The Daily Reporter: The Case of the FloMo Fireball

Editor’s Note: This article is purely satirical and fictitious. All attributions in this article are not genuine, and this story should be read in the context of pure entertainment only.

It’s 10pm on a cool February night. I watch from the top of the Daily House as the rest of campus goes about their business, like ants digging tunnels in a bucket of poison. My Slack notifications ring in my ear like a fire bell in my ear. I’ve got deadlines to hit and my Google Doc is whiter than Steve Martin’s face printed on an envelope. The cursor pulses. Sometimes I type a few keys, maybe an “E” or a “J.” Then I delete them, just for the rush of seeing the little wheel at the top of the doc spin. “Saving…” “Saved to Drive.” I take a hit of my strawberry & cream Dr. Pepper. It takes a few years off my life, and that’s why I like it. That’s when she walked in.

She was a tiny thing, with legs longer than the hours between nine and five. Just seeing her enter my office gave my heart a jolt. I’ve always been scared of spiders and this daddy longlegs was no exception. I screamed like a little girl. Thankfully my editor walked in and smacked the ol’ girl with yesterday’s paper. Finally that thing did somebody some good.

“Johnson!” he said. That’s not my name. He should’ve learned that by now. “I’ve got a story for you the size of King Kong after a moderately sized breakfast. A golf cart caught fire at Flomo.”

“Golf’s a dangerous game,” I coolly replied. “Sometimes a golf cart catches on fire, sometimes you crash the cart into your girlfriend’s cat and she never forgives you.”

“Enough dillydaddling. I need you to find out who or what or who caused it.”

Normally I’d say no to a job like this. I’ve worked the slice of life beat ever since the accident. My girl never did forgive me for killing Wimbledon. I never forgave myself. But I had to get out of that office before my faculties gave in. Besides, I could never say no to a man in a bowtie.

I began my investigation at the scene of the crime: Florence Moore, a hive of scum, villainy and pre-humanities majors. It’s the kind of place where the soul goes to die and the only consolation is dining hall ice cream. Today it’s mango.

I spoke to the only witness of the crime, a PoliSci senior who talked like she was practicing her filibuster. I was only half-paying attention seeing as how she was really boring. I was able to pick up some important information from the mess. It seems the golf cart arrived at Florence Moore only moments before exploding. The witness didn’t get a good look at the driver, who ditched the car and took off. We finished talking and she handed me a piece of paper covered in strange, undecipherable symbols. Maybe she was trying to get a message to me. Maybe she’s being targeted. I wish I could read.

I walked over to the rubble for closer inspection and noticed several white balls scattered around the scene. At first I suspected that the cart had laid eggs, but then I remembered that golf carts are mammals, which meant that they could only be golf balls. “Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” I said to no one. “This isn’t your average campus golf cart. This is a golf course golf cart.”

With that clue my investigation turned to the links, and there was only one woman to talk to: Sandra. She’s worked part time on the course since we were freshmen. Those were more innocent days. I walked into Birdie’s, the course food hole, and there she was behind the counter. She was as beautiful as the day I ran over her cat, and she had the spite to match.

“What do you want, Johnson?” She greeted me. Still not my name. Does nobody know my name? I gleaned from her subtle facial cues that she wanted me gone. “Get the hell out of here,” she said. I can read her like an open book. We spoke briefly, but we exchanged words that don’t belong in print, nor in a Church, or in a Chuck E. Cheese. I’ll give you a hint: they rhymed with “met purderer.” Nevertheless, I gathered that they only have five carts and none of them have gone missing. I thanked her for the info and on my way out I saw a specials board that read “Red Herring.” I inquired, “Is this still available?” But when I turned around she was already gone.

I left Birdie’s with a cold despair. Was I losing my touch? Usually it takes less than four hours to crack a story, and I’d been out here for four and a half. I passed the golf cart parking. Five spaces, like Sandra said. Two were in their spaces with a fuel container in one of them. Curious. I looked out over the course and I saw two in use. Was there one I couldn’t see? Where was number five? Did Sandra lie to me?

The growl of a mechanical beast called out from behind me. I turned to see Sandra in the driver’s seat with the fuel by her side. I saw rage in her eyes, death on her mind and cauliflower in her ears (she should get that checked out). She peddled to the metal and tried to run me down. I jumped out of the way in the nick of time and started running.

It all became clear suddenly. FloMo wasn’t the target, The Daily was. She wanted to take the building down and me with it, but she must’ve crashed on the way. I take another dive and hide in a sandtrap. Somewhere above she’s hunting me like an apex predator with a golf cart.

I knew what I had to do. The Daily had to live on. I made a break for the last cart and hopped in. I said a prayer and asked Wimbledon to prepare those pearly gates. I careened into Sandra and the night sky lit up in a massive fireball. There were two gates to hell on campus that night.

I woke up at Vaden. Bandaged. Burned. A week behind on my pset with no chance for an extended due date. My editor stood at my bedside. He told me that Sandra had gone the way of the dodo. Dead. Deader than print without subsidies from well-endowed institutions. I’m mixing my metaphors. What’s clear is that The Daily lives to see another day and so do I. He’s brought my laptop all the way from the office. He gives me privacy so I can write my story, but not before reprimanding me for it being late. I take a sip of my gin and ready myself to write. “You’re a journalist John,” I whisper to myself, “and a damn good one at that.” As I write, my editor comments: “remove Oxford comma.” I let out a melancholy sigh as I hit the backspace key.

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