Frank stared at her in disbelief.
"I'm speechless Lucinda."
"Ain't a big deal Frank."
"You're one of the most brilliant women I've ever met but have you lost your mind??!"
"It's not what it looks like."
"I have blood all over my nightly news set."
"They'll clean it up."
Frank paced at the edge of the long floor-to-ceiling window.
"Jesus fuck-me Christ."
"It was a political statement."
Frank laughed. "Is that what I'm to tell the CEO? And the children you traumatized?"
"We'll weather this storm," she replied, "Like we always have."
"Get out of my office."
Frank stood at the window. The lights of the city glittered in the background. Lucinda gathered her things.
"Anderson would have done it," she said, from the door.
"Cut a chicken's head off on live TV?"
"To put Putin in his place, yes Frank. We can't let the Russians win. It was an act of defiance, in unison with our European brethren, to pull back the re-emerged Iron Curtain responsible for this country's continued downward spiral."
Frank cleared his throat.
"You're fired Lucinda."
* * *
Lucinda walked down the sidewalk in pouring rain. She didn't have an umbrella. She didn't have a raincoat. And now she didn't have a job.
Had it really come to this? Had she finally made it onto the list of Quant family failures? Unreal. Surreal.
What a load of shite. She turned around and gave the middle finger to the broadcast building. She hoped Frank was still in the window to see it.
TV news had become ridiculously corporate. Everything hinged on ratings and advertising and demographic analytics. It was so far from why she got into news to begin with. She wanted to tell stories. She loved to tell stories. If she could share them with the world, all the better. It was her lifelong purpose. Her passion. Her obligation.
She looked down at her box of trophies and awards. What was the point? For it to end like this? On a rainy city sidewalk, without the prospect of future employment on the horizon? She was goddamn Lucinda Quant. She deserved better. She had made a name for herself. She had worked her ass off. Frank was a fucking dilettante.
Her stomach growled. She would carry on. She had to. Her family was full of quitters. There was no way she was about to join their sorry, destitute ranks.
But first things first, Lucinda thought. It was time to put an end to this ridiculous two-year primetime diet.
* * *
The young, handsome, bearded waiter poured her a glass of ice water. This was her favourite Mexican restaurant. It was a tad pricey, but she was worth it. She had just stood up to Putin and the whole Russian oligarchy on live television.
"What can I get you this evening?"
"A shotgun."
"Never heard of it before. Is it some kind of new tequila mix?"
"No, actually, it's retribution, but that's beside the point. I'll have a cerveza mas fina."
"And for your entree?"
Lucinda smirked.
"El Pollo Diablo."
