"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 5

Monday, October 25th, 5:45 a.m.

“Thirty-nine degrees in Hartford at this hour,” Dave “Pit Bull” Peterson said, glancing at one of three computer screens surrounding his broadcast desk in the studios of WCTR. “…thirty-seven in Meriden and 33 chilly degrees in Torrington. The Channel 3 Pinpoint Weather forecast calls for another sunny day, with highs in the mid-50s. And now let’s get our first update on the Worlds Series with Sports Director Rich Poulin.”

Peterson pointed toward his in-studio engineer, who pressed a key on his computer with his right hand, causing a canned snippet of music to play, the station’s official sports theme. At the same time the engineer used his left hand to flip a switch on a vast electronic console, activating the microphone in an adjacent studio, where the Sports Director began delivering baseball and football scores.

Peterson pressed a button on a smaller console on his desk, which turned his microphone off. He pulled his headphones down around his neck, leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the ceiling. He let out a large sigh. The sports report would last two minutes, followed by at least two more minutes of pre-recorded commercial spots. During these regular breaks, if he didn’t have to use the men’s room, Peterson usually surfed the Internet to find new material to discuss with callers.

With the left side of his headphones, the engineer monitored the sports report, as it was his job to play the ads when it concluded. The right side headphone was perched on his head above the ear. He leaned toward Peterson, about six feet away, and softly said, “Pit Bull, you’re not yourself today. You all right?”

A few seconds passed before Peterson acknowledged the question. “I’m exhausted,” he said, looking down. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“Really? How come? You love to sleep.”

Peterson closed his eyes. I’ve got such a big mouth, he thought, angry at himself. “Oh…just real busy yesterday…maybe too much coffee…a lot on my mind…you know.”

The engineer didn’t know. But he did realize it would be a long and tedious show if Pit Bull did not get fired up and focused. That’s why people listened. A lively and spirited show made the four-and-a-half hours fly by. On the other hand, a dull and clunky broadcast made it seem like 10 a.m. would never come. “Hey, did you hear about the drug murder over the weekend in your hometown?” the engineer said, hoping a violent crime story would get Peterson’s juices flowing. “I’ve got two callers on hold—lines two and four—who want to talk about it.”

Oh great, Peterson thought. “Well, I was planning to talk about the state budget this morning. Did you see the story in the Courant? The governor wants to create another new, useless spending program. Can you believe it?”

The engineer could believe it, since state spending was Pit Bull’s second favorite topic—it was always too high and wasted too much taxpayer money. But Pit Bull’s favorite topic, by far, was violent crime and the permissive lawyers and judges who, in his firm opinion, allowed said crime to proliferate unchecked.

“So what should I, uh…” the engineer paused to focus on the sounds in his left ear. He pressed a series of buttons as the sports report ended and the ads began. Now he concentrated on his computer screen, clicked his mouse numerous times, in order to be ready as the show’s precise schedule unfolded. “Dave,” he said hurriedly, “What do I do with the callers?”

Peterson thought for a moment and said, “Clear the board. We’ll start over after I talk about the state budget.”

The engineer shook his head in confusion. Clear the board? he thought. Red hot topic falls in our lap, callers lined up before six o’clock, and he wants to talk about the budget? This is gonna be a long morning.

Three hours later, which seemed like five hours later to the engineer, Peterson concluded a scheduled telephone interview with a nationally-known political pundit in Washington D.C. The pundit was on for a full ten minutes to hawk his new book, a chronicle of corruption on Capitol Hill. God, that was awful, the engineer thought as he disconnected the D.C. phone call. The guy thought he was talking to a radio station in New Hampshire and he called Pit Bull “Don” at least four times. And Pit Bull never even corrected him! Sheesh. “We’ll be back right after these messages with some open phone time,” Peterson said. “I want to hear from you.”

Approximately four minutes later, after more commercial spots, another sports update, and a traffic report, Peterson pondered one of his computer screens. The screen listed callers currently on hold, displaying their first names, home towns, and discussion topics. Of the four entries typed into the system by the engineer, who doubled as the show’s call screener, three of the topics were some variation of “West Hartford shooting” or “weekend drug murder.”

As soon as Peterson heard the traffic report finish in his headphones, he said, “Thank you, Jennifer. It’s now twelve minutes before 9 o’clock. OK, let’s go straight to the phones. We have Elaine from Manchester on line three, who wants to talk about our liberal governor. Hello Elaine.”

“Hi Pit Bull, this is, uh, Elaine…from Manchester.”

I just said that, Pit Bull thought to himself. “Yes, hi Elaine,” he spoke out loud. “So what do you think of our governor?”

“Oh, I think it’s awful. All they do is spend money and raise taxes over there in Hartford. But Pit Bull, what do you think about that drug murder in West Hartford? Terrible, isn’t it?”

“Well, uh, yeah, it’s terrible, of course,” Pit Bull stammered, now forced to address the topic. “Anytime there is a violent crime in our state, it’s, uh, a tragic event.”

“No, I mean it’s terrible only one loser got killed,” Elaine explained. “Too bad they didn’t both shoot each other at the same time, and then there’d be two dangerous criminals off the streets.”

“Oh my, Elaine,” Pit Bull said, a bit flustered. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

“No, I’m serious,” she continued. “It’s like you always say, Pit Bull. We have to clean up our streets. I don’t know exactly what happened in West Hartford, but I do know that at least no innocent people got hurt.”

“Well, you never want to make judgments before all the facts are in, but from what we’ve been told by the police, it does seem that the victim was not exactly an angel. So I guess you might say no innocent people were hurt.” Peterson pondered this new viewpoint, while Elaine continued to talk about cleaning up streets, impeaching judges, imposing the death penalty, and a few other strong opinions about law and order. Most of her opinions had been shaped by Pit Bull Peterson over the past decade.

No innocent people were hurt, Peterson thought to himself. His three co-conspirators had been making the same point last night, but they had a vested interest in that particular position. Now someone without a vested interest, someone who could offer an unbiased opinion, someone who had no idea who had planned and carried out the shooting, good ol’ Elaine from Manchester, was making the exact same point. Interesting…

“Don’t you think so, Pit Bull?” Elaine paused, then repeated herself, “Don’t you think so?” Peterson quickly came to his senses, realizing he hadn’t heard a word Elaine said during the last minute or so.

“I’m sorry, Elaine. I was distracted here for a moment, uh, looking up something on the Internet,” Peterson lied. “What was your question?”

“Oh, I was talking about those two crumb-bums who committed the home invasion triple-murder in Wallingford last year. It would’ve been nice if someone had shot them before the police arrived. Would’ve been quick and fair justice, and would’ve saved the state a ton of money. Don’t you think?”

Peterson smiled and felt better than he had at any time during the past 24 hours. “You know something, Elaine? You make a great point. I couldn’t agree with you more. Thanks for calling. Let’s go to Mark on a cell phone. Mark, what’s on your mind?”

“Hey Pit Bull! Great to finally get through. You make my head explode! Heh, heh. I been waitin’ for months to say that. So anyways, I guess that drug dealer in West Hartford really had his head explode, huh? Heh, heh.”

“All right, Mark, my friend, thank you for calling and exercising your First Amendment right,” Peterson said with a smile. “Ah, I see our old friend Waterbury Wally in on line one. Hello sir! What’s new in the Center of the Universe?”

The studio engineer smiled as he watched and listened to Pit Bull Peterson hold court. Took a while, but he finally got fired up, he thought. Maybe the last hour of the show will be exciting after all.

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