Morris dodges sizzling snowballs that splatter so hard against the side of the Graphite County Opera House that granite chips. He crawls on his belly up the curvature of the sweeping marble staircase. Sopping wet, he stumbles into the warmth of the cheery office. Verona looks up from her manual typewriter as she prepares the station log for this evening’s midnight news report. She congratulates him on not getting killed. Morris wades through a crumpled sea of unopened mail, magazines and trade journals littering the hardwood floor.  The thought suddenly hits him: what do the Downtown Contingent and the national capital have in common? Answer: they both have the abbreviation “DC.” Morris screams inexplicably at the high ceiling, “Let the politicians have the last word . . . AGAIN!” Slipping and sliding on discarded mail, Morris realizes it’s time for another pitch. He is so focused that he doesn’t even whiff Verona Kendermants’ newest flavor of exotic patchouli soap . . .