Page 2 of Bullet Unleashed

CHAPTER ONE

HOPE MOORE

Always make it personal, I remind myself as I push through the double glass doors into the broad daylight. The heat from the sun pushes down on my face like an elementary school bully demanding my lunch money or an ass kicking will follow. It would be fitting too, as an ass kicking seems to be the only thing I’m good at taking lately.

“Come on, Hope,” Jesse calls from inside the news van. “The pig fest starts in an hour and we’ve got to fight the traffic.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say and wave him off. I inhale deep, throw my chin to the sky and let the heat devour me. Pig fest? If this is my life right now, then I’m going to fest on the pigs like no one’s ever fested before. Did I really just say that? Even my thoughts can’t quite grasp what I have to do today.

Get it together, Hope,I think to myself.

I blow out the air in my lungs, lower my chin and walk as determined as ever across the lot. Jesse has a smirk on his face as I cross the front of the van and enter the passenger’s side.

“Safety first,” he remarks.

“Story, first,” I correct with my index finger up, then put on my seatbelt. “Professionalism, then safety. Those are my three rules.”

Jesse puts the news van in drive and pulls out of the station’s lot. “You know the order of those are nowhere to be found in any journalism class on the planet, right?”

“Well then, you just sit back and take notes. Because I’m about to teach a class on pig festing out this bitch,” I say with a particular intensity in my delivery.

“Ha! I bet you will,” Jesse chuckles and whips the wheel.

I let out a sigh as I lower the visor on the passenger’s side and stare into the vanity mirror. No wonder I’m not on the news anchors desk yet. I have nice, dark eyelashes and eyebrows, but they could definitely be fuller to really bring out my eyes.

As much as I want my time on air to increase, I won’t be one of those women getting eyelash implants. I’m against enhancements in general for myself and I blame that on my mama. She was always running around the house criticizing women with butt implants or breast implants, and opining about how beautiful a natural woman is. She would especially remark about my aquamarine blue eyes. She’d told me the story so many times, it was written in my mind in permanent memory ink. If there was such a thing.

When they first handed me to her in the delivery room, I opened my eyes and they were blue and it filled her with such hope that she gave me the name. Then as my eyes were exposed to light, over a period of months they changed to more of the aquamarine they are now. So, it kind of stuck with me.

Though being in this business, and seeing some of the things women do to get ahead, I understand why they would feel the need to get a little nip and tuck. To each their own, I guess. No one will ever accuse me of slut shaming.

We pull up to the festival and park off to the side. The local citizens have inundated the area and are out enjoying the day. Families large and small are strolling through the festival with painted faces, cameras and all manner of things to document the memories of this year’s pig fest. Some of the little ones are wearing pink snouts, as they stand in amazement as clowns create animals from multicolored balloons.

“Let’s set up over here,” Jesse states.

While Jesse and I set up shop, the pig fest is...festing. The event was a large festival featuring vendors from all around the area selling barbecue and beer, live musicians, and other family friendly events and activities. I learned a long time ago that with stories like these, it’s best to trade in the high heels for sneakers. They don’t come across on camera, and are more functional for walking, running, or wandering around interviewing the people festing with the pigs.

My eyes roll to the back of my head.

I’ve got to stop saying “festing.”

Jesse’s been with me for a little over a year as I chase the stories to further my career, and has proven to be a great friend and confidant. Coming up through the ranks, I was a solo show. The television and movie industries always portray reporters and photographers working side-by-side, but it wasn’t like that for me when I started. It wasn’t until I got the job at channel nine that I was paired with Jesse, and we clicked immediately. His wife Beth has also been an invaluable ally. Several of my bosses when I first started reporting, wanted me to change my hairstyle, which I did. If I wanted that face time, I had to meet the industry standard for beauty. Or, so I thought. Beth was the woman who convinced me to stay true to myself, and ever since then, I’ve been rocking my sable colored hair pulled into a ponytail to the fullest extent. When I make it to the big time, it’s going to be on my terms, and not with me carrying the emotional baggage of compromising myself.

“What does the pig fest represent to you?” I ask a person kind enough to allow me to give them their fifteen minutes of fame, with Jesse manning the camera. He has the luxury of t-shirt and jeans, and of course, matching sneakers. My sneakers also match my outfit, or at the very least, the overall color scheme. A straight-cut jacket over a white blouse and black pencil skirt. Just because I’m a local reporter assigned to a low-level event doesn’t mean I won’t come across as a professional journalist on a mission. Which I am. Jesse’s a sneaker-head, which means he spends most of his money on footwear. We have a nice, friendly rivalry as to who’s shoes are going to get messed up the worst on any given day.

“What does the pig fest mean to you?” I ask another person as they walk by.

This was the story. My role is to find something at the fest we can edit and produce for consumption on the news later this evening. Each person I can grab to comment in their southern accents, and charmingly slow rate-of-speech, gives me their individual take on the yearly festival and what it means to the community, and the spirit of unity it engenders.

After interviewing the first two people, it’s time to make a change. Flicking the switch on the bottom of the handheld microphone to the off position, to prevent any “hot takes” on air, I look to my partner. “It’s pretty dead over here,” I tell him and Jesse responds with a knowing nod of his head.

Most people were heading towards the interior where the action was, and even though people generally liked to see themselves on television whenever possible, the pig fest was too enticing to get them to stop. The First Law of Motion is a body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it. Mr. Newton didn’t account for the glory of pigs, since I was having a hard time getting people to stop and rest.

“Yeah,” Jess agrees. “And we need some B-roll.”

Grateful for my sneakers, I head through the large, golden metal gates separating the parking area from the controlled interior. We got a few stares as we entered, but we didn’t need to stop. Anyone wanting to purchase access to the various carnival style rides located inside would see the ticket booth to the left, but we kept straight. Our press badges were our way in, no need for tickets.

Security was light, as this was an easy day that even the light criminal element of Sance respected. Rap music blared and the bass thumped in my chest, while the guitar riffs from the rock heavy music sat over top of it and screamed in my ears. Each vendor seemed to have their own preference to the music they played, so everywhere we went, there was a cacophony of sounds that either tantalized or spurred you to find another location to loiter.

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