Part 1: In Which Our Hero Wakes Up.
Dick woke to the sound of industrial techno metal blaring from his radio. He groaned and covered his ears with the pillow. That overnight DJ was such an butthole, he thought, not for the first time. Who in their right minds played that sort of music at 4.30am? No-one, that was who. Which just goes to show that Griff, the station manager was right. Their overnight DJ, truly was a massive bellend who richly deserved the sack. The nutsack. Trouble is, who else would take up such a shit-storm of a slot?
Ninety minutes later Dick arrived at the office. First job of the morning was always the same. Make a cup of coffee for the talent. In this case, that meant Mike Manjyna. He had run the breakfast show for the last six years and in all that time had managed two spectacular feats. Firstly, he had failed to build a larger audience than the one he inherited, and secondly, he had utterly failed to learn Dick’s name. He had also managed to grumble about every single cup of coffee that Dick had ever made for him. Which to be fair, even Dick thought was impressive.
Five minutes later, Dick opened the door to the studio, placed the cup of coffee in its spot on the desk, safely out of reach of the electrics. He turned to the DJ’s chair, waiting to see what today’s complaint would be about, when all of a sudden, he noticed something weird.
The chair was empty.
Which was ridiculous.
The chair was never empty.
Mike Manjyna was always sitting in it at this time.
Always.
Every single firkin morning. Prepping his piss-poor breakfast show, eagerly waiting for the 6.30 news to end so he could fill the airwaves with his low rent smarm fest of shite.
Except, today, he wasn’t.
The chair was empty.
As Dick stood there, dazed and confused, the studio door banged open. Griff bustled in. “Great. You’re here. Now get sat in that bloody chair. You’re on.”
Dick blinked. “You what?”
Griff grabbed him by the shoulders and propelled him over to the chair.
“You heard me. Mike Manjyna got pissed last night and fell down some stairs. He’s in hospital. So you’re doing the show today.”
“How is he?” asked Dick.
“Who gives a poodle’s nut rucksack?” snarled Griff. “He’s not here. You are. That’s all that matters. Now get going. You’re on in 15.” He bustled back out of the room.
Seconds later he was back, “By the way, what’s your name? Mike Manjyna never told me.”
Dick smiled. “Dick Flava,” he replied. “DJ Dick Flava.”