knekk's life.  He went to his refrigerator and grabbed a beer, then after guzzling about half of it, went back to his computer, pushed 'send', and the fable was on its way for Whopper for his okay.  He momentarily felt a little guilty about making it all up, but then a picture of the sloping forehead of Knekk popped into his head and, no more guilt!

 

******

 

"Excellent job, excellent job!" gushed Whopper.  "I should have put you on the political beat a long time ago."

The guilt came back with a rush and Cranston was just about to tell Whopper the truth, when,

"I'd like to give you a raise,..."

"Oh, that's okay King; I was just doing my job." 

"but there 'aint no way."

Once again, the guilt was washed away by King's words.  He decided The Hell with it, and the Hell with you!

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Submitted: December 02, 2014

© Copyright 2021 Mike Stevens. All rights reserved.

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