The Press Guardian #12
David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving
By day, he was a newspaper reporter. By night, Perry Chase became the protector of the Fourth Estate: the Press Guardian! And with each adventure, his costume gradually evolved. It began with a simple red mask to hide his identity. Now, his new, enhanced face covering would shield him from debris and scramble facial recognition software. In street clothes, he could blend into a crowd or disguise himself, but beneath that layer of fabric was an advanced military jumpsuit to cushion his falls and absorb at least a portion of the attacks against him: attempted stabbings, gunshots, and dangerous blazes. He wore special gloves now that helped him to climb and punch with devastating effect. All the while, he had been building up his endurance and his fighting skills. Perry had the heart of an ox.
Every night, he patrolled the shadows, the city’s darkest corridors. Most of the time, he just observed and recorded, feeding critical information to what little free press remained in the country. On a quiet subway car or in an abandoned building, the Press Guardian captivated sources, brave men and women who shared files and rumors and firsthand accounts of the regime’s crimes. It was a never-ending list that he’d shepherd onto the pages of his newspaper, the Daily Review-Express.
Judge Exposed in Bribery Scheme to Free Dangerous Mafia Murder Suspect Kidnapping of Bank President’s Daughter Reveals Larger Pressure Campaign in the Finance SectorMP Alistair Palmgré of the New National Dream Implicated in Massive Corruption ScandalDespite all their plots and threats, the Krebtz regime left a long trail of loose ends and shattered lives in its wake. That created a stench that couldn’t be covered up forever. Perry hoped to rake together so much muck that the regime would surely choke on the sewage of all its sins. The Press Guardian had located the frightened, young prostitute from Danor’s death the year before and he spoke at length with the widow of a murdered corporate attorney. There were so many others coming forward by then. Too many to count: disillusioned former party members, outraged government employees, and so many more. There were victims. There were witnesses. There were whistleblowers. These were parts of the puzzle that Perry Chase was trying desperately to understand. From the data he’d be given, the newspaper’s forensic accounting team was working around the clock to decipher a million spreadsheets that showed elaborate, purposeful, and widespread corruption. The public had a right to know!
With each headline and with every new scandal, the Press Guardian prayed that the regime grew a little weaker, that its grotesque, self-serving propaganda fractured piece by piece. He wanted to believe that the truth would win in the end. It must. Democracy wasn’t dead in Yaharza, Perry thought. Not yet! But his real work was slow and investigative. It was a process that was only interrupted by an occasional fight for survival. Months and months passed like this: cat and mouse games, evading nameless mafia hitmen and spineless agents of Special Office. And yet, they always failed. Every time, they failed to capture him or kill him, earning themselves some new scars along the way.
The capital city was really a labyrinth. New sections of it were built on top of and interlocked with centuries old infrastructure. Each decade of construction was a different story, another forgotten chapter in European history. By that point, the Press Guardian knew the layout better than most anyone: through narrow streets, on industrial rooftops, and the murky hell beneath everything. There were disused train tunnels, catacombs, and a network of bunkers from the Cold War. Thousands of places to discover. He knew where to run, how to hide, the best passageways, every nuance. This was his battlefield. His pursuers could barely keep up with him, but they tried. Meanwhile, everpresent in the back of Perry’s mind, there was a clock counting down the days and the hours until the presidential election. All the chatter he had been hearing recently pointed to something big. Would the regime postpone the vote? Or try to cancel it altogether? Would the president leave office if he lost? Or would his agents guarantee victory no matter how people voted? The Press Guardian knew he had to find out even if it killed him.
That night, a staffer from the election commission was chain-smoking in the alley behind an Italian restaurant, while she waited for him. He had watched her from behind a grimy shop window for twenty minutes, trying to ascertain if she was followed. When he finally did appear, the woman gasped and sighed in the same breath. Then, she went back to cradling the cigarette like it was a security blanket.
“I think I know what they’re planning…” she whispered.
“Tell me everything,” The Press Guardian replied.
CAN THE PRESS GUARDIAN SAVE JOURNALISM?! Will he stop the dangerous rise of authoritarianism? Or will this be the end of our intrepid hero? Find out in the next thrilling issue of the Press Guardian!
