Hydroxylapatite Version (OOC/SU)

[a id]cleo1[/a id]"A journalist, then. May I ask what brought you here?"
Ya got a right good eye keepin' ya steady in case that nose of yours clogs up any more, stuffy. What's with the snobby-poppy temper you're feedin' me? - step back, step back - I just report on big news in the city; I ain't no showstopper myself. Drama's my life, but drama ain't my life, you feel? Loosen up ... you'll look better in the pictures if you do.

There ain't no specific scoop I'm achin' to pick at, but you can bet somethin's gonna happen. All these beaus and beauts in one place? Bound to stir up trouble, one-hundred-percent guarantee. I ain't got time to waste on sippin' champagne - as much as I'd kill for a drink - and ticklin' the bum of some big-wig "oh-ho-ho~", these events are where I punch my clock. Sure, it's tirin' not bein' able to just sit back an enjoy events - if you're a big ol' puss-puss - but I'm tellin' ya it's worth it: media is where the real power is, kid. Don't let their jewels and mustache oil fool ya; I write one bad thing about them in my column, and they might as well lose the number of their hoity-toity producer and file for divorce.

So don't ya go hidin' any material from me, honey badger. I help little folk like ya rise up and have a soapbox to stand on when push comes to shove, so it's in your best interest to scratch my back. Come on, we're pals. I'm trustin' ya.

[a id]cleo2[/a id]"I don't suppose you have your barrel pointed at anyone in particular...?"
Woah-oh-oh, ya know I got my guns pointed at that ambassador chick. She spills wine on a designer dress, I got the front page ... above the fold. She lays a smooch on the cheek of a pal: bam - who's this sheik stealin' up her heart? - continued on page three! H-e-l-l-o kid, I'll be eatin' for weeks if I snap of pic of her breathin' the wrong way.

Not to say I mean to harm the poor thing. I've read quite a few tabloids praisin' her foreign policy or some such; she seems like the kind of gal I'd vote for to put pushy bureaucrats in their place, definitely, but ... we all got people we need to look out for, ya know? I got a gal back home waitin' every night - bless her heart, don't know what she sees in me - and ... she counts on me. I'm sure the ambassador wouldn't hesitate to pick at my career for the sake of her fam. Even if she ruined me, it'd be somethin' I'd understand.

Ah - uh, actually, can I have tha ... that drink - ah, no, sorry-sorry-sorry; nah, I'm good, nevermind.

[a id]cleo3[/a id]"Who here have you written about before?"
Uh-oh, I can tell someone ain't readin' my stories. Lemme take a look around - hm, haw, who haven't I ever-ever talked about - oh, right, everyone in this room is somebody I've snipped at once or another; silly question boo-boo, better luck next time.

Though I guess I'm bein' unfair here ... the head honchos of this place - Finer Things, I means - they're an elusive bunch. Sure, I'd love to sink my teeth into Carmine or Lombardi, but what am I gonna write a whole column about? That accent? That temper? Pl-ease, I've heard and seen better from better. Ya can smash an apple and call it a pie, but ya can't serve up a Thanksgivin' Dessert if ya don't even got apple seeds; ya feel me, sweetie?

[a id]cleo4[/a id]"Have you ever felt it was necessary to embellish the truth?"
Who the hell is "Cleo," who are ya talkin' to? Me? Uh-nah, no, ya can't call me Cleo, that ain't my bloody name. Ya were almost right on that last part though, with Claudette ... 'cept I'm more likely to put people back to sleep forever if they keep tryin' to call me "Cleo." And ... thanks, I supposes. The babe back home does my fur. Says it makes me look more approachable.

Ah, I see, everybody want to know how much I gotta lie. Well, Cakes, I'll let ya into an exclusive one-of-a-kind secret: if ya good at this job, ya don't gotta lie. Ya just use a fancy word to beef up what happened, then let logic follow through: she picked her nose? Nah, she gouged her nose. What does one do when their nose is all bloody? Why, I'd go to the doctor and get my schnoz fixed - what was that, nose surgery, wow! - aaaaand there ya are, the day column's written, ya off to an early lunch, and the paparazzi are bangin' down the star's front door before they've taken their finger out. Now, how does that diff-er-en-tiate from straight-up lyin'?

Because I got a reputation, and it says I don't lie. Ya feel? Besides, I ain't got ... much, to lie about in my own life. I ain't good at real lies, I barely got practice.

