ℍ𝔸ℝ𝕆𝕃𝔻 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕌ℕ𝔻𝔼ℝ𝕎𝕆ℝ𝕃𝔻

QUALITY, FACTUAL JOURNALISM. HOT SCOOPS.
NEWSPAPER SEASON; CHICAGO CLs GONE MISSING; Q&A

12th Street Public Showers • Monday, March 24th • Vol IIIIIII, No. 1

Journalistic quote of the week:

This place has had no legitimate news source for quite awhile.

- LordVoldemort

FRONT PAGE: THE STATE OF THE NEWSPAPER INDUSTRY, WHERE HAVE THE NEWSPAPERS BEEN?

HELLO CITIZENS. It's been a while and you're probably wondering where the newspapers have been. The masses were clamouring for a source of QUALITY, FACTUAL Journalism and their thirst remained unquenched. Not a single paper in sight. A total DRAUGHT. Not even a faint oasis like The Weekly Gazette.

Now you see, newspapers are a seasonal product, much like vegetables. Sometimes the time is right for them and they're ripe for the picking, other times it's not and your earth remains barren.

Just like vegetables, there's many different kinds of newspapers of varying quality. There's elegant newspapers, much like a stem of broccoli with its many branching florets almost like a bouquet of flowers, such as 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝔸ℝ𝕆𝕃𝔻 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕌ℕ𝔻𝔼ℝ𝕎𝕆ℝ𝕃𝔻. Then there's also trash growing on literal horseshit, much like fungal mushrooms, such as The Duck's Bill or RoboReport. Eww. Yucky. We know what we'd pick!

With spring approaching the season of Journalism has reared its head once more however, and we at 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝔸ℝ𝕆𝕃𝔻 are ready to get the HOT SCOOPS to the plebian, unwashed masses. The existing papers did not succeed at this in the slightest. The Duck's Bill is amateurish drivel scribbled together by a LITERAL duck in a suit with delusions of grandeur, and RoboReport from TheDonBot is fated to head the same way as The Weekly Gazette of old by making vague promises about future issues but then never actually releasing them.

Fear not. ℍ𝔸ℝ𝕆𝕃𝔻 is here, monobrow and all. And we need money, lots of money. Printing presses aren't cheap. Luckily unpaid interns are, who by strategic acquisition we have gained a monopoly on, and thus we rent out (for a generous hourly premium) to other newspapers who need interns.

Please tip generously.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF MISSING CHICAGO CLS

Chicago, a city best known for being trailblazers in many fields. Such trailblazery includes: The arts of Mafia Vampirism, claiming not to be into Mafia Vampirism at all, licking each other while making cat noises, randomly interjecting into conversation that the head honcho is a gay stripper, creating and refining the art of Burgerhousing, cracking down HARD on folding-chair related violence by banning folding chairs entirely, and strict recruitment procedures plus thorough background screenings. The list goes on and on.

Recently a new tradition has taken root in Chicago setting it even further apart from the competition with its unique flair, entire upper structures magically disappearing.

This is usually followed up with Chicago mother bear Arianna- asking around for witness statements, stunned by the fact that three of her most loyal crewmembers could suddenly be gunned down in tandem. What could have happened? How could this be? Arianna- doesn't know and neither do we.

First it was Nincom (who little is known of), then it was Sosa (who little is known of as well besides having a dented head due to repeated head trauma from folding-chair related incidents).

Worry not, Arianna-, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝔸ℝ𝕆𝕃𝔻 will get to the bottom of this some day. Probably. Perhaps. If given a generous donation.

Future auths of Chicago are advised to watch their back, we suspect this to be the work of that dastardly chess grandmaster Disorder.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF MISSING ADELINES

Adeline, best known for her ability to kick time-traveling ninja ass with her feathered sidekick QuackersFeatherbeak, and second-best known for getting nervous whenever a crew mate had their hands on one of the canteen's folding chairs for a second too long, has mysteriously disappeared.

After thorough research we concluded this is NOT related to the other disappearing Chicago upper structure members, but was instead perpetrated by FrankCastiglia, who barely anybody remembers except for that one time an ancestor of his had a psychosis after breathing in the airborne pathogen present in kuku's breath, resulting in him being taken behind the shed and put to eternal sleep.

The motive is unknown, but we expect QuackersFeatherbeak to have been at the center of it.

Q&A WITH QUACKERSFEATHERBEAK

To: WaffleStompingChamp
From: QuackersFeatherbeak
Sent: Mar 24, '25 16:25
Subject:

I'll answer honestly for a million dollars

 

To: QuackersFeatherbeak
From: WaffleStompingChamp
Sent: Mar 24, '25 16:20
Subject:

I have to ask, was it a question of money?

It turns out that, yes, it was a question of money. What a fucking pompous prick.

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: IS JOURNALISM A DEATH SENTENCE?

Have The Enemies of The Free Press been erased from this world? Or are they hungrily lying in wait for such high flyers as 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝔸ℝ𝕆𝕃𝔻 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕌ℕ𝔻𝔼ℝ𝕎𝕆ℝ𝕃𝔻?

Time will tell. I could go for a grilled cheese now, or perhaps a succulent plate of lobster ravioli.

This concludes this Issue of 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝔸ℝ𝕆𝕃𝔻 !! Please Leave me Money and Tips (information)!!

