Skip drops into a chair out of nowhere. He glances with some puzzlement at the hole in his jeans, but appears to decide it's not important. Having nothing better to do, he readies himself to answer the questions put to him.
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Well, it's better than being dead... )
"AaAaAaAhHhHhH, a journalist, -list, -list, eh? Always nice to meet one of Edison's spiritual forebears."
*waggles eyebrows*
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Yeah, I'm a journalist. I assume that by Edison you don't mean Thomas Edison, since he lived quite a while before me.
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"Nooooo indeed. I meant Edison Carter, investigative reporter extraor-or-ordinaire. Broadcast of course. Don't ask about print, there isn't any. So las-las-last millennium. The biological analogue of your-your-yours truly."
The Head tilts thoughtfully. "So what brings you by, fellow journo?"
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Search me. I'm on an island, having been shot in the leg, and trying to climb a tree to get an eagle to actually leave before the place blows up, next thing I know, 6:27, KABOOM! I think I was dead for a couple of seconds, then I end up here.
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"Did you get the eagle to go?"
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He leans into the 'camera,' winking conspiratorially. "So how 'bout that TV repair guy's number, buddy?"
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The hydraulic arms lower the TV back down onto the skateboard, and it slides toward the doorway.
"Gooooooood luck!" it projects at top volume as it clears the Sorting Room door.
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