All language subtitles for Obituary.S02E01.1080p.WEB.h264-EDITH_track3_[eng]

(spooky music)

Circulation is down.
You'll get 200 an obit.

How will I live?

Maybe you should start killing
people.

(tyres screeching)
(scream)

(clang)

Emerson Stafford.

Elvira--
Clancy. I know.

Looks like we're working together.

(gunshot)

(sobbing)

Maria Riedle's body was in
the boot of your car.

I was gonna say that I shot her.
Yeah, but you didn't shoot her!

I think we have
a killer in our town.

(gasping)

You're right, there is a killer.
You.

"Hughie Burns has been arrested
for the murder of Maria Riedle."

This town needs closure.

I need to find a connection
between these two deaths.

(muffled screaming)

The connection.

(music builds)

(garage door sliding)

(heavy breathing
over pounding beat)

(eerie music builds)

(primal roar)

(piercing whistle)

Is he alive?

Not remotely.

(sobbing)

(thunk)

(happy valley music)

(crow squawking)

(slight panting)

(birds singing)

(contented sigh)

(cat miaowing)

Ah, hello.

(sigh)

Ah, you poor thing,

you must've eaten
something nasty, did ya?

(retching)

(music darkens)

Oh Christ.

What is that?

(cat whining)

Urgh. My God, that's a nose.

Oh God... right!

Help. Hello?
Is there anybody there?

ELVIRA V/O:
Some cultures claim that a person
who dies without their eyes

can never cross over to
the other side.

(cat miaowing)

♪

That their soul is tethered
to this world...

.. bound to their earthy remains.

(music builds)

.. never to find peace.

(hissing)

(squawking)

Only to be left wandering
this world for all eternity.

I hope that's not true.

That you're not destined to
be stuck in this town,

haunting these people because...

Well, that's kind of my job.

Oh, Dad!

You've left me in
a pretty awful position.

And I'm not talking about
the unpaid bills

or a closed coffin,
you've left me with...

.. writer's block.

Your eulogy.

Words supposedly ripped from
the bottom of my heart,

and I have nothing.
Because to write,

I need to feel something
and right now...

I feel nothing.

What if I'm a monster,

incapable of grief?

You're the only one
who would understand that.

And now you're not here
to tell me I'm wrong.

(distant laughter)

Who knows...

.. maybe killing is how I grieve.

Instead of tears,

dead bodies are how
I show sorrow

because I hate living
in a world

where you're dead
and they're alive,

cracking jokes about you,

the man without a face,

the drunk who drowned
in a foot of water.

They'll pay.

The first one who says something--

(knocking)

It's time.

(door closing)

I, um, I know you were struggling
with the eulogy,

so I jotted a few things down.

Mmm. It's sentimental.

What can I say,
I adored the man.

And before you ask,
change whatever you like,

I know you'll make it better.

I spent a lifetime
dreading his death.

I always pictured myself
alone when it happened.

(passionately)
I'm glad I got that wrong.

Do you mind if I have
a word alone?

(door creaking)

(door closing)

(taunting music)

I'll look after her.

Which means,
as much as it kills me,

she'll never know about
the slippery, second-rate murderer

I think you really were.

What a pathetic way to go!

Not one thing in your pocket
but a betting slip.

Oh, I saw it,
all smudged and crumpled.

I checked your race...

(chuckling)

(distant chuckle)

They'd grown quite close.

(snigger)

That horse you bet on,
won by a nose.

Which is more than they
can say about you.

(airplane engine roaring)

There you are!

(gun locking and loading)

(gunshot)

(sigh)

Two hours sleep.

One hour less than
last night.

They say insomnia can happen
when you're not living true

to yourself, but I know what
my true self wants to do.

Hey. You still not sleeping?

I think you should see someone.

Or kill someone.

(car door slams)

(keys jingling)

(impatiently)
Don't swallow it this time.

I think you dropped this.

Room 26A.

You've grandchildren,
Gladys, in the States.

Teenagers?

They don't care how I feel.

Well, I do.

So tell me,
how do you feel?

Let's just say, I hope the food is
better in heaven than this kip!

Now we're talking.

You're not a nurse.
Why are you here?

Do you want the truth? Because at
your age it's not really advised.

Oh, tell me.

Alright, I write obituaries.

Four months ago I was stabbed.

While I was in the hospital
I met a nurse

who does shift work here.

