Chapter One - October 16th, 2002

Bob and I were on assignment in Florida, covering the Governor's daughter's recent arrest and conviction. Bob had a contact in the police station where she was being held before being transferred off to prison for ten days, and thought we might have a chance to interview the girl.

"Excuse me," blurted Bob. "I'm looking for Donna."

The pig snorted and pointed to a dry erase calendar.

"Oh good, it's turkey sandwiches for lunch," Bob said to me. "I like turkey." I nodded.

The pig snorted again, this time motioning to the "Absent" portion of the day's events.

"I'm sorry to hear that Chuck has taken ill," Bob sympathized. "Where may we find Donna?"

"She's not in today." So the pig has mastered the language. Good to note. Might be a story there for another time.

"Oh. She was supposed to introduce us to someone. The Governor's daughter..." Bob prompted.

"There's Noelle Bush there," said the pig, pointing behind Bob's head.

"What's an 'L' bush?" whispered Bob. I shrugged. "Maybe he had a bad experience with lilacs as a child?" Bob suggested.

I looked to where the pig had pointed. I motioned to Bob to turn around. He did.

"He's right. There are no lilacs over there. But there is a girl in handcuffs. Do you think she might know where we might find the Governor's daughter?"

I shrugged again.

"Excuse me, miss. Do you happen to know the Governor's daughter?"

"Which governor?" she responded slyly. Bob turned to me. I was stumped.

"Er, I dunno. I would imagine this state, but..."

"Oh. That would be me." A stroke of luck. We'd found her.

"Ah. May we have a few minutes?"

"No." She's a tricky one, isn't she?

"How about thirty seconds?"

"Sure." Small blessings.

"How did..."

"You've already had it," she interrupted. "And then some. If you'll excuse me."

"Er. Thank you for your time," Bob conceded dejectedly.

"Don't mention it." And she strolled off. Or strolled as much as one can in custody. 'Shove' may be a more appropriate verb. 'She shoved off.' Yes that works better.

"Did you get any of that with the camera?" I nodded. "Maybe we could piece something together..."

The wheels in Bob's head started turning. "Did you get the white powder in the shot?" I looked at him inquisitively. "Do you think we could put that in? The footage, I mean. Speaking of feet, maybe we can even put it spilling out of her shoes..." I nodded hesitantly. "So maybe we can pin a drug charge to her, on top of whatever else she's done." I shrugged. "Maybe we can even make out the Governor himself to subscribe to some untenable, hypocritical position. We'll get someone to search through his speeches over the years. He must have come out against drugs at some point. Or maybe immigration. The daughter looked a bit Hispanic, right? Who's the mother? Hmm..."

I wasn't worried. Bob always had a way of coming up with complete fabrications that sounded really good. Implausible, but true-sounding. Occasionally they even turn out to match the facts pretty well.

Chapter Two - July 11th, 2004

Our editor sent us to New York to cover this documentary filmmaker named Michael Moore. Apparently, against all odds, his latest documentary was selling a lot of tickets. We checked this pub Bob knew called "Patty's," where Moore was known to spend a few hours every weekend.

"I'm looking for Michael Moore," Bob said to the bartender. "I hear he is a regular."

"Michael Moore?" asked the bartender. "Oh, you mean Mikey? He usually only comes in on Sundays. Day of rest, y'know? I think he's 'taking a walk' with his partner right now."

Taking a walk? With his partner? "I'm sorry," Bob responded. "Do you happen to know where I might find him?"

"As I said, he's probably doing what he does every Friday night," she responded. "Check the park."

Ah, the park. That is where people take walks. That makes sense. So we went to the park down the block. It was a concrete job with swings and slides and a bush or two. Not a lilac in sight. Nor a guy named Mikey. Bob suggested we check the washroom. Inside, a skinny man with glasses had another skinny man with glasses bent over the sink. The pitcher was giving the catcher what appeared to be a mediocre reach-around.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Bob interrupted. "But I'm looking for Mikey."

The pitcher froze. "I'm Mikey," he said.

Ah. Four balls.

"What can I do for you chaps?" Mikey asked, politely.

He looked a little busy, so Bob suggested we keep the interview short.

"So how do you like having your documentary grossing more in box office receipts than any other documentary?" Bob asked, as a starter question. Neither of us had actually seen the film, so the follow-up questions didn't promise to be much more probing. All things considered, I was actually rather pleased that Mikey was otherwise occupied.

"Sorry, fellas. You've got the wrong Michael Moore," Mikey said dismissively. He started to thrust again.

Bob and me walked out of that washroom. I wondered where Bob had heard that the filmmaker Michael Moore would be at Patty's. No matter. I figure we can just write that he was the one in the washroom. Everyone likes sex scandals involving celebrities.

I ran my idea past Bob. He didn't seem overly pleased with the idea. He told me in this business, it is better to strike out than not play by the rules. And apparently one of the rules involves candor. Then he suggested we sit on the swings for a spell. I accepted.