Joel had the nicest voice ever. He was flamboyant and proud of it, and that gave him a cheerful tone that could make a funeral crowd laugh. But it also meant it was virtually impossible to tell when he was stressed or when things around him were about to implode.
“Did you work on this Devil’s Patriots piece?” I said. “I thought I was the only one working on it.”
“You…well, you were this morning. But Mr. Roberts asked me to do some VO this afternoon, and so I did.”
My heart sank. How was this possible? I had no missed calls, no texts from him, no emails…had he slid underneath my nose like this? How…oh, Satan…
“And what did the VO consist of?”
“He said it wouldn’t be much. I felt like I did maybe four or five minutes’ worth? Hard to say.”
My heart sank lower and lower. The TV turned back to the news report. I thanked Joel and hung up. It wasn’t his fault what had happened.
But…
And then the segment began.
“Many of the Devil’s Patriots are known as violent, law-breaking hoodlums who are a menace to Phoenix,” Joel’s voice began.
Sure enough, it was my footage. But that wasn’t the script I’d written. I’d said, “Despite what you may believe about the Devil’s Patriots, they are not violent, law-breaking hoodlums who are a menace to Phoenix.”
“But the situation goes even deeper than that. My colleague, Hailey Cook, went undercover in the clubhouse to learn more. What we saw were situations of harassment, intimidation, and at one point, even assault.”
I didn’t go undercover. I didn’t…I didn’t…
And then it showed my worst fear.
In the footage I had shared, not in the draft of the version I’d created but in the recesses of the various videos I’d shot, was Satan trying to make a move on me. In the video, I was shown saying not now; Joel went on to explain that I’d said that to get out of it.
That shot…
It made it look like Satan was trying to rape me or something.
Jesus.
This was what my career had come to. My employer not only altering my message, but outright destroying and twisting it to fit their own needs and desires.
The only “good” news was that it didn’t get any worse than that. They showed videos of Satan and Spawn being bleeped out on interviews. They showed them laughing, belching, and drinking beer.
But the damage had already been done. The news station had taken my “balanced” piece and thrown it completely out of whack. Now, not only would everyone in town be even more unjustifiably afraid of Satan and the Devil’s Patriots, but I…
I couldn’t even imagine what would happen.
I immediately grabbed my phone and texted Satan.
“Not how I shot it. Station edited it to do this. I’m so sorry.”
But as soon as I hit send, I tossed my phone to the side and started to cry. My employer had ruined more than just anything I had with Satan. They’d ruined my credibility. I didn’t care what the larger Phoenix community thought of my report.
I cared about what the people closest to me thought. And through the last couple of weeks, Satan had become such a person. Even Leigh got glimpses and hints, and she knew I was working on a more balanced piece.
And now that was shot.
I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do in the next few days, but that was only because I was too emotional right now to think beyond the moment. It felt like everything I’d built in recent memory was collapsing under the weight of a greedy pursuit of ratings.
And at some point, worst of all, I’d have to hear from Satan.
Satan
