(no subject)
William had woken up at the usual, early time. He had, upon waking, the realization that he'd been wasting his mornings; all that prime, crisp early air ignored in favour of sitting in a stuffy island? Bugger that for a lark, he was going for a swim. And while the water was not a proper, bracing temperature - it was best if you had to break some ice to even get your head below the surface - it still sufficed.
He had been thinking about paddling on over to that other island, there, just for the hell of it - it was only, what, a few miles? Child's play - when he got partway there some short hairy bugger swam up to him and dragged him back to land, claiming he'd been 'flailing around.' Fellow had seemed like a good sort, but clearly a bit funny in the head.
When he could walk again - must have pulled a muscle being dragged like that, obviously - he'd wandered on up to his office, remembering he had that paper thinger to worry about. What was that called again? Well, nevermind, he'd stick some title on it, no one even looked at titles, it was all about the pictures.
He needed a doozy, though. Eventually he managed to badger one of the staff into posing for it, since he had none of the 'original article,' so to speak, that sinister devil. That done, he threw together some hard-hitting journalism in an hour or so, went to press and called it a day.
Or, rather, he called it the Island Inquirer. Interesting, invigorating news, the kind of thing that kept the readers hooked and coming back for more.
That little chore out of the way, he decided to go look for his brother down around the beach. He had a mind to join up to that little rowing brigade his older, wiser sibling had assembled.
[And of course, for reference, the issue of the Times immediately after opposite plot will be Retraction Central.]
He had been thinking about paddling on over to that other island, there, just for the hell of it - it was only, what, a few miles? Child's play - when he got partway there some short hairy bugger swam up to him and dragged him back to land, claiming he'd been 'flailing around.' Fellow had seemed like a good sort, but clearly a bit funny in the head.
When he could walk again - must have pulled a muscle being dragged like that, obviously - he'd wandered on up to his office, remembering he had that paper thinger to worry about. What was that called again? Well, nevermind, he'd stick some title on it, no one even looked at titles, it was all about the pictures.
He needed a doozy, though. Eventually he managed to badger one of the staff into posing for it, since he had none of the 'original article,' so to speak, that sinister devil. That done, he threw together some hard-hitting journalism in an hour or so, went to press and called it a day.
Or, rather, he called it the Island Inquirer. Interesting, invigorating news, the kind of thing that kept the readers hooked and coming back for more.
That little chore out of the way, he decided to go look for his brother down around the beach. He had a mind to join up to that little rowing brigade his older, wiser sibling had assembled.
[And of course, for reference, the issue of the Times immediately after opposite plot will be Retraction Central.]