Oh, Bernadine? Mmm.

We struck up a deal.

I pay her, and she points me
in the direction of people...

.. checking out early.
(cough)

Since I've been coming,
this place has been hit by strep,

E. coli and...

.. whatever it is you have.
(loud sneeze)

Yeah, that one.

(pained sigh)

All this illness has been
lucrative for us both.

So lucrative and well...

.. distracting.

It's kept me away from
my real passion.

Which is?

As I said, telling the truth
to someone your age,

not advised.

Not going to make it to
the morning, am I?

Then I'm glad you're here.

I have a lot to get off my chest,

starting with those little bastards
in America!

(groan)

(bird squawking)

(foreboding music)

(treadmill whirring)

(beeping)

(squeaking)

(muffled)
Work that ass.

(squeegee scraping)

Fuck off! Oi!

Dickhead!

(clears throat)

Follow me please.

(splutters)
Big bum.

♪

Well? I did warn ya.

The... Tourettes,
it's a chemical imbalance

in, in my brain-- I couldn't care
less about your brain.

What I do care about,

is this smudge.

A smudge which tells me
you were asleep on the job.

That's narcolepsy.

(thud)

(stuttering)
Smash your fuckin' face in!

Sorry. Sorry.

Just start over.
Every window?

And this time, no smudges,
yes?

Fuck.

(distant rumble)

(tense music)

(clicking) (gunshot)

(sigh)

'As I said...'

.. a plane tears across the sky,

I look down and in my hands
is a rocket launcher.

I place it on my shoulder,
pull the trigger

and right before
the plane explodes, I wake up

and that's it, dream over.

Many would call it a nightmare.

Dream, nightmare,
explain it.

The plane does symbolise
something.

Yeah, that I want to kill
a bunch of people.

Don't we get on a plane to
get away from it all?

Groundbreaking.
So tell me,

how do you feel about
your father's death?

I think you're avoiding
dealing with it, Elvira.

I wish he hadn't got drunk,
fallen,

banged his head on a rock and
drowned, that's how I feel.

I'm sorry but I'm the kind of person
who gets on with things.

My mental health
has never been better.

So I'm not in a puddle of tears,

that doesn't make me
a monster, does it?

Please say it doesn't!
At the top of this session

you said you haven't slept
right since he died,

that you're down to two hours
a night, which tells me,

without a breakthrough,
it'll only get worse.

So let's focus on your father.

♪

Honestly?

Since the stabbing,
we'd never been closer.

We'd... begun to open up
to each other.

If time had allowed it,

no secrets would've
remained between us.

(phone alarm tinkles)

Just down to our last minute.
Of our last session.

I can't afford to do this again.
I don't think that's wise.

Look, I'm no therapist but
it's clear what my problem is,

I need to get back to doing
what I'm good at.

Killing.
Work.

I know if I throw myself into it, I'll
sleeping like a baby in no time.

(door closing)

(jarring music)

(sudden crescendo)

(kissing)

Bad taste?

Going as Sandy Benson
to a fancy-dress party?

I love it.

Tell him. Say you ripped that
arsehole's larynx open,

that it was amazing and you want
him to know all about it.

Well look at that!

Dress like a man that tried to kill
you and you're all over me.

Wait wait, wait wait wait.
Check my pocket.

I doubt your pocket has
what I'm looking for!

I think you'll find it does.

I found it in my other pocket
this morning,

I must've written it last week
when I was drunk.

'Tell Elvira you love her.'

♪

Took you long enough to say it.

I haven't said it yet.

You first.

(message ping)

Oh wow! Don't tell me...
It's that freak of a nurse?

We've got a good thing going.

And this sounds like a good one.

And what about the party?

I just finished my book,

and I wanted to take you out,

get your mind off things.
My mind is fine.

You go.

I hate parties.

Elvira?

I know I'm not your dad here
but...

.. just, no matter what it is,

you can share anything with me.

I know.

Chew that.

You dropped this.

Would've been ok if you'd taken
a few minutes to change.

This one sounded interesting.

Well, it's much more interesting
than the usual ones,

which means it's gonna cost ya.

200. That's how much I get paid
per obit, I can't afford that.

Then you should ask for a raise.

I had plans tonight!
Then you should've done them.

♪

Oh, you must Elvira.
And you must be lost.

I'm Ruby.
Ruby what?

