Ever wondered what it’s like to work in a newsroom where they make the fake news for real? Where meteorologists track storm gods, helicopter pilots crash through windows, and a janitor might just be the most important person in the building? Well, here’s your chance to find out.
In The Fakist: Breaking News, Paul DaFoe conducts a fake news orchestra where spin reigns supreme—but it takes a newsroom full of eccentric personalities to really sell it. In this exclusive free chapter, you’ll get a front-row seat to The Fakist in action. Take the tour, meet the team, and decide for yourself: is this the future of journalism or a spectacular disaster in the making?
Behind the Bullshit
“Welcome to The Fakist! We cover the fake news… FOR REAL!” Paul announced, gesturing toward the hustle and bustle of the KCOM Studios newsroom, his tone like the punchline to a forgotten joke. His voice carried the upbeat lilt of a carnival barker and the subtlety of a train rolling through your neighborhood at three o’clock in the morning.
Standing beside him, the first Fakist intern—Ernie McFernie, son of senior Fakist News Director Bernie McFernie—gave a nervous laugh, his posture stiffening as Paul steered him into the heart of the newsroom.
Their first stop was Tim Monet, the nervous field reporter hunched over his desk assembling a hidden camera for an upcoming report. He was muttering something unintelligible about “first times” as beads of sweat dripped off his brow. His workspace was a cluttered disaster of papers, coffee cups, and stress balls. Tim squeezed them with such intensity it looked like he was trying to obliterate the Platonic ideal of relaxation.
“Hey, asshole!” Paul shouted, making Tim jump about three inches in his seat. “How’s that First Times segment coming along? You know, the one where people talk about their first time doing stuff?”
Tim turned to them, his face pale and drawn, as if he hadn’t slept well in days. “I—I’m working on it,” he stammered. “It’s just—well, it’s complicated. We’ve put our video photo booths outside of popular hot spots around the city, but it turns out the city squirrels hate cameras and… uh, the squirrels are more organized than we thought. There’s a whole network of them, and I hear they’re laundering acorns through shell corporations. I—I’m not sure how deep the Rubicon goes on this one, Paul.”
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Well, we go live in two hours. Just don’t get too nuts with it.” He said, then gave Intern Ernie a winking nudge as they moved on. “He’ll come through with something. Hopefully.”
Their next stop was the Mythological Weather Center, the domain of Byron Seales, mythological meteorologist. Byron’s current obsession involved a giant board covered in weather charts. Across the top, THUNDER GODS was scrawled in bright red marker, with arrows pointing to ancient symbols and cryptic notes—less a weather forecast and more a conspiracy board from a crime procedural.
Byron barely looked up as Paul and Ernie approached. “I’m telling you, Paul,” Byron said, his voice full of conviction, “the ancient storm gods are pissed, and they’re affecting the jet stream. We’ve got to do a segment on this. It’s regional Emmy-worthy stuff!”
Paul nodded sagely, as if Byron were speaking the most factual fact in the world of facts. “Great idea. I’m sure the viewers are dying to know how Thor feeling ‘hangry’ is messing with their weekend plans.”
Byron smiled and bowed his head, vindicated. “Exactly.”
Intern Ernie McFernie, on the other hand, looked like he was about to scream. His eyes darted from the bulletin board to Paul, silently praying for some semblance of journalistic ethics, but Paul just shrugged and led the way onward.
“Byron’s got some wild theories, but who doesn’t here in 2016, right?” Paul said, as if that made it all okay.
As Paul and Ernie moved on, a loud clunk echoed from a nearby supply closet. Paul stopped mid-stride, his head snapping toward the sound like a dog that had just heard the treat cabinet open.
“Ah, perfect timing,” Paul said, steering Ernie toward the door labeled SUPPLIES: NO ENTRY. Without so much as a knock, Paul flung the door open.
Inside stood Janitor Jim, a wiry man in his late 60s with a mop in one hand and a bucket of cleaning supplies in the other. His uniform was stained with years of hard blue-collar work, and his expression suggested he’d seen it all, including things he wished he hadn’t.
“Presenting… Janitor Jim!” Paul exclaimed, as if announcing a special guest star in his life story.
“We got a problem, sonny?” Janitor Jim grunted in response, his mop sloshing ominously in the bucket.
“This man is the glue that holds KCOM Studios together,” Paul said. “He’s the unsung hero of the newsroom. The man who scrubs away our sins, sometimes literally.”
“Mostly literally,” Janitor Jim muttered.
Ernie McFernie stepped forward nervously, extending his hand. “Hi, sir. I’m Ernie McFernie. I’m shadowing Mr. DaFoe today.”
Janitor Jim squinted at the hand like it was offering him a live grenade. “Good for you, kid. This guy can teach you a lot. He’s one bright bulb, this one!”
Paul chuckled, patting Jim on his back. “Classic Janitor Jim! Always sucking up to the boss. He’s like the dad I never had.”
