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Dispatches from the Highlands
$4.20 Cents
CannaTown News
NEWSPAPER CEDES TO MADNESS, OFFICE FINALLY OVERRUN
What began as a peculiar aermath to the Great Calamity Circus Fire has escalated into full-scale pandemonium, as demented circus performers and frothing, mad animals have taken over the o ces of Dispatches from the Highlands , leaving the once-respected CannaTown newspaper in ruin. e invasion marks the latest chapter in a week of chaos that has gripped the town since the circus’s ery destruction sent clowns, monkeys, and lions pouring into the streets. Dispatches sta rst documented disturb- ing occurrences just days prior. Sly primates were spotted pinching satchels and smaking in the parking lot, and mysterious juggling pins appeared in the newsroom. By Wednes- day, clowns, hungry petting zoo animals and other stoned circusfolk began banging dra- matically on the windows when they saw the donut spread of a late-morning meeting. It wasn't long before clowns were able to pierce the building via unsecured sewer drain, and stormed the building from the furnace room and into vents. A sinister pipe organ appeared from nowhere to blast menacingly weird carnival polka as those outside tossed confetti bombs. Finally, the doors swung open and in stampeded the unrestrained beasts, their eyes bloodshot with rage and booze and brownies. Elephants trampled desks, monkeys raided the archives, and the lions roared atop lead editor’s Veronica Mills' desk before eviscerating a water cooler. Sta at Dispatches were divided into two groups. e editors, gathered in the confer- ence room with the mountain of donuts, quickly shut doors, as the remaining o ce workers and reporters retreated to the upper oor with staplers and typewriters as their only weapons. ere, they mounted a defense to keep the attackers at bay, but they were no match. "It took them no time to ll their water balloons with ink," said journalist Rebecca Rwuja. "And the acrobats climbed the elevator sha in two seconds."
From a window and nearby grove of ever- greens, those trapped on the second oor were able to escape and ee the scene. As with many other stores and schools overrun by the circus, local authorities were unable to assist and the property was avoided by the public for several days. By the weekend, the newsroom was unrecognizable. e printing presses churned out bizarre, nonsensical tab- loids about cannonballs and ponies, next to evidence of debauchery and every depraved zoological act, among piles of vomit, feces, and cocktail shrimp shells. Grease res still burned in metal wastebaskets. e smell of charred esh hung in the air. While some of the sta have gone on to continue printing the news from basement o ces ("Lions Eat Journalists," "How Bad (Really) is Eating Toxic Waste?" among recent headlines), the fate of the Dispatches editors remains uncertain. Although no evidence exists of their escape, they le this nal memo on that day: "We cannot protect the donuts much longer. ey’ve taken the layout room and executive lavatories. e co ee machine, the printer, and the breakroom Wii were all trampled by elephants. And the monkey poo is all over the walls. We are eating the donuts but we cannot eat them fast enough. Ink spills like rivers, covering the oor. e headlines are no longer ours—they will be garish and wild. We hear the growl of unicycle-balancing bears and the endless squeak of balloons. e newsroom is lost. A python ate Mrs. Lewis. "Clowns have overtaken the other bath- rooms and that is a huge problem. e last of us to hold the door was overwhelmed by a barrage of pies. Only the paper cutter and an old typewriter remain, battered and broken. We are weary. "Horns. Brass, honking horns in the deep. is is the end. We have shut ourselves in the copy room. Our pens are dry. We are alone. ey are chuckling. ay are chuckling.”
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