From outside the radio tower, the cacophony of the protest reached Melvin.
He sat, tense, on the shitter. “Goddamn it,” he hissed. “I can't take a motherlovin' shit, in here.” He drummed a thumb on his hairy thigh. No particular beat. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.” His eyes drifted to the wire-webbed window. It was too high from his perch on his throne to see any of the action outside. His ass twitched, allowing him a millisecond of thinking he'd get some relief. Nope; just a peek-a-boo poo.
His entire body felt like he was on three pots of coffee, including that squirmy, should-have-diarrhea feeling in his belly. But, alas, the shit would not come out, so, he was forced to man his post, once again. Zipping up his jeans, he scampered back to the microphone, ducking low, despite the lack of passerby at the main window. He flicked the switch, and said, “This is Mel, in Hell, bringing you the latest report on the Chetwynd riots...”
He swallowed, hard; then, he continued: “This is nigh the 48th hour, and I am still live, reporting to you from the shithole that is.. the Chetwynd WYKZ station. I would say, in my position, that the fine people of Northern British Columbia are a wee bit pissed off. Added, I would recommend for my fine traveling compadres: if you can avoid coming here, all the better.” A man ran by the station, holding a damaged placard. Melvin waited until he was well out of sight, before going on. “And, if you are planning to make your way here, I would recommend staying the fuck away from the Northern Lights College; everyone who's camping out there seems like they're looking for someone to lynch – or so our listener, Charlie, reported, at 7 AM.”
The dashboard lit up: two callers. “Hold that thought, campers; we have two callers. Let's hear some more bad news!”
“Caller One: you're on the air. Tell us, what's goin' down where you are?” Melvin poked his head up, checking out the road again.
“Well, Mel,” a tired male voice said. “I'd say that down by the Scotiabank, shit's going pretty fuckin' badly. They torched the fucker.. so.. a warning to anyone with the Scotia – it's fuckin' gone now.”
“I always did want to petition to bring in the Royal Bank,” Mel commented.
“Y'got your chance now, man.” The voice paused. “Also, I think you'd better get the fuck outta the radio tower, Mel. There's a posse of assholes heading your way, with intents to lip off the government some.”
“Shit,” Mel muttered, away from the mic. “Thanks for the head's-up, Caller One. I'mma gunna let you go, and see if Caller Two has more to add to this shitfest.”
He pressed the other line. “Caller Two, care to add more bad news to our morning program?”
“Ahh, I dunno, Mel. But I second Caller One; better get the fuck outta dodge, yo. I was just in the Scotiabank area myself, and, yeah, there's a group of fucknuts heading your way,” Caller Two drawled. “Ah, what fun it is, hey? The gov'n'ment cancels a few healthcare things, and suddenly, y'got yourself a fuck of a pickle.”
“And, what a pickle it is,” Mel mused. “Awwright, boys; you've convinced me. Caller Two, where would you recommend I go, if I leave my little hidey-hole here?”
“Outta Chetwynd might be an idea,” Caller Two said. “But then, y'won't get far, not with the roadblock. Good luck, though, Mel.”
“Thanks, Caller Two; g'luck to you, too. Awwright, folks; Mel is heading out. This will prolly be my last broadcast, for WYKZ, because – let's face it – I'd really like to get outta this shithole.”
He peered over the dash again, seeing a few stragglers wandering past the window. “This is Mel, from Hell, signing off.”
Melvin disconnected the mic, and the caller lines. He made a sprint for the back door, skipping out on ducking low. He headed away from any voices he heard, making his way for the dirt road. He skirted the road, via the woods.
“Gawd, I fuckin' hate this town...”
