Mrs. Lawrence sat beneath the studio’s soft, artificial glow, her daughter Steph curled beside her on a faded leather sofa. Across from them, sprawled in a chair like a man born to dominate it, was Dale “Two Barrels” Harlan. His portly figure was wrapped in a worn black hoodie and a baseball cap studded with metal badges—U.S. Marine Corps, Reserves, and others worn to suggest a history he didn’t quite possess.

  Dale wasn’t American, though he wore the persona like a second skin. In truth, he was Australian—but in his heart, and more importantly for his bank account, he bled red, white, and blue. He worshipped the stars and stripes like gospel. Patriotism worn on the sleeve garnered followers, opened doors, and sold books.

  The air smelled faintly of burnt electronics and old coffee. Cameras loomed just beyond the circle of light, their green LEDs glowing like the eyes of sleeping beasts, waiting to be roused.

  A young woman—seventeen, maybe eighteen—stood in the light brushing a touch of blusher onto her cheekbones. She was the weather girl. Too slim, Mrs. Lawrence thought, watching with quiet, maternal concern. Behind her, Dale’s eyes slid across the girl’s back and hips like a man eyeing a steak at a roadside diner. His mouth twitched, half-salivating. When he caught Mrs. Lawrence watching him, he didn’t flinch or apologise. He just winked.

  Her skin crawled.

  The girl drifted off, and Dale moved behind the desk—his desk—settling into it with the casual arrogance of a late-night host who never signed off. In a way, he was that: a podcaster with a 24/7 feed and a cult following who saw him as half truth-teller, half saviour.

  “Alright, honey,” he said, voice smooth with that faux-Southern twang he put on for fans. “Here’s how it’s gonna roll. See them cameras?” He gestured toward the dark, where the lenses gleamed lime green. “When that light flips to red, that means we’re recording. But don’t panic—we’re not streaming. We can do as many takes as it takes.”

  Steph was too busy with the lollipop Dale had handed her earlier to listen. She sucked on it slowly, pulling it out now and then to inspect its shrinking shape. Mrs. Lawrence shifted, uneasy.

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  “I’ve never been on television before,” she said quietly. “I’m worried that’s my bad side.”

  She’d told everyone at the country club she’d be on The Dale ‘Two Barrels’ Harlan Show. Now it all felt more like a trap than an opportunity.

  “Don’t you worry your pretty head about a damn thing,” Dale grinned. “My guy in the control room—he’s a wizard. He’ll handle everything. You just sit there and look your charming self.”

  He raised his voice to the ceiling. “Ain’t that right, kid?”

  A crackle came from the overhead speaker. A young man’s voice replied with a chuckle, “Yes, sir, Mr. Harlan. Wouldn’t dare disagree with anything you say—long as you’re buying the beers tonight.”

  The tension in Mrs. Lawrence’s shoulders loosened slightly. Despite the sleaze, despite the rumours, despite the leer at the makeup girl—Dale had a way of making the room feel… less threatening like the devil himself offering you tea and biscuits.

  “So,” Dale said, clapping his hands. “Here’s the deal. I’m gonna ask you about the incident. You know the one—when Ethan and his robot with the creepy eyes and his little posse showed up, scared the life outta your sweet Steph here.”

  Steph looked up, momentarily alarmed. Mrs. Lawrence frowned.

  “But it wasn’t like that,” she said. “It was a misunderstanding. Yes, Steph was scared, but Ethan’s robot wasn’t purposely menacing. It was unintentional. Intimidating, sure—but not aggressive. And Ethan was so apologetic afterwards. Honestly, they were quite lovely.”

  Dale’s eyes narrowed. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, honeybun. Let me stop you right there.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, voice lowering into that dangerous cadence his fans loved.

  “You’ve watched The Dale ‘Two Barrels’ Harlan Podcast, right? Gotta have. You’re American.”

  Mrs. Lawrence nodded, cautious.

  “Well then, you know I don’t just do journalism. What I give is… passion. Truth, yes—but my truth. The Dale twist. Every story, every headline—it’s got that flavour. It ain’t just news. It’s a goddamned movement.”

  He stood, pacing now, like a preacher catching fire.

  “People don’t just watch me. They join me. And when they do? They feel something. Outrage. Fury. Vindication. Heroism. I give ’em the fix. That righteous buzz. You get me? They tune in because I show ’em the real world—the world behind the curtain.”

  He stopped, breathing heavily.

  “And that’s why I need you, Mrs. Lawrence. I need you to give me just a little something on Ethan Stipe. A twist of the truth. Just enough to make him the villain they can sink their teeth into. Just one line. A taste. That’s all.”

  The room went still. The cameras watched silently.

  Mrs. Lawrence met his gaze. Her hands were still, her voice calm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I won’t lie. Not even a little.”