Janitor Jim looked at Paul, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them. It was the kind of look that could only come from a deep personal connection that would only pay off in the final chapter.
As Paul ushered Ernie out of the supply closet, Jim’s voice followed them down the hallway. “You can clean up a mess, Paulie, but you can’t clean up regret!”
Ernie glanced back, mostly afraid, but a little curious. “What’s his deal?”
“Who knows? Janitor Jim has been an enigma wrapped in a janitor’s uniform since we met him back at Bill Harper’s,” Paul said, with a slight edge to his voice. “He probably attends the church of Jerry Garcia, if you catch my meaning.” He lifted two fingers to his lips and mimed smoking a joint.
“Whatever you say, Mr. DaFoe,” Ernie mumbled as he followed Paul down the hall.
As they moved through the newsroom, Paul pointed out more team members. Birdman Stan was in the corner, simulating helicopter noises while wearing his aviator goggles and spinning around in an office chair. He waved, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern, the gaps in his teeth wide enough to fly his helicopter through.
“That’s Birdman Stan,” Paul said, not bothering to elaborate further.
Barry Tesh, the Naturist, sat nude at his desk in a yoga pose requiring more flexibility than was generally put on display by newsroom staff. His affinity for naturism left Ernie looking around for an HR representative.
“We try not to think too hard about Barry,” Paul explained in a hushed tone. “He’s great with human interest stories, though. Really knows how to connect with people… from a distance.”
Paul’s eyes lit up as they approached a corner studio encased in glass walls. Inside, a sharply dressed man with perfectly coiffed hair and thick black spectacles sat behind an anchor desk, gesticulating wildly as he delivered a tirade to his one-man camera crew.
“There’s our resident British blowhard,” Paul said. “Ron Joliver, comedic news anchor-slash-rant enthusiast. His beat? Anything that pisses people off enough to quote retweet one of his viral clips with a smug caption.”
Through the glass, Ron was mid-diatribe, gesturing toward a massive digital chart displayed on the studio monitor behind him. The chart showed a dramatic rise in ratings for news segments peppered with clickbait headlines, accented with fiery red arrows pointing upward, culminating in a giant dollar sign.
“I mean, really,” Ron said, his British accent dripping with disgust, “how do we reconcile the fact that a fake news program—this fake news program—has become the fourth most-watched news outlet in the Midwest? It’s not just a fluke; it’s a phenomenon. While traditional media outlets trip over themselves trying to capture authenticity, we’re out here doing what nobody else has the stones to do: admitting it’s all nonsense to begin with!”
Ron spun to another camera, his British accent thick with theatrical incredulity. “This is the age of curated information, people. News isn’t here to inform you anymore—it’s here to stick its bare ass into the public conversation like one of your colonist frat boys on holiday. Today’s news is about shouting louder than everyone else to grab the attention of a perpetually distracted populace. And guess what? The Fakist is bloody well distracting!”
Paul knocked on the glass wall, catching Ron mid-rant. The anchor whipped around, snatching a cup of tea and a crumpet off his desk as he spun.
“Paul DaFoe,” Ron said with a whiff of righteous indignation. “And who is this hapless sap you’ve dragged into your circus of lies?”
“This is Ernie McFernie. Bernie’s kid,” Paul said. “Ernie, we consider Ron to be the controlled opposition. Half the time he’s ranting about how we’re failing as newscasters, but since we give him a segment on the show, it gives us something to point to when people say we’re part of the problem. It’s like, yeah, we know! Want to buy an ad?”
Ron pulled down his hipster Buddy Holly spectacles, studying Ernie McFernie like a scientist examining a failed clone. “Looks like a pub sandwich in pants, hold the chips. What’s your angle, lad? Ambition? Delusion? Or are you just here to interrupt me while I’m shooting my segment?”
Ernie fumbled for words. “Uh… I… Sir… I just really like the news.”
Ron ripped off a loud British chortle. “Oh, my… You’ll grow out of that, toot suite!”
Paul slapped Ernie on the back with an American-style chuckle.. “Don’t mind Ron. He thinks cynicism is a personality.”
“And Paul doesn’t consider his damn relentless optimism a mental disorder,” Ron shot back, smirking. “But, as much as I’m loath to admit it, that very same mental disorder is why The Fakist has become such a media juggernaut.”
Paul grinned. “I do what I can.”
Ron pushed a few stray hairs back into place. “Oh, bother. Time to return to the hallowed halls of performative outrage. Must enlighten the great unwashed as to the precise flavor of their discontent, naturally with a generous helping of aren’t I clever. Right, then. Cheerio!”
With that, Ron seamlessly resumed his rant, and Paul guided Ernie out of the studio. “He’s a lot,” Paul said, “but he serves an important purpose in the fake media landscape.”
“I can definitely tell he thinks he’s important,” Ernie said.
“We all do, Ernie. We all do,” Paul said as they continued on their tour. “If you stick around long enough, you might just learn how to think too much of yourself. You’ll need soft skills like that in the broadcast biz. For instance, let me teach you how to call someone an idiot without actually using the word.”
