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Hello, You’ve Reached the Daily Road Editorial Office – Part 05

Just then, she slipped and fell flat on her back. She stared up at the sky, baffled.

The old woman grabbed the stall with both arms and shook it. One of the skewered dumplings fell, landing right into Victorique’s open mouth as she lay on the ground.

Upon noticing, the stall owner came around. Seeing Victorique with the dumpling in her mouth and the stall owner approaching, the old woman nodded in satisfaction and disappeared like the wind.

Victorique, puzzled at first, started eating the dumpling. She blinked, realizing it tasted good. The skewer held cream-colored, brown, and red round balls.

With her cheeks puffed out, she muttered, “I see. The cream-colored one is rolled cheesecake. Munch, munch. Swallow. The brown one is… a chocolate donut. Munch, munch. And the red one? A candied apple! Yes. Munch, munch.”

She rose, her cheeks stuffed with sweets, and nodded.

“The New World is indeed a confusing place. The strange figure jumping from one building to another and the mystery of the newspaper it dropped. What’s the shop with the completely white windows selling? And why is that family dining indoors with umbrellas? And the odd men taking the silver object hanging in front of the tobacco shop. What does the stall called ‘Poorboys’ sell? Inadequate mysteries of this new land.” She smirked. “Ah, but I have identified the flavor of the three-color dumpling. It’s cheesecake, donut, and apple. The mysteries of the new world, once understood, are trivial and boring… quickly solved without a doubt.”

The stall owner grabbed Victorique by the scruff of her neck, lifted her up, and started shaking her roughly. Looking down calmly and irritably, she saw the stall owner glaring at her.

“Hey, where’s the green?”

“Green? You mean the color?” Victorique asked coolly.

The man’s anger flared. “You idiot! Green means a one-dollar bill! Money! Pay up! Pay up! Pay up!”

“Money? Money? Oh, money. Is that all? Money, money. What?” Victorique fell into thought. “Money. Mo-ney. Mo-ney?”

“You don’t have any, do you? Officer!”

A whistle blew in the distance. The sound of galloping hooves followed, and a mounted policeman appeared.

Dangling in the air, Victorique found herself face-to-face with the horse’s large head. She met the horse’s calm, exasperated gaze.

The officer listened as the stall owner kept yelling. Then, he turned his gaze to Victorique’s tiny face and the skewer she held tightly.

“Stealing in broad daylight. Are you playing with me, young lady?”

“Stealing? That’s not true. How absurd.”

Completely taken aback, the officer studied her arrogant, composed, and beautiful face in silence.

Victorique, with an unusually aristocratic look uncommon in the new world, stared blankly at the policeman.

Clink. A handcuff was placed on Victorique’s left wrist.

Victorique silently moved her right hand and took the last bite. She continued to chew the dumpling with a very defiant look.

“She’s still eating,” the stall owner muttered in shock.

Victorique continued chewing, ignoring everything. A cold, furious fire blazed in her emerald eyes.

From the shadows, the old woman in the brown dress watched, relieved.

Meanwhile…

At the southeastern tip of Manhattan Island, on the fifth floor of a strange mixed-use building sandwiched between modern buildings on Newspaper Row, was the Daily Road editorial office.

“Rejected! You too. If you didn’t learn it at home or at your fancy schools, fine, but you should have picked up some military-style insults during your service.”

The editor-in-chief stomped around, yelling like an irate gorilla. He brandished scathing manuscripts, reading them with disdain before tearing them up and throwing them away. The young men ducked and weaved to avoid him whenever he approached.

Those who were rejected took the opportunity to leave the cramped room.

Spotting one trying to sneak out, the editor-in-chief growled, “Stay.”

“Y-Yes, sir.” The young man reluctantly returned.

Kazuya also tried to slip out the door, but the editor-in-chief bellowed, “Chinese boy, where do you think you’re going?” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed. “Hack… hack… gah!”

Sitting on the edge of the desk, acting tired, he said, “What would you say in a fight? Put yourself in Eddie Sawyer’s shoes. The champion, William Trayton, is rich and handsome, but you’re a poor country bumpkin. You went through the hardships of military service together, but when it’s time to fight, he wants to kill or bomb you. What would you say? Line up. Shout it out in order from the right.” The editor-in-chief threw a mock punch.

The dozen or so remaining young men exchanged nervous glances.

“We learned military-style insults during service, but…”

“I don’t use them myself.”

Reluctantly, they rolled up their sleeves, raised their fists in a boxer’s stance, and in order from the right, they shouted.