[a id]cleo5[/a id]"What kind of upbringing did you have?"
No, I ain't gotta have some gooey monster swoop in and try to make me somethin' I ain't. My name is Claudette: it's trademark, it's stylish - and ya listen here, Cakes - I don't got to change to nobody concernin' my life. It's my story, why should I let some brat I never imagined bein' here make me become one of ya stupid normies -

Ahem. Woah, uh ... yeah: shut up. Do all ya sugar-coated creampuffs talk like this? Ya startin' to give me a headache, toots. Ya ain't focused, ya ain't sharp, ya talk a mile-a-minute but ya don't go nowheres. Unlike myself, a'course. It's hard for a gal to throw her weight around against all these fat cats sittin' at the top when she first gets out, but, I've always had the snap, ya dig? Always had the "glint of mischief," as my papa said, that made aaaaall the difference.

Heh. My folks were good people, honest-and-truthfully. Plain couple, wore clothes for comfort, down to earth enough to indulge in my imagined swordfights and other assorted kid fancies. Weird I came outta them, of all people; they were softspoken - I daresay borin' - if anythin' but lovin'. All of us used to live on a farm, believe it or not, until my papa got bought out by some company and he found work up in the city. It's hard to think about them ... both are six feet under after an accident with a train ... it's hard to talk about. I was a teenager when they went, had to put myself to work since ain't nobody was gonna adopt me at that age. Too old.

I found my talents pickin' up on the con-ver-sations of suit-wearers as they strolled in the park or blabbed to their barber. I was a papergirl, one of the those ya gave coins to in the street for the latest headline, and my boss would pay me extra for any little tidbit I could snag. Needless to say, us two became quite the pair: I'd tell her goods, she'd write them, I'd help her edit. Naturally, I later became one of her top reporters. Which ain't all my fault: her daughter is about my age and we took a fancy to eachother, so I'm sure there was a here-and-there of her vouchin' for me.

[a id]cleo6[/a id]"Who or what got you into journalism?"
I'm a self-made woman, kid. I picked my job, I ain't got nobody to blame for all this hot stuff but me. Well - is that accurate? - I guess ya could blame everyone for bein' too interestin'. Honestly, if people were more open about themselves, I wouldn't have a career. And my papa, I supposes ... he never judged me for talkin' so much, bless his heart. Can't tell ya if that was because he was never too wordy himself so it fit him all fine, or he just had a huge tolerance for me. Ah, well. I don't think ya could say those pulled me into journalism ...

Maybe it was the feelin' of havin' a fanbase? I love how people react to news: a gasp, disgust, or a smile. Words makin' them feel somethin' visceral. I run off that chiz, kid. My readers sometimes feel like a table of jabberin' aunts I never had, all their aged eyes laid on me, eager to know whether or not I'm goin' to college or I got a sweetheart.

It could be I gots too many influences to count? I've always been gossipy.

[a id]cleo7[/a id]"Do you report on celebrities because it's the closest thing to being a celebrity?"
Geez Louise, kid; ya somethin' intense. I'm sorry to make a sad lot outta ya - hate to see what demons come pounce on me if I answer "wrong" - but, if ya pick me apart long enough, ya come to find that I'm simple folk: the last thing I wants is to be a celeb. I don't need somebody, especially one like myself, breakin' open my dresser and toyin' with my delicates, ya feel? If I had the chance - and I'm gonna get a little heart-to-heart here for a second - if ya gave me the money and a piece a land ... enough for corn and squash and a little garden for the missus ... I'd swoop up my girl and never come back. Never travel no place, no more; 'cept to the neighbors, to share holidays and preservin' techniques! We'd grow old there, just the three - two, I mean two - of us. Never hurtin' eachother; always honest. Yeah ... that's the life I want.

But ... life ain't about what we want, kid. I didn't want my papa and mama kickin' the bucket right before they got to see me all grown up. I didn't want my peers makin' me out to be some monster hell-bent on ruinin' people. I never, ever thought myself too easy on the alcohol to get so far gone to -- kid. Kid. Life will make ya what it wants to make ya. There's no rhyme, no reason for what it does; things happen, and we adapt to a certain mold. I - I guess, what I'm tryin' to say to ya, is ... I'm content keepin' my shape that of a nosy gal and nothin' else.

[a id]cleo8[/a id]"Why do you even care about reporting on petty tabloid stories?"
Don't talk down to me, sweetie! We're both workin' gals, we both understand how hard it can be to get a dollar around here; I had a talent for bein' a Chatty Chatot, and I used it to my advantage: ya can respect that. Like, when was the last time ya strolled to the library to grab a "scholarly article" ... ? Oh, that long? Maybe never? While, writin' for my paper, everyone in town knows my latest headline by suppertime. What the critics think I lack in taste, I make up for in groceries.

I've known plenty of schmucks who think just because they've got a freshly printed diploma in their hand that they're gonna change the world with "hard-hittin'" bupkis. They wanna be res-pect-ab-le, someone ya can cite in a fancy school essay. But then they come to find, as I too did, that the regs on the street can't really ... grasp horrible atrocities. They don't like their conscious barkin' at 'em to "do more" after they read a segment on typism or politics, and they can't relate to tragedies like shootin's and unnatural disasters if they've never been around anythin' sim-i-lar.

