interview goes well," she said, producing a notebook. "A new anchor position is going to be open at the end of the month and I need some points with the boss."
"Good luck with that," laughed Ray. "Brittney has a lock on that job and you know it."
"Brittney James is barely coherent!"
"Maybe, but she is a major babe."
"I have a degree from Columbia, while she majored in cheerleading at Podunk University!"
"You know, Elsa, I just thought of something. Remember the interview with Mr. Hensley, you know, the grain and feed manager?"
Elsa let out a sigh, "I remember. Poor fellow told the same story three times and kept nodding off. It wasn't my finest interview."
"That's just it. From what I hear, Beck is a good twenty years older than Hensley. That must make this old fart almost a million years old."
"Keep your voice down, you idiot!" she hissed. "It took me a year of begging to convince Mr. Beck's people to allow this interview. If you get us kicked out, so help me…"
Ray chuckled as he connected the Sony to the tripod.
"Nobody has seen old man Beck for nigh on six years. Hell, I thought the old boy was dead until today. Bet he has dementia so bad that he can barely string two words together."
"Be quiet, you clown! I'm not going to tell you again."
Frustrated by her obnoxious cameraman, Elsa produced a cigarette from her carryall.
"What did I do with my lighter?" she said under her breath. Giving up her futile search, she turned to Ray.
"Ray, give me your lighter, I need a smoke before we start."
"Sorry, left it back at the truck," he said as he clipped a wireless microphone to her blouse.
"Great," she exclaimed, sitting back in the oversized leather chair. "I guess it will have to wait."
"My dear, I am sorry to have kept you waiting."
Elsa and Ray wheeled about at the sound of the voice.
Coming through the wide oak doors was John Beck. His powered wheelchair scarcely made a sound on the expensive carpet as he navigated across the room.
"Mr. Beck," said Elsa, rising from her chair and flashing a polished smile. "This is indeed an honor."
"The honor is all mine, Miss Philips," he said as he grasped her hand. "I am a big fan of your work."
"This is my cameraman, Ray Goodman."
"It is a pleasure, Mr. Goodman."
"Sup, rich dude," Ray said, extending a fleshy hand.
Beck's smile vanished as he pointedly ignored the offered hand.
Dressed in an expensive Armani suit, punctuated by a tasteful print tie, Beck rolled over to his enormous desk and removed a fat cigar from the humidor. Trimming the ends of a Gurkha, he picked up a box of long wooden matches. Striking one, he held the flame out to Elsa.
"Won't you join me, Miss Phillips? I couldn't help but overhear your desire for a cigarette, and I for one hate to smoke alone."
"I—I can't smoke in your mansion," she protested. "I don't smoke in my house, and it's a dump!"
"Nonsense, I insist," he said. "Here you are, my dear."
Elsa retrieved her cigarette and accepted the light, deeply inhaling the satisfying nicotine fix.
"Thanks, I needed that," she said. "Just don't tell the Surgeon General."
Beck smiled and carefully lit his own cigar."As you can see, my dear," he said between puffs, "the Surgeon General and I don't see eye to eye."
Elsa resumed her seat before the desk while Ray approached Beck, holding a small lapel microphone.
"Dude, if you don't mind," he said, "I need to clip this microphone to your suit."
"Go ahead, son; I don't bite…much."
Beck blew a long plume of smoke as Ray carefully attached the device.
"Tiny little thing, isn't it?" Beck said. "Amazing the doodads they have today. When I was a boy, such things were not even dreamt of."
"Yeah," said Ray, "things have progressed since the caveman days. Care if I try one of your cigars, dude?"
Elsa grimaced as images of throttling Ray danced though her mind.
"Son, those stogies are eight hundred dollars a pop. Touch one and I will have you skinned alive."
"Umm, Mr. Beck, you are
"Good luck with that," laughed Ray. "Brittney has a lock on that job and you know it."
"Brittney James is barely coherent!"
"Maybe, but she is a major babe."
"I have a degree from Columbia, while she majored in cheerleading at Podunk University!"
"You know, Elsa, I just thought of something. Remember the interview with Mr. Hensley, you know, the grain and feed manager?"
Elsa let out a sigh, "I remember. Poor fellow told the same story three times and kept nodding off. It wasn't my finest interview."
"That's just it. From what I hear, Beck is a good twenty years older than Hensley. That must make this old fart almost a million years old."
"Keep your voice down, you idiot!" she hissed. "It took me a year of begging to convince Mr. Beck's people to allow this interview. If you get us kicked out, so help me…"
Ray chuckled as he connected the Sony to the tripod.
"Nobody has seen old man Beck for nigh on six years. Hell, I thought the old boy was dead until today. Bet he has dementia so bad that he can barely string two words together."
"Be quiet, you clown! I'm not going to tell you again."
Frustrated by her obnoxious cameraman, Elsa produced a cigarette from her carryall.
"What did I do with my lighter?" she said under her breath. Giving up her futile search, she turned to Ray.
"Ray, give me your lighter, I need a smoke before we start."
"Sorry, left it back at the truck," he said as he clipped a wireless microphone to her blouse.
"Great," she exclaimed, sitting back in the oversized leather chair. "I guess it will have to wait."
"My dear, I am sorry to have kept you waiting."
Elsa and Ray wheeled about at the sound of the voice.
Coming through the wide oak doors was John Beck. His powered wheelchair scarcely made a sound on the expensive carpet as he navigated across the room.
"Mr. Beck," said Elsa, rising from her chair and flashing a polished smile. "This is indeed an honor."
"The honor is all mine, Miss Philips," he said as he grasped her hand. "I am a big fan of your work."
"This is my cameraman, Ray Goodman."
"It is a pleasure, Mr. Goodman."
"Sup, rich dude," Ray said, extending a fleshy hand.
Beck's smile vanished as he pointedly ignored the offered hand.
Dressed in an expensive Armani suit, punctuated by a tasteful print tie, Beck rolled over to his enormous desk and removed a fat cigar from the humidor. Trimming the ends of a Gurkha, he picked up a box of long wooden matches. Striking one, he held the flame out to Elsa.
"Won't you join me, Miss Phillips? I couldn't help but overhear your desire for a cigarette, and I for one hate to smoke alone."
"I—I can't smoke in your mansion," she protested. "I don't smoke in my house, and it's a dump!"
"Nonsense, I insist," he said. "Here you are, my dear."
Elsa retrieved her cigarette and accepted the light, deeply inhaling the satisfying nicotine fix.
"Thanks, I needed that," she said. "Just don't tell the Surgeon General."
Beck smiled and carefully lit his own cigar."As you can see, my dear," he said between puffs, "the Surgeon General and I don't see eye to eye."
Elsa resumed her seat before the desk while Ray approached Beck, holding a small lapel microphone.
"Dude, if you don't mind," he said, "I need to clip this microphone to your suit."
"Go ahead, son; I don't bite…much."
Beck blew a long plume of smoke as Ray carefully attached the device.
"Tiny little thing, isn't it?" Beck said. "Amazing the doodads they have today. When I was a boy, such things were not even dreamt of."
"Yeah," said Ray, "things have progressed since the caveman days. Care if I try one of your cigars, dude?"
Elsa grimaced as images of throttling Ray danced though her mind.
"Son, those stogies are eight hundred dollars a pop. Touch one and I will have you skinned alive."
"Umm, Mr. Beck, you are
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