Just Ruby.
Well just Ruby,

what are you doing at my desk?

Today's my first day,
I'm an intern.

(incredulously)
As in, you don't get paid?

As in, money has never really
motivated me

when it comes to journalism.

It's like what Daddy always says,
he didn't build

the county's third largest
waste management company

just to watch his little girl
scrimp and save!

This way I can do what I was
put on this earth to do.

Satisfy my urge to kill?

So, what are you up to?
Correcting my work?

Not correcting...

.. admiring.

Your last paragraph where
you let us know

her grandkids were little shits

without ever using the word
'little' or 'shits',

it's... to die for.

Maybe I'll let her live.

You know, we could use some
new blood around here.

Good to have you on board.
Glad to be here.

Hmmm.

So who hired you?

The head honcho?
The daughter.

Seems the old woman
put her in charge for a bit.

She did say things are going to
change around here. Change?

We're going to be asked
to pitch stories,

ones that move the dial.

I can't wait to see what you've got
up your sleeve.

I write obituaries, Ruby. The only
thing up my sleeve is dead people.

(nervous giggle)

She's in tomorrow,
so I suppose we'll see.

(birdsong)

(engine revving)

(tyres swooshing)

(car door slamming)

Am I late?

Oh! Sorry.

Bum, seat, now.

(drum roll)

Name's Vivienne Birch,
never Viv.

Among many others,
Alma Birch, my mother,

owns this newspaper,

which means soon... (coughs)
bone cancer,

I'll own this newspaper.

Oh question for me, hun?
Yeah, tough titty!

Because I don't do
questions and answers. Ok!

Here's everything
you need to know about me.

I believe in one thing,

competition.

When I was four, my sister
and I saw an ad for a doll.

We told our mother.

The next day she drove us
to the shop,

and she made it clear that she
would only buy one doll.

We had to decide which one
of us would get the toy.

I knew there was only one way
to resolve this.

We devised challenges

from sack races to egg and spoon,

the battles raged.

And then the deciding contest.

A staring competition.

Our eyes locked on each other.

Time stood still.

Tears formed in our eyes

as the seconds stretched
into an eternity.

Until finally...

.. it happened.

A blink.

Who got the doll?
No one, sweetie.

I didn't have a sister, it was
an imaginary friend type thing

and believe me it was
a shitty way to find out.

Ok, from now on each of you is
in a staring contest with me.

Under Hughie, the paper was
reduced to a laughing stock.

We should be all killer no filler,

yet sales are soft,
content is crap,

and people will have to go.

(murmurs of discomfort)
Hey, hey, hey, TBDs.

But before you end up
on the street shaking a can,

you'll all be given a chance
to prove yourselves.

I'll hear pitches.

Kill me now.
Oh, not to freak anyone out

but you've got a day.

Right, who's gonna make me
a cup of tea?

You said there was a good story
in this one, something different.

I need something different.

"Hence the price hike."

I'm on my way.

(tense music)

(brake creaks)

(keys jangling)

(door creaking)

(eerie music)

"Nothing beats shaping history,

especially when the history you
shape does good."

"If me being made detective
is a product of that,

then history's been kind to me."

Even if there's a chance you're
wrong about Hughie Burns?

I don't deal in hypotheticals.

But could you live with yourself?
I dunno!

Could you?

A woman died.

The right man is awaiting trial,

no matter what
those crackpots say!

There are some people in town
who think Hughie didn't do it.

There's some people in town
who think the Earth is flat.

What do you say to them?
Try walking off the edge of it.

I mean Hughie's fans.

Time of night is this going out at?
Streaming, say what you like.

"Then I say go fuck--"

Doesn't matter what she says!

They're shutting us down.
What? Why?

Don't ask me,
ask Maria Riedle's husband,

your pal, Daniel.

Do not tell me
who I can sue or cannot sue,

you should've been all over this.

What? My tone?
You watch your tone, Cathy.

Hello? Hello?

(car door slams)

Where are you...?

(gravel crunching)

Well it turns out Daniel Buckley
wrote a book of his own on the sly.

(chuckling)
It's called 'Say I Did Do It'.

But he didn't do it!
It's a rush job.

Ghostwritten and they're paying him
75 grand.

What'd your agent say about
the documentary?

Wait, what documentary?
It's done, we're done!

My book is done, they'll pulp it.
So, I got my hair done for nothing.

