single coin in hopes of compelling disappointed readers to purchase
a copy of the Beacon instead. He had never caught Hughes in the act, but he hoped
to one day.
Regardless, the empty machine riled him. He let its door slam shut and in frustration
sent the Beacon machine to its side with a stiff kick. It crashed to the sidewalk
with a metallic thud that echoed loudly through the cold night air. He nearly climbed
back into his car and sped off for home when he found his eyes lifting to meet those
of his uncle glaring down at him from above with a kind, permanently etched grin.
His chest inflating and contracting, Sean narrowed his eyes. He brought his visible
breath under control and nodded slowly. He leaned forward, wrapped his ample hands
underneath the yellow apparatus, and pulled it back up to its short, stilt-like legs.
Uncle Zed would have never condoned vandalism.
With the snow now knocked from the front of the Beacon machine, he could see the
front of the day’s edition pinned behind the glass. His heart stopped. His own face
was pictured just above the fold. The photograph had been taken at an odd angle,
somewhere in an outside setting without Sean’s knowledge. He quickly spun the machine
to face the light so he could better read the unusually long headline featured above
it.
“Guess Who’s Selling His Sperm for Cash? A Case for Forced Sterilization?”
Sean’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. His fists and teeth clenched and
his body began to shake in rage. “Son of a bitch!”
It came out like a vicious howl.
He lunged forward, wrapped his arms around the machine, and hoisted it up over his
shoulder as if it weighed no more than a large stuffed animal. He lumbered out into
the middle of the street, roaring obscenities, before arching his back and body slamming
the machine to the pavement with every ounce of strength he could muster. The implosion
sounded like a bomb had gone off. Glass shattering. Metal shrieking. Asphalt cracking.
Sean didn’t remember getting back into his car, but he soon found himself in his
Nova’s driver’s seat. He tore down Main Street, heading for the outskirts of town
where Roy Hughes lived. He couldn’t hear the cry of the car’s muffler over the sound
of blood boiling through his veins.
Hughes had somehow discovered that he was selling his plasma to make ends meet—maybe
followed him to the bank one night. It was the only explanation; Sean had told no
one of the practice that he found degrading.
The sperm angle was pure media sensationalism. He knew Hughes didn’t simply get the
story wrong. Hughes knew the truth. He just wanted to spice things up and magnify
the potential for humiliation at Sean’s expense. Hughes knew what Beacon readers
wanted. They needed massive failure from Sean Coleman—big time embarrassment. And
in the latest edition of the Winston Beacon , it was being served to them on a silver
platter. A lawsuit would have been the logical recourse for such an act of defamation,
but Sean wasn’t the suing type. He settled scores with his fists.
All he had wanted to do was pacify a nagging curiosity. All he’d wanted to do was
find out which news story had so upset Jessica, a woman he barely knew from the plasma
bank. Instead, he was now roaring toward Roy Hughes’ doorstep. He pictured himself
dragging the pencil-necked reporter out into the snow and slamming both of the man’s
small hands in the metal door of his Nova. Hughes wouldn’t be able to type anything
more about Sean if his fingers were all broken.
“First Amendment, my ass!” Sean barked as he took a corner far too quickly for the
road conditions. His rear tires swung forward, and he gasped as he felt the automobile
slide out of control.
“Shit!”
He clenched his steering wheel and turned it sharply to try to regain some traction,
but the move did no good. The car spun wildly, sending every stray item that littered
the dashboard and console onto his lap. Headlights
a copy of the Beacon instead. He had never caught Hughes in the act, but he hoped
to one day.
Regardless, the empty machine riled him. He let its door slam shut and in frustration
sent the Beacon machine to its side with a stiff kick. It crashed to the sidewalk
with a metallic thud that echoed loudly through the cold night air. He nearly climbed
back into his car and sped off for home when he found his eyes lifting to meet those
of his uncle glaring down at him from above with a kind, permanently etched grin.
His chest inflating and contracting, Sean narrowed his eyes. He brought his visible
breath under control and nodded slowly. He leaned forward, wrapped his ample hands
underneath the yellow apparatus, and pulled it back up to its short, stilt-like legs.
Uncle Zed would have never condoned vandalism.
With the snow now knocked from the front of the Beacon machine, he could see the
front of the day’s edition pinned behind the glass. His heart stopped. His own face
was pictured just above the fold. The photograph had been taken at an odd angle,
somewhere in an outside setting without Sean’s knowledge. He quickly spun the machine
to face the light so he could better read the unusually long headline featured above
it.
“Guess Who’s Selling His Sperm for Cash? A Case for Forced Sterilization?”
Sean’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. His fists and teeth clenched and
his body began to shake in rage. “Son of a bitch!”
It came out like a vicious howl.
He lunged forward, wrapped his arms around the machine, and hoisted it up over his
shoulder as if it weighed no more than a large stuffed animal. He lumbered out into
the middle of the street, roaring obscenities, before arching his back and body slamming
the machine to the pavement with every ounce of strength he could muster. The implosion
sounded like a bomb had gone off. Glass shattering. Metal shrieking. Asphalt cracking.
Sean didn’t remember getting back into his car, but he soon found himself in his
Nova’s driver’s seat. He tore down Main Street, heading for the outskirts of town
where Roy Hughes lived. He couldn’t hear the cry of the car’s muffler over the sound
of blood boiling through his veins.
Hughes had somehow discovered that he was selling his plasma to make ends meet—maybe
followed him to the bank one night. It was the only explanation; Sean had told no
one of the practice that he found degrading.
The sperm angle was pure media sensationalism. He knew Hughes didn’t simply get the
story wrong. Hughes knew the truth. He just wanted to spice things up and magnify
the potential for humiliation at Sean’s expense. Hughes knew what Beacon readers
wanted. They needed massive failure from Sean Coleman—big time embarrassment. And
in the latest edition of the Winston Beacon , it was being served to them on a silver
platter. A lawsuit would have been the logical recourse for such an act of defamation,
but Sean wasn’t the suing type. He settled scores with his fists.
All he had wanted to do was pacify a nagging curiosity. All he’d wanted to do was
find out which news story had so upset Jessica, a woman he barely knew from the plasma
bank. Instead, he was now roaring toward Roy Hughes’ doorstep. He pictured himself
dragging the pencil-necked reporter out into the snow and slamming both of the man’s
small hands in the metal door of his Nova. Hughes wouldn’t be able to type anything
more about Sean if his fingers were all broken.
“First Amendment, my ass!” Sean barked as he took a corner far too quickly for the
road conditions. His rear tires swung forward, and he gasped as he felt the automobile
slide out of control.
“Shit!”
He clenched his steering wheel and turned it sharply to try to regain some traction,
but the move did no good. The car spun wildly, sending every stray item that littered
the dashboard and console onto his lap. Headlights
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