“Uh, motherfucker?”

“Good.”

“Um, asshole?”

“Nice.”

“Fucking hell.”

“That’s a good punch.”

“You’re dead meat!”

“Impressive.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“That’s the spirit, boys!”

“Cut it out. I’m running out of patience here.”

“Wait a minute, what was that?”

The editor-in-chief, happily throwing punches, stopped. His mouth was agape.

“Did my great-great-grandfather, who had an outdated way of getting angry, just appear?”

Everyone pointed simultaneously at Kazuya Kujou, the sweet-looking Asian youth in shabby clothes.

Kazuya, posing like a boxer, looked manly and dignified enough. Feeling the stares, he looked around nervously.

“Also, ‘Stop being so unreasonable,” he added. “’I’ll get really mad this time.’ Is something wrong?”

“Y-You little…”

At that moment, the glass door opened, admitting a woman in a miniskirt. She had blonde hair in pigtails, sharp, almond-shaped eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a slender, beautiful figure. She appeared to be a secretary or something similar, carrying a stack of documents in both arms. She used her shapely, upturned backside to push the door open.

“Ultra lame,” she said.

Kazuya stopped posing like a boxer and stood at attention, silently hanging his head.

The woman put away the documents and left, saying, “It’s like listening to a dying old man’s lecture. Ultra horrible.”

The editor-in-chief nodded gravely.

“He sounded just like my great-grandfather,” one youth whispered. “He emigrated from France and lived a tough life. He died of old age, and he’s now resting in Central Cemetery. I loved that old man.”

“Man, I miss those days,” another added. “Old folks used to scold us like that when we were kids.”

“So, this is a first-generation immigrant. He’s not getting the job.”

Then, as if nothing happened, they picked up paper and pen and resumed writing articles. Kazuya tried to slip away, only to be caught by the editor-in-chief.

I have to go find Victorique!

One by one, the young men handed their papers to the editor-in-chief, who yelled “Rejected!” “Boring!” before tearing them up. Some had their papers shoved into their mouths. Fed up, they left, relieved to finally be able to go home. Kazuya grew anxious as the number of people dwindled.

The editor-in-chief sighed dramatically. “Ugh. Don’t you have any novel kind of trash-talk? Something fresh for the new era! Something that really packs a punch!”

Kazuya sighed inwardly. I need to find Victorique. I already filed a missing person ad. She vanished from the main street in East Village, but where should I look next? He shook his head.

Lighting a cigarette, the editor-in-chief muttered, “Even if you suck at insults, there must be someone around you who’s good at it. A foul-mouthed friend, a deadbat father, a scary teacher.” He glanced at the female secretary passing by the glass wall and let out a sigh.

Victorique was so excited about that pink cake, too. I wanted to take her to the cake town. She was in a foul mood and bad-mouthing me before that, though.

“Ah!” Kazuya clapped his hands. “I know someone. Someone incredibly foul-mouthed, like the Devil. Someone very close to me.”

He started writing furiously on the paper, then handed the manuscript to the editor-in-chief.

“I’m done.”

“Hmm.” The editor-in-chief took it and started reading it wearily. “Oh.” Gradually, he took great interest in the submission.

The remaining young men exchanged glances, wondering what was going on.

Now I can leave. I need to find Victorique.

The editor-in-chief jumped up from the edge of the desk, waving the paper around. “Chinese boy, you’re tentatively hired.”

“I’m leaving, then. Wait, what?”

The remaining young men began to retreat all at once.

“Good for you, Gramps,” one said.

“You just arrived in Manhattan yesterday and already found a job. Lucky you. That’ll be it for us. Bye.”

“Good luck, immigrant boy.”

They fled as if their lives depended on it. Kazuya watched the young men leave in confusion, then looked at the editor-in-chief.

The man had a decidedly unpleasant smile on his face. He clapped Kazuya on the back roughly.

“This is exactly what I mean by new-world insults. A fresh sensation that cuts deep into the hearts of the common folk.”

“Uh, my insults were old-fashioned, but what I just wrote is modern?”

“Exactly! You’re like an ancient young man, but this is top-notch, cutting-edge trash talk!”

“What…”

“We’ll send it to print right away. It’ll be in the evening edition!”

“What…” Kazuya looked bewildered.

The editor-in-chief leaned in uncomfortably close. “Welcome, little yellow rat, to the filthy, smelly, poorly-paid third circle of hell—the Daily Road editorial office. I’ll be working you to the bone.”

“What?”