Finally, they arrived at Ella Fitzpatrick’s desk. Ella was her usual sharp, no-nonsense, intimidating self, a woman who made everybody around her sit up a little bit straighter. Her desk was the only one in the newsroom that wasn’t a total disaster, and the air around her crackled with legitimacy.
“Ella!” Paul greeted her with an easy smile. “Working hard, I see.”
“More than I can say for you,” Ella said, barely glancing up from her computer, typing with the speed of someone who didn’t have time for Paul’s whole thing.
Paul chuckled, putting his whole thing to good use. “That’s why I keep you around. Someone’s got to keep me honest.”
Ernie McFernie watched as Ella’s lips twitched into the smallest hint of a smile before she shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Not in my job description, Paul,” she said. “Sounds like you want an EPICOP.”
“An epic cop?” Paul asked, his eyebrow arched.
“EPICOP,” Ella repeated. “It stands for ‘Executive Producer in Charge of Production’. You know, somebody to make sure shit gets done around here.”
Ernie looked at Paul with hope in his eyes. This was his shot. “Mr. DaFoe, sir? I would be honored to have the opportunity to assist—”
“You? EWW! No. Not you,” Paul said, never taking his eyes off Ella as she typed. There was a tension there, unspoken but palpable. The kind of tension that came from spending too much time together outside of work, from late nights drinking tequila at Generations, where lines get blurred and decisions become more complicated than they need to be, moments when—
*ahem*
Ernie coughed, clearly an attempt to break the romantic tension. “Sorry. The air is so dry in here.”
“Then leave,” Ella said.
“That’s enough of Ella’s charming personality for today,” Paul said with a wink as he guided Ernie away. “She’s the brains of this operation, but don’t tell her I said that.”
As they moved on, Paul’s mind wandered—just for a second—as he imagined a life with Ella: their little apartment. Little munchkins in glasses running around making up stories. Romantic nights in Somewhere West of New York City… But, no, he could already hear the HR rep’s voice in his head, warning him about office romances and the inevitable months of paperwork that came with them. Still, Paul had always been somebody who turned into the skid…
That was a problem for another day. For now, he was content shacking up with Cindy McNeil, a local party girl he’d met at karaoke night. She only sent him one text for every three he sent her, but it was usually a cute picture with a kissy face, so he was feeling pretty confident about the whole thing.
“Okay, Ernie, time to show you where the real magic happens,” Paul said as he darted into a stairwell.
“This is where the magic happens…” Paul said, throwing his arms wide in a grand, theatrical gesture. “My office!”
If you could even call it an office. It was more like an abandoned storage unit, papers strewn on the desk, moldy coffee cups in various stages of use scattered around like landmines. Ernie stood frozen in the doorway, his expression a mix of confusion and quiet terror. He did his best to come off as supportive. This was his dad’s boss, after all.
“So… this is where you make the fake news?” he asked, trying not to breathe in.
Paul grinned. “You bet your ass it is. Sure, it’s a bit ‘lived in,’ but that’s what gives it heart. Heart, kid. The fake news is all about heart.”
“I thought you guys just made shit up,” Ernie said.
Paul brushed the empty pizza box off his desk and leaned back, crossing his arms. “You nailed it, kid. We make shit up, but more importantly, we’ve got the nuts to be honest about it. And the people love what we’re doing! That’s all that matters to the money men like Bertram Kcom. And I—Wait, why the hell am I justifying myself to you? You don’t even work here.”
Ernie McFernie bowed his head, afraid to look Paul in the eye. “I’m sorry, Mr. DaFoe, sir,” he said. “Please don’t fire my dad, sir.”
“How could I fire good old Professor McFernie?” Paul asked, standing up to walk Ernie out. “Your dad trained the whole news team! Alright. Tour’s over. You’ve seen it all. Just remember one thing: We’ve got the best damn fake news team in the business, and they know how to make the impossible sound reasonable.”
As Paul watched Ernie flee the newsroom, he couldn’t help but smile. That kid is doomed, he thought. But their conversation with Ella had brought up a good point. He needed somebody to back him up. Somebody young and hungry who would work their butts off for peanuts and promises. Somebody he could pass the boring stuff off on while he molded them into a total pro who could join him behind the news desk one day.
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Hope you enjoyed the free chapter! Click the link below to pick up the book and find out more about the fakest news team in the business.
In The Fakist: Breaking News, Paul DaFoe never asked to be adopted by a ruthless banking tycoon. He never asked to inherit a corporate empire. He certainly never asked to be shackled to a life of boardrooms, spreadsheets, and power-hungry oligarchs. But when he turns his back on the family business and sets his sights on television, reporting the news isn’t enough—Paul wants to fake it. Armed with a silver spoon in his back pocket, a newsroom full of fellow troublemakers, and a storyteller’s heart, Paul anchors The Fakist—a fake newscast where spectacle trumps substance, and a well-placed spin cycle keeps the world smelling fresh.
