Ace in the Hole Page #2

Where's that big story

to get me out of here?

One year, and what's our hot news?

A soapbox derby.

A tornado that double-crossed

us and went to Texas.

An old goof who said he

was the real Jesse James,

until they found out he was

a chicken thief from Gallup

by the name of Schimmelmacher.

I'm stuck here, fans.

Stuck for good!

Unless, of course,

you, Miss Deverich,

Unless, of course,

you, Miss Deverich,

instead of writing household hints

about how to remove chilli

stains from blue jeans,

get yourself involved

in a trunk murder.

How about it, Miss Deverich?

I could do wonders with

your dismembered body.

Oh, Mr Tatum. Really.

Or you, Mr Wendel.

If you'd only toss that

cigar out of the window,

real far, all the

way to Los Alamos,

and boom!

Now there would be a story.

I told you no liquor in the office.

I thought I could trust you.

What a suspicious nature

you have, Mr Boot.

Pretty, isn't it?

I make those things

every night when I go home out

of matches and toothpicks.

Calms my nerves.

Sorry, Tatum.

- Maybe you do need a change.

- Do I.

And I got news for you. You're going

out of town for a couple of days.

- How far and in what direction?

- Los Barrios county.

They're having a rattlesnake hunt,

and I want you to cover it.

- A rattlesnake hunt?

- That's right.

And take Herbie along.

Let's get some art.

A rattlesnake hunt. Well,

isn't that ginger-peachy?

A real "stop the press,

pull out the front page",

"get ready to re-plate" assignment.

Have a nice time, Chuck.

See the country.

And don't worry, I'll

put the paper to bed.

Well, it looks like we're starting

our second year with a real bang.

Okay, fan, pack up.

You know, this could be a

pretty good story, Chuck.

Don't sell it short.

It's quite a sight, 1,000

rattlers in the underbrush,

and a lot of men smoking them

out, bashing in their heads.

Big deal, 1,000 rattlers

in the underbrush.

Give me just 50 of them

loose in Albuquerque.

Like that leopard in Oklahoma City.

The whole town in panic.

Deserted streets.

Barricaded houses.

They're evacuating the children.

Every man is armed.

Fifty killers on the prowl. Fifty.

One by one, they start

hunting them down.

They get 10, 20.

It's building. They get

40, 45. They get 49.

Where's the last rattler?

In a kindergarten? In a church?

In a crowded elevator? Where?

I give up. Where?

In my desk drawer, fan.

Stashed away, only

nobody knows it, see?

The story's good for

another three days.

Then when I'm good and ready,

we come out with a big extra.

"Sun-Bulletin snags number 50."

Where do you get those ideas?

Herbie, boy, how long did you go

to that school of journalism?

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