by Cub Reporter Locksmith M. Hoshport (88832)

The following article is presented unmodified and without commentary as it was submitted by M. Hoshport. The Grand Lock Newsletter acknowledges that any similarities to the series finale of “The Prisoner” are purely coincidental. 

Monday 11/13/2017
On Monday morning, yellow smoke plumed from the Grand Temple in Washington D.C.  Many Grand Locks needed to double check the bylaws for the meaning of yellow smoke but by midday it was generally interpreted as “a 2nd place Leadership Candidate has been declared as “Leadership.”” An evening press briefing confirmed this speculation–the appointed leader? The mysterious Tumbler A. Dorsey. This enigmatic figure saw widespread appeal among North American voters at exit polls, making this announcement somewhat expected among Grand Lock politicos.

What was unexpected was a later press conference that same evening stating that the Grand Lock had no phone number or any other contact information for Dorsey on file and to please “pass on word of his victory” if anyone should see him.

Tuesday 11/14/2017 
With still no word from Dorsey’s campaign office (assuming that he even had one), a formal search for the Candidate began. Despite running a successful second place leadership campaign, concrete facts about Dorsey proved astonishingly scarce: a “DORSY” high score on the Big Buck Hunter arcade cabinet in the Branson, MO Rib Crib, an incomplete application for a Wegman’s Shoppers Club Card in Pittsford, NY. The search committee grasped at straws.

High Key (#00103) made a tearful plea on his popular late night shortwave radio program: “Dorsey, if you’re out there then please come forward. Accept your victory. End this madness.”

Meanwhile, Coast Guard crews continued to comb through wreckage of Pepys’ floating Atlantic “purity space” with no sign of survivors.

Wednesday 11/15/2017
Dorsey search crews turned their attention to the frozen wastes of the Yukon Territory based on an anonymous telegraph received at Grand Lock Lodge/Arctic Snow Research Facility #398.
Meanwhile, this cub reporter returned to the scene of the last known Dorsey “sighting”–the Court of Flags Carnival in Orlando Florida. Though the carnival staff proved unhelpful in their recollections of that fateful August 19th campaign stop, one fun house addition gave this reporter pause. On the since replaced plate glass window that sent yours truly to the E.R. with internal bleeding, a message vandalized in black paint: the word “DON’T.” But don’t what? And why?

Thursday 11/16/2017
The strange warning had me tossing and turning in my modest Best Western hotel room. In the dead of night, it hit me: Dorsey’s office hadphoned me to set up that August interview! Lo and behold, my telephone still held a record of that call. Desperate for answers, I jammed my thumb into the redial button and after several bleary-eyed, gin sober seconds, I received an answer, from a familiar voice(?)–my roommate Tyler(?!).

“Tyler,” I demanded. “Tell me what you’re doing at Dorsey’s campaign office!”
“I’m at our apartment,” he answered.
He explained that I had dialed the number for our landline that I never use and that we have in order to get a discounted rate on a premium cable package. Still–it didn’t make sense. How did I receive a call from Dorsey’s home office within my own home?
“Tyler, tell me the truth–what do you know about Dorsey?
“Dude, why are you calling me from your bedroom about stupid Giant Lock stuff at 3am?”
“But Tyler,” I stammered. “I’m in Orlando. At a Best Western…”
His answer made my blood run cold.
“No you’re not–I saw you go to bed 4 hours ago…in our apartment.”
I threw the phone to the ground.  Dorsey must be in my room!

Friday 11/17/2017
It’s a 14 hour drive from Orlando to Columbus, OH but I managed to make it in 11. Whoever…or whatever…wore the mask of Dorsey–it awaited me in my own bedroom. With 48 hours without sleep and only that weird caffeinated goop that marathon runners eat for sustenance, the human body begins to betray itself. I blasted AC as cold as it would go and screamed along with Tchaikovsky to stay alert enough to drive. Finally rolling into Columbus, I double-parked, raced up the driveway with the car doors still hanging open, sprinted up the staircase of my apartment building. Apartment C. I threw open the door, knocking past Tyler–a tray of fresh baked cookies sent scattering through the kitchen, into my bedroom.
There.  There he sat, his back turned to me in my old broken Ikea office chair.
A raspy tenor from the polo-shirted figure. “You’ve come.”
“Dorsey–at last. At last! Why all the secrecy? Why the skullduggery?”
“Don’t ask a question unless you truly wish to know the answer,” he intoned.
“Damn it, Dorsey! Enough of your games! I want the truth.” I approached his chair, grasped his shoulder.
“So be it…” he hissed.
And swiveling slowly around–I saw…myself. A cackling, twisted echo of my face, my body. My double! Or had I been sitting there the whole time? My mind reeled at the impossibility of the truth crashing down on my senses.
“So you see the truth at last,” my doppleganger chortled.
“It’s impossible! It can’t be!”
“And yet here we are.” He held out a cellular phone, the Grand Temple’s phone number ready on speed dial. “Make the call.”
I reached into my vest and felt the hideous weight of my grandfather’s service revolver. Dorsey/Hoshport cocked his head and grinned at the bulge under my breast pocket.
“Oh we don’t know about that. We think you don’t have the guts.” He gestured again towards his outstretched telephone. “Make…the call.”
I clutched the gun. Beads of sweat on my brow.
“Our throne awaits, cub reporter! Make the call!”
“I’ll…I’ll see you in hell!” I screamed.

Blackout.

I came to two days later in the parking lot of a Hardees with a polo-shirt covered in blood. I typed this up on a library PC to fax to my editor along with my letter of resignation. As far as I can see it, I’m either a madman, a murderer, the new Grand Lock leadership or all three. A thunderstorm rages inside my mind but I know one thing for sure–I’m no longer fit to be a reporter for a popular secret newsletter. Whatever answers are out there–I know I’ll find them in Orlando. The “Court of Flags” carnival–I looked it up on a site called Wikipedia in the library here. It’s been closed for years. The shuttered funhouse, the mirrors, the laughing walls–my destiny waits for me in its dark reflection. Charon beckons me to wade his waters. Florida awaits.

From Volume 871 Issue 53 – Subscribe here, members, to be the first to get the next newsletter!