Master of Ceremonies
Don’t take this “newspaper” too seriously. Cryfield Echo isn’t sold at newsstands and it isn’t bought by people hungry for latest political scandals and juicy celebrity sensations.
It’s usually handed out for small change outside subway stations by homeless people enrolled in the District’s languished scoial program. And the people who buy it hardly ever do so because of its contents. After all, nobody in the Cryfield Echo newsroom is an actual journalist: more often than not it’s just a bunch of overly enthusiastic citizens that wouldn’t get anything published if they offered to pay for it themselves.
But there are upsides to that.
Since nobody is really taking the Cryfield Echo seriously, nobody is really paying attention to what they write either. Amidst all the other media the City can offer – all of them caught up deep in the raging war for what the Truth will turn out to be in the end – Cryfield Echo is the only paper that’s actually honest. Full of typos and occasional lunatic hogwash? Perhaps. But that’s exactly the reason why no politician would ever deem it important enough to add its editor in chief on their payroll.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, a true gem can be found among its cheaply printed pages. Buried under the filler of bird-watching reports, obituaries and amateurish graphic design, you just may find a story like no other. About that lost shopkeeper that other papers failed to report on. About those howls that keep waking you up at night, but your neighbors never hear. About a girl who lost her pink schoolbag and hey, didn’t you seen a man wearing one just like that the other day on the bus and you thought how weird that was but then you just shrugged your shoulders and minded your own business?
Huh. Yeah.
What was that about?