Last updated:   Editors: BuzzWriter and TheAmbassador

CONTEST: The Drunken Reporter cybae

Dear community,

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    Whoever is the closest or gets the correct errors will win a prize of $15 million!, if more than one person get it correct bang on then the pot shall be split.

    The rules are simple!
  • One entry per person.
  • Closing date for entries 19th June.
  • Winner announced 26th June!

    Our last week was an tough week, after our loss of Aldo was enough to have crippled our forces however the streets around our office echoed the voices of angry steel, the faster the tommy guns fired the faster our typewriters struck The streets stained red and bullet holes decorated the streets casting a sinister tone for the innocent witness’s who had started profiting from there sightings.

    Baron almost died whilst making a coffee, a stray bullet came through the wall and luckily made its home in a plant pot we lovingly called Billy, we all took loses that week.

    Tired from sprinting around the city with notebooks to hand looking for a glimpse of insight into this week’s madness, Sam beckons from his corner an all to familiar question, “Whiskey?” as the sound of glasses clinking together fills the room with a sense of relief.

    Glancing over to request aldo join us, we are reminded than his desk now empty with the only exception being the articles from earlier in the week piling up as a welcoming gift waiting for the next editor too take the seat.

    As then final glass is returned to the table, A decision was made for us to visit Aldo in his speakeasy, with the likes of Kyle stopping by recently a buzz had been going around that it was perfect for a night out.

    That’s where the memories stop for Sam and I as we come around wearing unfashioneble silver bracelets, watching as countless of these faces we had tried so hard to talk to the previous day’s were now fighting their way through the guards lining the hallway to our cell door. Countlass people from unknowns to untouchables got they’re hands greasy to break us out and it seemed impossible until the door came open as a man known as Lloyd ran in, unlocking our handcuff and escorting us through a flurry of flying elbows, fists and truncheons.

    Seeing the morning sun as we made our exit flanked by all the man who had tried to free us, we see Baron who was standing by his Mercedes-Benz 500K. “If you dont submit your articles, we can’t publish in an hour! Don’t ever try to steal a police car and then rob a bank again! Get in!” he shouts, barely audible over the engine.

    Peeling out of the lot, we make it back to the office just in time to hand our new editor nicknamed “Ambarseador” our final articles for the week with a disapproving look cast upon us.