Since our pal alw threw down the gauntlet it in the Flamethrowers Thread, I couldn't help but respond. It's pulp fiction at its worst and influenced by the Beatles "Paperback Writer." It sure as hell isn't Hemingway, but it is influenced by years writing commercial copy, producing commercials ("save up to 50 per cent and more...") and working with jocks, PD's, production guys and sales men and women who were far more creative and funny than I. Don't shoot me, I'm just the midday guy (apologies to Elton John.)
Chapter 1
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He walked into the control room with a slight limp. In a physically demanding basketball game a week earlier, he had met his match under the boards and locked-up with an African American college student named Steel who was twenty five years younger and better skilled. Steel was a product of the inner city playgrounds and although he was a well-spoken pre-med student, he could talk trash and back it up with the best of his brothers. Playing in a benefit basketball game against a bunch of middle-aged radio and television grunts and talking heads was a day at the beach. So when John Rockhaus began tossing veiled racial taunts, Ahmad “Steel” Johnson retaliated with stealth and precision, making Rockhaus eat his words and pay for it on every attempted rebound.
After the game, both teams shook hands before The Media Mavens handed over a check for $35 hundred dollars to the Boys and Girls Club and Community Center. It was a charity game, but there was no charity on the court, especially for forty-something radio guys whose glory days had since past and whose ball handling skills had long eroded. It was especially painful for the radio morning man who allowed his mouth to write checks that his less-than-toned body, nicotine-addled body could cash.
The scoreboard’s red dots glowed Home Team 78 - Visitors 70, but the game was a blowout as the Brunswick Bulls, a team made up of 15 of the best and brightest college students and teachers, allowed the Mavens to pick up a few garbage baskets at the end of the second half to make the score look respectable and ease the embarrassment of having been handled.
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Rockhaus was still smoking a cigarette, defying the company’s “No Smoking Within Fifty Feet Of The Build” policy. His co-host scowled at his limp and the nicotine haze that accompanied his presence.
“You can put that out now,” Roweena Drilling asserted.
“I’ll put it out when it gets down to the filter. And if I wanted any bullsh*t from a woman this early in the morning, I woulda’ stayed home.” Rockhaus made his stand, but he knew he was on thin ice.
Roweena Drilling stood only 5 feet 9 inches, but she was as tough as she was compassionate. At 38, she had endured and triumphed over a rare form of skin cancer. Even more grueling, she had survived the death of her husband, Marine Captain Stephen Michael Drilling, a decorated veteran who had earned two Purple Hearts for valor in Operation Desert Storm. She’d gone on record saying cancer was a picnic compared to watching her husband’s casket lowered into the ground following a twenty-one gun salute with full military honors.
Mrs. Drilling raised her two children, a son and a daughter and had not re-married. With help from her family and in-laws, who provided child care service, Roweena earned her second Bachelors degree in Communications and Computer Technology from Cedarhurst College.
She was already a Registered Nurse and earned her teaching certification, but for some unexplainable reason, she preferred waking up at 3:30 a.m. and enduring the often detestable quirks and habits of John Rockaus. More than a sidekick, news chick or perky laugh sack,she was an integral part of the market’s highest rated morning show, Rockhaus & Roweena In The Morning, which just as easily and rightfully could have been called Roweena & Rockhaus In The Morning and been equally if not a greater ratings success. The running joke was Rockhaus would get top billing as long as he continued to show up sober and before the first song of the show had ended. So far, he had held up his end of the deal.
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Yeah, I know, it needs work... Oh, and here's the disclaimer: All characters portrayed in the story above are fictional. Any resemblance to individuals and incidents is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1
---
He walked into the control room with a slight limp. In a physically demanding basketball game a week earlier, he had met his match under the boards and locked-up with an African American college student named Steel who was twenty five years younger and better skilled. Steel was a product of the inner city playgrounds and although he was a well-spoken pre-med student, he could talk trash and back it up with the best of his brothers. Playing in a benefit basketball game against a bunch of middle-aged radio and television grunts and talking heads was a day at the beach. So when John Rockhaus began tossing veiled racial taunts, Ahmad “Steel” Johnson retaliated with stealth and precision, making Rockhaus eat his words and pay for it on every attempted rebound.
After the game, both teams shook hands before The Media Mavens handed over a check for $35 hundred dollars to the Boys and Girls Club and Community Center. It was a charity game, but there was no charity on the court, especially for forty-something radio guys whose glory days had since past and whose ball handling skills had long eroded. It was especially painful for the radio morning man who allowed his mouth to write checks that his less-than-toned body, nicotine-addled body could cash.
The scoreboard’s red dots glowed Home Team 78 - Visitors 70, but the game was a blowout as the Brunswick Bulls, a team made up of 15 of the best and brightest college students and teachers, allowed the Mavens to pick up a few garbage baskets at the end of the second half to make the score look respectable and ease the embarrassment of having been handled.
---
Rockhaus was still smoking a cigarette, defying the company’s “No Smoking Within Fifty Feet Of The Build” policy. His co-host scowled at his limp and the nicotine haze that accompanied his presence.
“You can put that out now,” Roweena Drilling asserted.
“I’ll put it out when it gets down to the filter. And if I wanted any bullsh*t from a woman this early in the morning, I woulda’ stayed home.” Rockhaus made his stand, but he knew he was on thin ice.
Roweena Drilling stood only 5 feet 9 inches, but she was as tough as she was compassionate. At 38, she had endured and triumphed over a rare form of skin cancer. Even more grueling, she had survived the death of her husband, Marine Captain Stephen Michael Drilling, a decorated veteran who had earned two Purple Hearts for valor in Operation Desert Storm. She’d gone on record saying cancer was a picnic compared to watching her husband’s casket lowered into the ground following a twenty-one gun salute with full military honors.
Mrs. Drilling raised her two children, a son and a daughter and had not re-married. With help from her family and in-laws, who provided child care service, Roweena earned her second Bachelors degree in Communications and Computer Technology from Cedarhurst College.
She was already a Registered Nurse and earned her teaching certification, but for some unexplainable reason, she preferred waking up at 3:30 a.m. and enduring the often detestable quirks and habits of John Rockaus. More than a sidekick, news chick or perky laugh sack,she was an integral part of the market’s highest rated morning show, Rockhaus & Roweena In The Morning, which just as easily and rightfully could have been called Roweena & Rockhaus In The Morning and been equally if not a greater ratings success. The running joke was Rockhaus would get top billing as long as he continued to show up sober and before the first song of the show had ended. So far, he had held up his end of the deal.
---
Yeah, I know, it needs work... Oh, and here's the disclaimer: All characters portrayed in the story above are fictional. Any resemblance to individuals and incidents is purely coincidental.