My book is done, they'll pulp it.
So, I got my hair done for nothing.
Oh, she's worried about her hair.

My book is done, they'll pulp it.
So, I got my hair done for nothing.

My book is done, they'll pulp it.
So, I got my hair done for nothing.
Says someone who never paid
for highlights.

Says someone who never paid
for highlights.

I am up to my neck in debt here,
alright?

And worse, I'm stuck
in a job that's beneath me.

Oh yeah? 'Cause I heard you had
a backup plan,

big gig at one of
the national papers?

Was the job a con?
(rueful laugh)

I... it came with strings attached.

Everything does.

My first article has to be
an interview with Hughie Burns.

(chuckle)

No interview, no job.

(fingers drumming)

(sigh)

Fuck it.

(heaving)

Oh, look who's awake.

The staff here named you
James Doe,

felt you were more James
than a John.

Me, I'm only interested
in your real name.

You've had a stroke.

Must've been living rough.

Haven't spoken since you got here,
do you remember?

Found in an old shack, no ID,
empty pockets.

Guards had a look,
but nothing.

I'm kinda desperate
for a story,

and I can't write it unless I know
who you are, so who are you?

Why did you come to this town?

(grunting)

What? Say that again.

Con... fess.

(strangled) Con...

.. fess.

Who?

Who should confess?

Me?

How do you know what
I've done?

Done... for.

Done for.

I'm done for if I don't confess,
is that what you're saying?

(urgently) Done... for.

Done for.

(groans)

There is no story here.

Unless...

But maybe I can work with you.

A man with no name, no voice,
a mystery series.

Congratulations!

Whoever you are, you're about
to be in the paper.

(dog barking in distance)

(gate buzzing)

(rueful laugh)

Fuck's sake.

Well, Hughie! How's me old
novel looking?

Well, for a man who failed
English in the Leaving,

you've a real talent.

About that,
your solicitor said er...

.. he's gonna get you out.
It was heavily implied.

Well, when you do get out,

you'll be going back
to your old job? 100%.

So this writing craic!

I like it. I'm thinking
when you're at the paper,

I could work for you?

Maybe the crime desk.

I've looked after you well,
Hughie.

Alright!

Crime desk it is.

It'd be great to get out
of this hole.

Who are you telling?
Oh! (laughs)

Oh, er, by the way,

phone call.

(walking away)
Ah lads, about that fire.

Yeah? "Look, I know you're
not talking to the press,"

and you probably hate my guts

but one hack to another,
for old time's sake...

.. how about an exclusive?

"I'm listening."

Er, so what's...

".. what's prison like?"

The toilets in the cells only
flush every half hour.

Means I have to sit there
for 30 whole minutes

smelling my own shit.

"But guess what?

I would rather smell
my own shit than talk to you."

(laughing) You can't even admit
that you're wrong!

"The real killer is out there,
and I know who they are."

Then name them.
And let you lie again?

"Tell me, can you live
with yourself..."

or are you drowning in guilt?

I sleep perfectly well.

Ahhh!

I cannot wait for you to say
that to my face.

Look, no one's buying your Richard
Kimble bit. You're going nowhere!

Your star witness, Mallory,
she isn't even in the country.

(angry chuckle)

You know what, Emerson?

All I hear in your voice
is desperation.

"Now I may be wrong but..."

Ah!!

Your deal with Buckley went south!

"That's why you need me
on record."

I am your ticket out of town, yeah?
Well buckle up!

You are going nowhere and do you
wanna know what the best part is?

(weary) Tell me. "The guy that
I have lined up to replace you"

he has a brain like a bin bag.

"He can barely read,
but he'll make... "

.. twice the journalist you are!

(dead dial tone)

(snooker balls cracking)

Here we go Hughie.

(distant voices shouting)

(music builds)

(beer pipe whistling)

Er, what's the cheapest thing this
place has got with booze in it?

Let me think.

A stag left a bottle of aftershave
in the jacks.

Whatever he wants!

Well, in honour of an old friend,

double rum and coke.
On the way.

What? Can't a councillor buy
a constituent a drink?

Oh, so it's a vote you're after?

A month and a bit out,
a tick wouldn't go astray.

Well, surely my vote's worth
more than a drink?

Name it?

The trains, councillor,
they're always late.

You were going somewhere?
Hell.

Well, if the town votes me
back in,

I'll make sure getting you there
on time is a priority.

