Who: Arakkis and Brandon the Bat What: Why Journalists with big noses and delusions of greatness should really just keep their fingers quiet. When: Some time after this, but not long after this, and before the article itself goes to print. Where: Hamartia 103 Warnings: Bats being his normal intimidating self, and Job's foul mouth.
The emails with Main had left Job with a bad feeling. Not that he didn't think he was doing the right thing, because he knew he was. That was the only thing he was dead certain about, truth be told; he knew beyond a doubt that this had to be done, that above all the truth had to be told, but even so. The fallout was going to be enormous, it was going to shake the city to its foundations. Heads were going to roll.
"Good," he muttered, shuffling over to the fridge and pulling out what would prove to be only the first beer of the evening. He took a long swig before repeating himself to the empty apartment. "Good." The city could do with some shaking up. With that fuckstick Eels going nuts on an innocent kid, pointing out the real Bat and trying to get them to realize they were no better or worse than he was might put a stop to more of the same.
Hopefully. Probably not, but it was worth a shot.
He took a few drags on his cigarette before returning his attention to the beer. "They need to know, dammit!"
But there was still going to be a shitstorm, Main had been right about that. People were fickle, slow to change, and no amount of persuasive arguing was going to change that overnight. Loud, bold, argumentative, yes. The general public had always been receptive to being shouted at, being knocked around mentally, and while the push back couldn't always be predicted, there inevitably was one. Sometimes, if you pushed just the right buttons in just the right sequence, it was even the right one. But that kind of thing wasn't the kind of shit they'd let him publish in a reputable paper, unfortunately.
Making his way back to the couch, he flipped on the TV and turned it on as loud as he could stand before dropping onto the cushions, which made a satisfying creak of protest as he did. He contented himself with the decision that, whatever happened, he had done the right thing, in the end. It was his job to report, the response to that report wasn't his problem.