The violent snowball fight continues to rage around Morris. He doesn’t know if he’s going to live long enough to make another pitch to his sister Noreen in the Windy City. He yearns to flood the market with new product and knows that he is a veritable fire hose of creativity – if only he gets the proper reception for his pitches. As snowballs whiz perilously close to Morris at death-defying speeds, he has a revelation: could the throwers be using bionic arms? This technology was finally and forcibly outlawed (we thought) after the Second Great Sunspot Dilemma, but caches are rumored to have been found in out-of-the-way places throughout the U.S. Morris breaks into a cold sweat considering the implications of bionic body parts making a resurgence. And it’s no secret who is at the bottom of repurposing this lethal technology . . .

The Resale Value of Intergalactic Body Parts

The Vortex of a Brutal, Frozen Vacuum

Whap! Another ballistic snowball whooshes past.

I stop shoveling and wonder if I should take cover. The snowballs are pounding the late afternoon air, missing me by only a few scorching inches. Still, something tells me they are not being aimed directly at me. It seems that the stalwart men and women of the Downtown Contingent could hit me squarely between the eyes at 300 paces if they so desired.

BLAMO! That does it! One of the knuckleheads hits the beaver dead-on and nearly knocks the brass statue off its mooring.

They’re whizzing faster now, more furious, the frozen projectiles are hurtling past, burning my cheeks, leaving me reeling in the smoking, frostbitten aftermath. Is this a spontaneous outbreak of fun and frivolity on the part of the Downtown Contingent, or are its surreptitious members embarked on a quest that is far more nefarious?

Right now, I’m opting for the latter. I’m not sure any member of the Downtown Contingent knows how to have fun.

Bionic Arms – Say It ain’t so!

Whap! Another snowball screams past my ear and splatters against the granite façade of the opera house. What’s going on here? I suddenly freeze up, wondering if I’m dealing with some misguided – and deadly – technology from the deep, dark and distant past. And by that I mean bionic body parts.

I might be a little bit slow at times, but I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s no secret the Kalabrashions want to get their grimy human hands on every last bionic body part that is yet hidden across this great and fruited plain. The depths of evil to which they’re capable of sinking knows no bounds. Their little illicit chicanery will net them enormous proceeds on the black market, while bringing the threat of great horror back upon an unwitting society.

The Goosches Do It in Real Time

Or, you could be above board like the Goosche brothers, who make you work for your money, but in the long run it’s worth it. The two of them used to pitch in the big leagues. Their arms are not bionic: they just throw hard. Really hard. You don’t want to get in the way of anything that the Goosche brothers throw, not the least of which is a baseball.

The same goes for their Mama. That would be Mama Goosche.

Welcome Ad Fans . . . to the Annual Upfronts

The Goosches control advertising in the Silt Ridge market. They determine who is allowed to advertise and what their allotted budget will be. They control the category of your business and regulate the platforms that your company is allowed to utilize.

That especially applies to the upfronts. The Goosches try to make the annual Silt Ridge upfronts unique and fun, a weeklong event in spring that the whole town can come out and enjoy. They always manage to present more engaging showcases of local media year-over-year. It’s all a great deal of fun – unless of course, you’re a local advertiser who has to step into the batter’s box and endure one screaming two-seam slider after another in order to negotiate a favorable ad buy.

To my understanding, the Goosches are not participating in the snowball throwing extravaganza that’s going on in Town Square at this precise moment.

Thank goodness.

A Glaring Need for First-run Product

As another snowball flares past, I figure enough of this frivolity. Time is wasting and I have another show proposal for Noreen. I crawl to safety along the curvature of the sweeping marble staircase.

I am sopping wet by the time I stumble inside the warm, cheery office. Verona looks up from her manual typewriter as she prepares the station log for this evening’s midnight news report. She congratulates me for not getting killed.

I don’t even pause to take a whiff of Verona’s exotic soap, that’s how determined I am to pitch a new show to Noreen.

I hope the satellites haven’t conked out for the day.