traffic-reporter gone off the deep end...

Tap. Tap. Tapity, Tap tap. Hearing the feelings flow, I'm hanging by my fingers. Where did it come from and where does it go? The pink tea pots and the amber waves. Where did the glass shards come from? In fact, they're still there.
Being a reporter isn't easy. I used to do this shit in my sleep, but then I got a real job. I report for the big boys now. Here I am watching it al from my big silver bird in the sky. The chopper's thup, thup is easy to forget after the first year or so. I'm looking down at all the blood, all the bodies, all the carnage. What's worse is the battle hasn't hit yet. Young minds, youg willings. None of them are ready for what's about to hit them. They'll never be ready.
I can't help but stare at just one though. It's a reporter's first rule ya know, personalize it; focus on one tragic soul and make it hit home for every bleeding heart. Gotta beef it up sometimes. Never leave a dry eye over your page. Ya know?
But nothing like that ever happens, here I sit in my high, safe perch. And all those soon to be dead are dying. I never get to meet them, never get to see them. I never get to get as close to the mangled flesh as any of my readers feel. Except this time.
There on the ground; That soon to be dead body. That is Johnny. They're all called Johnny until I think of a better name to give them.
Johnny is sitting there in his Jeep. He doesn't see the oncomming. He doesn't see the devastation. But I do. I saw it three thousand times and made millions on it.
And the big boys demand their story, bigger this time, worse. They always want worse.
They'll get it.
He's going to be shot. It'll be a high-powered rifle. From no-where. He's only seventeen. A medical student. And his daughter in the back-seat. Addopted. No one will know where the bullet came from. No one but me and my big-boys. They make the decisions ya know. I just report it for ya. Here from my big helicopter. The hard part is aiming while keeping this damn news chopper steady.
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
Watch, I've gotten good ya know. Aim gets better with practice. His head'll explode like Kennedy's.
And when it's all over the news channel. The girl from the traffic report chopper will ger her glory again. I've got the eye-witness account. I saw it all. Every chunk of bloody hell. Every car that got shattered along the way. I say the child get her head cut off. I'll sell the story. They'll buy. No one can resist. No one will.
Wait for it...
wait for it...
the big story...
Wait for it.
...