Do you vote, Patsy?
I don't even have a birth cert.

'Well, Sheila!'

I was in school with that lad. You
know why they call him Chalky?

Because he ate the teacher's chalk.

Now look at him, respected,
buying for the house.

Chalky's on 50k a year, along
with an annual trip to Finland.

50 grand?
For doing nothing!

You know what, Patsy?
You should run.

Do you think so? Yeah!

The last time I checked you were
a dab hand at doing fuck all.

I can't go on like this.

It's clear I need to kill.

Question is... who?

(door opening)

Okay, jawline, it's pitchy time.

(door closing)

Your 'just the tip' type bullshit
won't work on me.

I read as straight,
but I'm bi

and any dudes
I do do are Spanish.

So if you think you're gonna
come in here

and rearrange my guts,
you can jog on.

Me pausing is not
an open invitation to blather.

Now, a little birdie told me,

you've been coasting along
for the last few months

until the next big job comes
knocking. Yep, I'm going nowhere.

Well, I hate to burst your bubble,
that depends on me.

Why shouldn't I fire you?

(music awakens)

Have you read today's paper?
Do I look like a fuckin' geek?

Well... you should.

'The last-minute addition
to the line-up of candidates

running in the local election
is Kilraven's Patsy Ruane, 52.

When asked what pushed
him to run he answered,

'It was a young journalist
from your paper.'

He told me I had both
the time and temperament

to serve the people of this town.'

I've been working on him for
weeks. To get him to run?

He's one of the eight candidates
who've paid their deposits.

I'm going to ruin the other seven
and help him win.

Is that ethical?

(both laugh)

Ok, but seriously.
What's in it for the paper?

Patsy will be the worst possible
thing to happen to this town

and the best thing
to happen to this paper.

Think about it, five years filled
with that fool's antics,

all that juicy material?

He'll be a godsend.
Yeah ok, I love it.

But what happens
if you don't get him elected?

Oh, I know.

You'll lose your job.

Bit harsh.
Fine, let's make it interesting.

Fail to get him elected,

your next paying gig will either be
Only Fans or binman.

But if you move to the politics desk
and get that buffoon in,

I'll make you editor.

I'm not staying long.

This isn't my bag.
Oh yeah? What is your bag?

Hot twins.

Cool.

Well, ok, I'm in, deal.

On one condition.

Them, out there... it's fine if
they know what you're up to,

but they can't know
about the editor's job.

Why not?
You tell me.

Because you want them all to think
they've got a shot at it. Bingo!

(chuckling) Well, don't you worry,
I won't say a word.

(door closing)

And finally, for the title I'm
thinking, 'Cabbage Couture'.

God, who knew farming and fashion
would click like that?

Bravo, Kate!
(she applauds)

Now, an announcement. Emerson
is moving to the political desk

to cover the election for
the next seven weeks,

so he gets a pass on
the pitching. Ok!

And then there were two.

You first. Are you sure?

I insist.
Will one of you get on with it!

It's a series.
Or a P45.

There's this old man, he was
in the nursing home--

Was?
Died late last night.

Riveting. Only...

.. no one knows who he is.

They've named him James Doe.

No ID, no one knows
why he came to the town.

So I'm thinking over
the next several weeks

I'll chase down his real identity,
play detective and write about it.

And when I do find out who he is--
You'll pop out his obit?

This is far more important
than some soon forgotten obituary.

The crime desk is free and if you
ask me this could be a crime.

I've already got leads.
You've interviewed him?

Doesn't make much sense,
but I got his last words on paper.

(murmur of approval)

For every second you spoke,

I was never bored.

Now I see why you've got that crazy
big following of twinks on TikTok.

Ruby, go and knock it
out of the park.

You, you confound me,
I'm interested.

Talk.

It's um...

Well it's um...

It's... Stolen!
Right in front of you.

.. not ready yet.

Not what I wanna hear.
I need more time.

Her Dad did just die.

He died over a month ago, I will
not use that as an excuse.

Oh thank Christ for that. Right,
get your ass in gear, yeah?

By deadline, I wanna see
a story I can't say no to,

or your resignation letter.

Thanks folks.

Never shit on your own doorstep.

I work with Ruby, I can't kill her...

But God I want to.

And what did that old mumbler
tell her in the nursing home?

I could be in danger,
it's a smart choice.

No, it's too close, I can't.
But she deserves it.