As voldemort walks the streets, He sees a sight, something that catches his eye, and his brain, a newspaper stand!

Could it be, Could this really be, are my dreams coming true?

Voldemort picks up the paper, smiles at the mention of his name, then continues reading. The words are pleasant, the layout beautiful, and the work spectacular and full of all the facts.

This sir, is a work of art. Exactly what we people in the streets needed, a beautiful yet still factual newspaper. Thank you, Thank you for giving the people what they need. Your work does not go unnoticed to us little people out here just trying to make a living!

EXT. ALLEY WAY - NIGHT.

Quacking echoed from under the hood of the alley dumpster. It wasn't just the sound of day-old bread being gulped down; a different tasty treat had whet Quackers' appetite. The mob-affiliated duck had been on the run ever since Adeline unleashed a set of time-traveling ninjas on his peaceful pond, making sure not to stay in one place for too long. And to make matters more complicated, it was mating season, which meant he had appointments to make. He slurped up a couple worms for the road and honked a goodbye to Miss Puddlefeet, his main squeeze, before setting off to his next hideout. But just as he fluttered messily out of the bin, a copy of a brand new Harold flew past his wing and thudded against the wall. Some fresh competition, huh? It wouldn't be his first experience fighting off a rival...

FLASHBACK

1932

EXT. GUERILLA CAMP ON THE BORDER BETWEEN BOLIVIA AND PARAGUAY - DUSK. 

Quackers dangled upside down over a pot perched above a small fire, a small rope tied tightly around his delicate orange ankles and webbed feet. A fat man in a military vest and khakis screamed in Spanish, occassionally stopping to dust Quackers in pepper, salt and paprika. Stuffed in his front pocket was the Veil of Isis, the mystical occult artifact Quackers had been entrusted to protect by an aged Knights Templar chaplain just days before. His only problem was he didn't know how to use it. 

"You know I won't talk, Esteban. This is pointless. You might as well roast me now and quit wasting my time."

Esteban snorted, but his arrogance was undercut by the sound of helicopter blades getting closer. The jungle burst to life, bullets whizzing out of the darkness. 

RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. 

(In crazed Spanish) "TAAAAKE COOOOVEEEEER!"

RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. 

By the time the dust had settled, bodies were scattered everywhere, but Esteban was nowhere to be seen. A rope dropped down from a hovering chopper and Quackers' twin brother, Honkers, descended gracefully.

"Duck and cover, bro," quipped Honkers.

"He's got the Veil, Honk-Man. If he quacks the code, we're facing an apocalypse."

"Well, let's shake our tail feathers, Q."

CUT TO - PRESENT DAY.

EXT. DOWNTOWN DETROIT - NIGHT.

"The damn RoboReport isn't even out yet and competitors are coming out of the woodwork. I guess it's time to do what I do best: squashing turkeys before they get a-gobblin."

Voldemort watches as the time traveling duck wanders in and out of consciousness in front of the newspaper stand, His confusion showing on his face. It is like a bad car wreck.. I do not wanna watch, but I can not take my eyes off of him.

My friend QuackersFeatherbeak, are you ok? Should I call an ambulance or a paranormal investigator, or hell, Maybe a priest to perform an exorcism?

Voldemort waits patiently for the man to come back to the current time as he zips and zaps up and down the street.

Actually, forget it, I'm not here to help, I am only here for the best newspaper I have ever seen

Voldemort buys another copy of The Harold and begins to walk away, almost breaking his neck as he still can not take his eyes off this magnificently wild duck in the streets.

To those stuffing my pockets with dollar bills I say: Thank you. This keeps me fed for another day with meals of plain rice with hot sauce.

However I would like those tipping only a measly 20k to ask themselves: "Why not tip 20 million dollars instead, a quarter of a TheBeast?".

Looking at you, Viviana.

Is this a paper or a ploy for money? 

Dynamite looks around for Kuku's infamous hats.

When I first read your issue I must admit it came after I had already sampled The Duck's Bill. My lunch that day, a break from tradition of lobster ravioli, and instead I had feasted on a particularly succulent duck breast which had perhaps that left a lingering subconscious pleasure for all things avian. My bulging gut had become bloated on the news and I don't think I gave the Harold a fair crack of the whip. Having now had time to process things and, perhaps most crucially having observed QuackersFeatherbeak repeatedly outpunned by Viviana, plumage wilting so much that he stole her own lettuce bit and tried to pass it off as his own, I have had to review my opinion. 

Review concluded. 

The Duck's Bill remains the premium newspaper around and perhaps even better than currently unpublished newspapers, at least until such a time as Viviana herself takes up her pen and fills the gaping size 11s of TommyVitale and The MR Gazette. However, I was wrong to dismiss The Harold of the Underworld as it is in fact only held back by its choice of interviewee; QuackersFeatherbeak. 

Should your next issue improve their choice to hear from (and my mailbox as a 46 day, 111% prowess, surviving former #1 VIP is open), then I think there is every chance you will be within touching distance of Tommy's brass ring. 

I watch on with troubled breathing because I have undertaken light exercise. 

The street corner around The Duck's Bill Issue 1.5 is bustling. I can barely keep the crowds at bay. When I need a break from the adoring readership, it's good to find a corner as peaceful and quiet and completely undisturbed by interest, regard, scrutiny or enjoyment as this one. It's like a sensory deprivation chamber.