Scene Forty Nine
In which a metaphorical hammer is raised.
Ernest Kanke was having a very bad day.
When he had woken up he had stumbled out of bed and knocked his head against his wardrobe.
Then when he had gotten door stairs for breakfast he found that someone, process of elimination said it was him, had left his refrigerator door open. The motor had burned out and all his food had defrosted, this had meant that he had had to make to with warm apple juice and a steak from his freezer, which had turned out to be frozen on the inside when he had tried to bite into it.
After this terrible breakfast, he had had his whole day made all the more worse by a call from Mr. Lucent; responsible businessman, and great supporter of the local police force.
Mr. Lucent had directed him to a paper he had read called ‘The Daily Soapbox’ and indicated that he would have a few questions to put to Ernest Kanke, whenever he could find time in his busy schedule to do so.
Ernest Kanke had managed to track down a copy of the paper, which had required buying it off a teenage girl who he had thought had been far too flirtatious for his tastes. When he looked at the paper, he had found splashed across the front page a picture of his former logging enterprise, with the title ABUSE OF POWER, UPROOTING INNOCENTS.
He had compulsively ripped the paper into pieces and cast them on the wind, which then meant he had to go and buy another copy from the overly friendly thirteen year old; so he could read the article.
The article was well written, and as well balanced as is possible, while stabbing a poison tipped lance into him at every opportunity.
He knew that it was inevitable that he would be discovered one day, though he had hoped for a few more years than this, but he had always taken comfort in the fact that it should have been incredibly difficult to find out that he was the man pulling the strings. Yet right on the third page, was a giant picture of him and a short biography!
He checked the writer of the article, Clare Summers, it read with great pride. Right, he thought. With a name he would need all of five minutes to track this, Clare Summers, down, and then after he had done that, he could contact one of the many men he kept around with guns and cash flow problems, and they would. No. That wouldn’t work. The story would keep growing, and if the writer died then that would set tongues wagging, and then Ernest Kanke would join the list of people who had lost everything through a bad reputation.
He thought about what he should do next.
He knew the next step in the process; it looked as though this – Clare Summers – had caught the other news agencies flatfooted. They would want to buy in, and she would sell to the highest bidder. As long as the story was localised to this small name paper, it could be overshadowed, but he would lose that ability the instant that the big papers got their hands on it.
He knew that this was something he had it do personally; a telephone call would never suffice. Earnest Kanke kept a bag of the things he needed for travelling in his lounge, in case he got called away suddenly. He grabbed it as he went past, on his way to the Amazon.
 Good gods, it was a five page article!
 Passport, Toothbrushes, and a small Gatling gun, for hunting.