The offices of the Muckraker magazine feel true to the "vision and mission" of such a highly esteemed publication. It's located in the basement of an old art deco building, on the boundaries of the city's own china town, with nothing but a little signage by the entrance door announcing its existence. Inside is a small "editorial room," a common area where four or five desks are arranged around a single inkjet printer, where an editorial staff of a grand total of seven, not including Gary Smulder, bang on their antiquated yellowed desktop computers the week's journalistic masterpieces.
It's into this wonderful world of ace-level reporting that Gary Smulder enters, his face brimming with expectation. At the desk nearest the inkjet printer sits a corpulent gray-haired man, quickly typing on the computer keyboard what can only be presumed as the magazine's next cover story.
"Hey, Patrick, guess what I have in my hand?"