Don't be reckless, Elvira,
I can't. It's too...!

God, I want to!
(Ruby giggling)

That Vivienne,
she is all business.

You know we needed someone
like her around here.

Mm, this office needs
a shake-up. So...

.. what kind of person is Elvira?

The kind that should've been hooked
up to jump leads years ago.

And her and Emerson? Why?!

You're not going after him,
are you?

Gross, he's ancient.

I just wanna make sure she's
got a shoulder to cry on

when she gets the boot.
(lips popping)

Do you think she will?

I was brought here to make
ye all feel expendable.

But after reading her work,

which is super shitty,

I've decided to take her job...

.. and crime.

Oh!

What? But I mean she did
just lose her dad,

and it was such an awful death.

Please, I heard the man
died happy.

Went out with a face full of pussy.
(titters)

(cruel laughter)

You're so bad!

(cubicle door latch lifting)

(door creaking)

(foreboding music)

Hey Ruby,
I'm sorry to bother you.

But I'm the union rep and--

Oh, I don't believe in unions,

it's, um, communism
for skangers.

No dues due, I just need you
to fill out some forms,

personal details,
name and address and that.

Your form.
'Come on, Ruby!'

'See you in the morning.'

♪

(clicking)

(music builds)

(keyboard tapping)

(music intensifies)

Time to grieve.

(sighs)

One clown down,
six to go.

(microphone feedback)

I've never launched
a political campaign,

so I'll keep this simple.

Like yourself!
(crowd laugh)

Listen!

A vote for Tom Quigley
means a vote for you!

Seriously though,
transport will be a key issue.

So give me your number one
and every train

that leaves town will run on time,
I can promise you that!

Sounds like he wants people
to leave town.

Sounds like you want people
to leave Kilraven!

Yeah. Don't like that at all!

(disquiet)

Alright, well, listen... listen!

Go on, what do you want?

What I want...

what I want is to buy
everyone here a drink!

Huh?
Does that include shorts?

Back at The Gold Rush,
abuse yourselves!

(phone ringing)

There's one for you as well,
Father! Open bar.

Yeah, which he's paying for.
Give me your number one.

Thanks, thanks, thanks.
He's your opponent!

It wouldn't look right, Patsy.

It's free drink, which is
my favourite kind of drink.

Good luck.

(foreboding music)

First thing's first, let's see
where 'Just Ruby' lives.

Well, Daddy certainly provides.

♪

Where are you off to?

Wine and a bath?
Basic bitch!

(car engine)

(tense music)

Like clockwork!

Same bathtime every night.

I can work with that.

And I can work with that too.

(eerie music).

Maybe killing is how I grieve.

Instead of tears, dead bodies
are how I show sorrow.

(crackling)

Ruby's heart won't know
what hit it.

(music intensifies)

Showtime.

This isn't the routine!

(thunder rolling)

What have you heard?

(rain falling)

(shrill burst of music)

What the hell?

(foreboding music)

(rain falling)

You need to get out of there!

(music burst)

(Elvira gasps).

Run. Move.

Go! Move! I said, now!

(engine spluttering)

No. No, no, no, no!

No, start you bastard!

(phone ringing)

AUTOMATED MESSAGE
[BEEP] We're sorry,

you have reached a number
that has been disconnected

or no longer is in service.

(disconnected tone)

(sad music)

(breaks down crying)

Sweeping for prints now.

Get it down to the lab,

see what we can come up with.

Hang on, is that
Elvira Clancy's car?

Mm.

I'm about to become
the chief suspect in a murder case

and I didn't even do this one.

You're taking this hard.

She had her whole life
in front of her.

(tv plays in background)

(knocking on the door)

Okay, I've got to take control
of this story.

What? I don't know whether
to fire you or fuck you.

Well, hear me out first!

I want Ruby's murder,
the story.

Well, doesn't that mean--

Taking over the crime desk while
Emerson's on politics. Oh!

Definitely swinging towards
fuckin' ya. Ruby and me,

we'd become close,
so it's personal.

And personal stories have always
connected us to our readers.

60 grand a year,
maybe mileage.

For taking over crime?
For taking over as editor!

(gasps)

You... you want me
to run the paper?

But you only get the job if you
solve Ruby's murder

before the cops do.

Don't, you're fired.

Plus you can't tell a soul
about this. Do, also fired.

Can I still write obituaries?

♪