News Fox

It's a hot, Australian night, 1979, and News Corp had gotten into the habit of taking personal logs. Something of a diary, but he added to it too infrequently at that point in time to call it that.

The air con uselessly stirred summer heat around the room. It did little to cool him, but it was efficient in granting paper the ability of flight. Every time the pages on his table fluttered, News Corp was annoyed enough to swear at the appliance, but not enough to turn it off. Something had set his mood a little foul, though he didn't have a tangible reason to be so irritated. There was a staleness in the air, and he decided a return to the typewriter would help clear it better than the fucking useless air con.

His logs were usually boring, but this one called for intrigue:

"While I was in the new BI-LO supermarkets, I overheard someone in front of me at the line. They were talking about nonsense mostly. Two deeply tanned broads, freckled and withered, large straw hats and sandy hair, pretending to be smarter than the average person and morally superior too. Their talking came around to - as most pointless tongue lashing do - an irrelevant conversation about myths. The bunyip came up.

It's not the first time I’ve heard of it. Everyone’s heard of the bunyip. Its a creature spoken of throughout Australia. A devil, or spirit or something. Aboriginal superstition. Fairytales. No one can even decide on what a bunyip fucking looks like. You get some saying it’s a dog, others saying a horse, and a few say it’s even a starfish. A fucking starfish. Do people even try anymore?

The Bunyip is a Fox. the bunyip is a fox. the bunyip is a fox. the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyipisa fox the bunyip isafox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox it’s a fox the bunyip is a fox it’s a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox it’s a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox The Bunyip is a Fox. it’s a fox it’s a foxthe bunyip is a fox. the bunyip is a fox. the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyipisa fox the bunyip isafox the bunyip is a fox it’s a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox it’s a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox the bunyip is a fox it’sa fox the bunyip is a fox

So as I was saying it’s fucking ridiculous superstition. A proper news outlet shouldn’t concern itself with myths.
Anyways, it's late, and the air con is annoying me. The flight to America in the morning..."

After finishing he made no effort to re-read for mistakes as he found his eyes slipped off the paper in sheer exhaustion. So he tore the new page out of the typewriter and put it away in a file without reading it.

His bed had already been shipped over so he slept on the couch. It was his last night in the homeland for a long time.

Many years later, in an isolated cabin near a lake, he'd been made fully and painfully aware of the ambitious freeloader he'd brought with him on that night.

His top drawer was now dedicated to personal logs. What use to be a boring time sponge became his anchor for sanity. Though where he once made an effort to put them in a file as if they were business papers, now he just shoved them inside, cramping each and every crevice with folded or scrunched paper. Sometimes he'd bother with a date, but sometimes so little effort was given that all he'd have written down was the year and the words 'it's a fox' over and over. One time, he wrote it in Haiku form.

The date was irrelevant to him, but on that particular evening of whatever day, News Corp sat against the wall of his cabin, dragging a knife across the floor boards.

He carved into the wood easy enough, but it wasn't his goal. He was trying to severe his shadow from him like an ant-Peter Pan, which that was proving to be less fruitful than severing the fibres of paneled wood.

The shadow in question - his shadow - was inky black, too dark in direct light to be natural. It stretched across the floor, disappearing under the door that led into the bathroom. From within, there was the hollow sound of something stirring in the bathtub.

He stared at the bronze door knob, ears perked for every bump and thud. Eventually he picked up the sound of pipes rattling, water rushing, and gentle sloshing. It did like it's baths...

There were times that News Corp fancied the bunyip to be an old friend, or a pet, or something equally pleasant like that. Pleasant delusions such as those helped him get a few winks of sleep.

The bunyip owned this house now...and News Corp too.

"What did I do to deserve this?" He muttered, "At least you can't say I didn't try..."

The bunyip had learned his trick, you see. The drugs in the cabinet - uppers, downers and multicoloured brain-melters, all of them were useless now. Oh, they use to work fine on News Corp, he'd go whatever direction the nice people on the streets would say they'd take him, but he'd learned that the desired effect of keeping the bunyip away from him and out of his shadow wasn't working anymore.

Not five minutes ago he'd tried to take a simple drag of weed. As he slowly became inebriated, the bunyip was as clear-minded as ever and latched itself to him. In a panic, he saw it in the mirror, ink black and fuzzy against the glass, like a trick of the light. Five glowing eyes...a fox...

It was all he could do to lock it in the bathroom door and curl up in the corner by his desk. Luckily it was in his shadow...not his head.

But now he'd locked away his supply. All he had was cigarettes on this side. He had a gun too, but that was useless. He couldn't smoke a gun, which would be better to attempt than shooting the bunyip.

Then the phone rang.

News Corp yelped and fired at the table, sending an explosion of wood chips everywhere and making the phone come off it's hook.

He stares at the handset, dangling on it's cord. The rattling of the plumbing ceased. Suddenly the cabin was as silent as the inside of a bubble.

A woman with a white-collared, Australian accent could be heard on the other end of the line, “Hello, this is Amy from Telstra. Have I reached News Corp?”

A moment passes as his mind whirls, trying to figure out why he could hear the voice so clearly, trying to put a face to the brand name and finding - with dubious relief - that he couldn't.

“Hello, this is Telstra.” She repeats, “Have I reached News Corp? I would like to discuss about a joint venture.”

He gulps, aiming the pistol at the handset, before saying, “Hello?”

“Yes, Hello, is this News Corp?”

“Yes, I'm him.”

“This is Telstra, we're calling about a possible joint venture.”

News Corp crawls along the floor to the phone, bringing it up to his sweaty chin to speak into the mouthpiece.

“You don’t have a personification, do you?”

“No, we don’t. Do you not trust Companies without perso-…?”

“No! No!” He grips the phone tightly, cradling it to his face before lowering his voice, “No, quite the opposite. Personifications give me bad vibes. Nothing but self-absorbed liars. Monsters and criminals, the lot of ‘em.”

He glances over his shoulder at the bathroom.

“...okay.” She says.

“Sorry. I must apologise for my...” He stutters and stands up slowly, using the table. “...for my tardiness.”

“That’s perfectly fine, News Corp. Your company forewarned us of your situation.”

“...Ah.”

“Mr. News Corp, to keep this brief and straight to the point, how would you feel about becoming a parent organization?"

“Me?” He shakily feels for a cigarette on the table, keeping his eyes on the door to the bathroom, and lights it in his mouth. He was use to multi-tasking paranoia and business conversations. He had to. The idea that he was still being given responsibilities made him want to laugh.

“I hope you know; my methods of parenting aren't exactly conventional.” He told her.

unfazed, she pressed him, "Really? How so?"

"Well, say you've got a science fair on and my little girl's only competition is a kid with a volcano sculpture." He made a smoke ring, and stuck a finger through it. "I'd replace the soft drink he'll be using with piss just so she can win the first place ribbon."

"Wonderful! How soon can we get you on a flight home?"

"Home?" He asked. The gentle sloshing of water could be heard through the wall as the bunyip moved around in the tub.

Amy - on the other end of the line - glanced over at the priestly looking personification who stood by her side. Another tan wearing an ear piece gave her a reassuring nod. She was just an intern, she wasn't use to having to deal with so many personifications in one day, but she was holding up very well under the pressure. The foxs were intimidating, but they were family now.

"Home, yes." She continued pleasantly. "A flight back to Australia, Mr.News Corp."