But people will always be willin' to judge others. Every fella harbors at least an inklin' of resentment towards those with more luck in life. They eat up stuff about dukes and dames fallin' into alcoholism, or becomin' star-crossed lovers, or dealin' with missed per - and ... uh, yeah, yeah, the juicy stuff. They love draggin' others when they can, almost - like - a kind of ... revenge against fate, and that's fine by me, since everyone has a secret: I never run out of material. So "bein' petty," as ya so eloquently put it, pays the bills when ya good at snappy reportin'.

[a id]cleo9[/a id]"Did you choose your job to prevent people leaving as forgettable lives as your parents?"
Wowie, ya talk funny, mister - uh, uh ... sister? Sorry, I don't mean to assume that ya ... yeah, anyway, uh ... that's one helluva a-nal-y-sis. Now, I ain't no self-psychologist or nothin', but I disagree: I kinda think it's nice that my folks never got run down with fame for somethin'. Not only do hot movie babes have to deal with scamps like me, but even in death ... their face, their clothes ... ain't theirs no more. Artists make - whatcha call 'em - subversions to ruin the iconic stuff they worked so hard on, and everybody got somethin' to "reveal" about their life as soon as it's over: and they got no-say, no-how about what people believe. Fame makes sure that ya ain't ya no more once ya say goodbye. At least my folks got to take whatever they had with 'em.

Still ... I wish they were here longer. Can't call 'em "forgotten" when I'm still missin' 'em, right?

[a id]cleo10[/a id]"Are you ... an alcoholic?"
Step-what ... daughter? Nah, nah, no - all I got is a girlfriend, I got no wife or kids - I can't have none, no, ya mistook my words, I said that I'm datin' my boss' daughter; she herself don't got one, I got one! I mean - no, I don't got a daughter - I don't even know what it is yet, I - wait, wait - now ya got me sayin' things that I got all wrong, uh ... I never meant to ... oh god, kid. Ya makin' me say things I've never thought I would.

Uh ... I guess ... I guess ya right. I've been drinkin' since an age far too young for anybody to think acceptable. It was never a problem before, I'm a friendly type when on the bottle, don't go beatin' nobody or nothin'. And to answer ya friend over there, that ... floating an-drog-y-nous beep-boop machine ... yeah, I does. It makes me feel free, more than I am ... most of me is flash, kid. Slick naggin' and boastful showmanship. Liquor makes that act not as much of a burden. I do it lots when I'm travelin' away from my lady, to ease the loneliness and pass the time, and I have to usually leave by train and - well - I'm sure ya were quick enough to catch why I don't like bein' on those too long.

One night, a month or two ago, I was on a swanky one of 'em - cabins, bar cart, whole thing - feelin' anxious and juicin' myself up, when this talkative fella sat next to me. Tall drink of water with white fur, gentle thing, had long danglin' arms and this sleepless look in his eye. I wasn't too shy about swappin' stories, and then he gets all close-like and says "ya pretty, miss," all charmin' and such. He wanted some smooch-smooch, and ... I don't why, but ... I did it. Heh, we did more than that. I've never took much interest in men, but this one was ... well, he must've reminded me of someone. Somethin' comfortin'. We both woke up next to each other in his private box when the train pulled into the station and we wondered what the hell we did.

I tried justifyin': "I couldn't recall my name, I wasn't myself" and other tunes. I decided it was easier to lock myself up in guilt and never breathe a word about it. Weeks later when I was home, I was feelin' real sick all of a sudden, and my girl poked my big tummy and giggled that I was chompin' on too many sweets. I went to the doctor's where they gone and told me ... it wouldn't be too long until there was an egg. I ... I don't blame the fella, in truth. We was both out of our heads when it happened, I'm not even sure if it was I who lead us to his room ... but that mistake is still here. Growin' in me.

I haven't told nobody yet, especially not my girl. Ya know, it must be so nice for those loveless marriage ladies to lie to their husbands and just say that they're havin' his baby. How's he supposed to know better? But ... basic biology, hun, how the hell to do ya tell ya lady ya makin' a child? And I don't wanna get rid of it either, I don't want to stash it in an attic somewhere and not take care of it; I'm its mama. My mama loved me, and I ain't about to kill her spirit by lettin' it see me treatin' my own poor ... but how's it gonna eat? I tell my girl, and she'll leave and my boss will kick me to the curb. I'll be deadbeat broke, alone and starvin', and everybody I ever hurt in my stories will come after me.

Until then, I'm keeping clean for the ... miracle of birth. Though, ya know the second it's outta me, I'm gonna be swadling the kit in my right and holding a martini in my left, heh ... my life is a tickin' clock. All it is now is waitin'. I'm just tryin' to squeeze the last few drops out of it while I can.​