THE SADDLE NEWSFLASH III

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

There are certain things we do to appreciate our lives and the positions we hold. 

For some, something as simple as an afternoon trot on a horse can be a balm to soothe all afflictions. For others, mounting the saddle of a majestic and powerful beast can be an extremely erotic experience. To wrap your legs around the heaving torso of a wild animal, to feel the energy of its strength and vigour emanating through your loins and up into your torso until it reaches out into every atom of your being, vibrating within you like a star about to explode, each sublime step an unimaginable ecstacy, each moment a Utopian eternity, can be a paradise unspoken by any language, however celestial or ancient. And for some, it can be a bit boring, especially if you are more of an inside-person. 

I'm just a rustic country sheriff. I'm building a little ranch house by the river. I groom my horses. I smoke my pipe. I enjoy my leisure. But my perspective on life is inseperable from my duty. I've been sheriff of these Streets for 35 years. Before mafia basketball, mafia media and certainly before people just started making up names like "Gladius" and pretending to do interviews with them. Nothing on two legs has brought me to more euphoric heights in my time than the occasions I have to celebrate a victory over the malfeasants and wobblejaws who litter my Streets, and I am celebrating one of those today. I have bought The Saddle Newsflash, and I intend to destroy it. 

In my time here, I have encountered no force more destructive, more feral and more conducive to unbridled catastrophe than the explosion of mafia journalism that has taken place over the last weeks. Mafia Basketball was a fairly contained event, often better described as environmentally unfriendly as opposed to fatal, and only going back to the time of Lincoln_Lawyer, who caused the deaths of thousands on the competitive writing circuit, we might begin to approach the levels of pure worldwide calamity that we live through today. And what's worse, you have to read all about it in the MR Gazette the next day. And once more in the Harold a week later. And again in The Weekly Gazette 2 to 7 months after that. 

Today I strike one down for the good guys. The Saddle Newsflash is no more, and mafia journalism is one step closer to being an artifact from our dark history. I will civilize this place. News is one step closer to delivery once more via sophisticated means for Christian readers.

I want to hear about takedowns straight from the reproachful spokespeople of regimes, mournful over any number of the quiet and indistinguishable allies they have had to wipe from the board to keep things fresh, to be replaced by new sets of equally pedestrian space-fillers. I want to hear about the latest goings on in the famous town Lounge where, if you're lucky, someone will hand you a 10,000 line transcript to decipher for pertinent information. More than anything, I want to hear about lobster ravioli from the menus of Italian restaurants, and not the headline reports of the 8th published newspaper in 4 days, and certainly not spittling out of the mouths of reporters. 

Today we say goodbye to the Saddle Newsflash, a publication that never once reviewed nor mentioned a saddle once in its history, and hopefully in the coming days a goodbye to everything else, including the new Frequency Network, too poor to outbid an old-time sheriff for this publication, and off to an equally strong start in the mafia media business with their upside-down cake recipe. 

In times like these, we return to the words of SpikeS, who said:

It could've gone like this between Chromatik and Shoresy: 

"ayyyo yo yo boss man Shoresy I heard this thing from this NY balla that was like ayyyo we might need to attack the West coast yo. he was all like eyyy I think we should do this thing if this thing happens but like there's gonna be war and we're probably gonna have to attack this and that pew pew bang bang. West Coast gon kill our asses if we dont get the bullets flyin first yo. gangbanga playa play DangerClose got mad danger mad close and the gats may come knocking. We gotta get the homies together with theys nines and bats. East vs West playa. that cool with you boss man? We straight?"

.... then boss man Shoresy would've been like "yo nah we all good with the West homies. Tyki Harison KW are fam, fam. chill chillen no worries. we gots this on lock yo. ain't no beef there deadass."

And we remember why it's so important to receive information directly from the source, without any obfuscation, misunderstandings, style or melanin at all. That something being converted without edits into a scared straight seminar at the Mormon Church is still held in higher esteem than publications like The Harold or The Cyraxx Tribune says it all. 

Good riddance to The Saddle Newsflash,

Street Sheriff.

Sheriff of the Streets. 

We seem to have hit an ideological impasse. When I (as an unaffiliated agent of The Mafia Newspaper and Basketball Oversight Committee, who was in no way, shape or form intertwined or intermingled with that agency or the revered Competition Commission or the Better Basketball Bureau, for that matter) endorsed and gave my blessing for the Sheriff to stay on the toes of these journalists, it was with the understanding that he would watch over, regulate, and enforce high journalistic standards like those contained in the ℍ𝔸ℝ𝕆𝕃𝔻 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕌ℕ𝔻𝔼ℝ𝕎𝕆ℝ𝕃𝔻. Instead, I'm met with a venture into bestiality and a lunatic hell bent on destruction. This leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Hopefully it is not too late to save our streets from this maniac. Is there a hero among us who can stand up to this demented Sheriff and his herd of lustful equines? Can we put the genie back in the bottle?

How the mighty have fallen. One day I was standing tall astride the VIP Rankings, a pile of defeated rivals at my feet like rubble from one of Gillian's abortive HQs, recognised as the pound-for-pound, most important, very important person on the Streets, and the next I'm having to auction off my life's work for falling foul of The Mafia Newspaper and Basketball Oversight Committee (TMNBOC).

Sure, I tried to take things that weren't mine and auction them off to the highest bidder, but that is the nature of the business. In case anyone hasn't noticed this is the mafia, where creative writing competitions, newspapers and losers simping over anyone with XX chromosomes make up like 95% of the life. Excuse me for trying to get a bigger slice of the pie for myself. How was I to know how things would turn out? Tossed out on my ear by TMNBOC, backed into corner and now my dreams of a mafia news conglomerate lies in tatters, also like one of Gillian's HQs.

Who is to blame for this calamity? 

TMNBOC? They did make me hold an auction and lose the rights to my paper.

StreetSheriff? Well he did buy it and subsequently liquidate it, all for the low, low price of $5,000,000.

Those do seem like the obvious choices here, but no. There is someone who has to take the lion's share of the blame. And before any of you little snakes suggest that this is basically my chickens coming home to roost, I'd suggest you wait until I point the crooked finger of blame in the right direction before making up your minds. You see, there is someone out there who made a promise to me when he discovered my hands were tied by TMNBOC and the most senior newsman was in trouble. He said things to me like "We won't allow that to happen," and "Big Money has arrived now". My fears were allayed. I knew my beloved Newsflash wouldn't fall into the calloused hands of a megalomaniac running amok with in his #7th stirrups. 

And then?

Then what happened Warmonger?!

You pulled the plug; talked a big game about seizing opportunity and instead ended up delivering precisely dick all. There is probably a The Weekly Gazette joke there but my heart isn't even in it anymore. The cord has been cut, the tank is empty, the hooker's asshole has been fully evacuated of cocaine. I am beaten and the most senior newsman in the Streets no more. 

I hope you're proud of yourself, Warmonger. Thanks for nothing. 

"I fear I owe you an apology SaddleFlashing. I had paid a young lad to hurry along a minute before the end of the auction to outbid that bastard by $1 and the little shit ran off with my millions!" Warmonger growled. "But fuck the millions - more importantly, he's fucked our chances at monopolising spreading the news!! You wait 'til I see that little bastard..."

Warmonger sighs.

"I must confess though, I was starting to have doubts about our allegiance, SaddleFlashing. I served you up a great exclusive, with leaked documents attached, and what did you do with it?!" He throws his arms out beside him. "Nothing! You just sat on it! You could've done more to set yourself apart from the rest of these journos, Saddle! You're not free from responsibility here! We squandered this opportunity between us - both of us!"