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After the viewers had a chance to admire some very… revealing photos of Mr. Armstrong and Adam, their shock turned into a cas-
cade of “holy shits” and “WTFs.”
“Oh, but we’re not done yet,” I said, my voice dangerously sweet. “The director of Idol Factor, a Mr. Finch, I believe? I have a very special surprise for you.”
With that, I picked up my phone and dialed a number
I switched to fluent English. “Director Henry, good evening. I was wondering if you recall an apprentice you fired two years ago, a
man named Finch?”
Henry paused for a a moment. “Ah, yes, I remember him. The man was taking bribes, not to mention he stole internal planning documents. A truly terrible character, his reputation in the industry is in the gutter. I had him thrown out!”
“Excellent. Thank you for your time, Director Henry.”
I hung up, turned off the real–time translation app on my screen, and showed the transcribed conversation to the camera.
“Finch, my dear. Do you remember the good old days with Director Henry? Remember that little five–million–dollar bribe you took in his name? Did you really think you’d be safe just by running back home?”
The chat was so stunned that for a full minute, the only thing that appeared on screen was a waterfall of exclamation points.
Finally, a few weak voices of dissent piped up.
“You’re lying! There’s no way you know Director Henry!”
“Yeah, this is all an act!”
1 covered my mouth with my hand in mock surprise. “Oh, is it? Well, you can’t exactly fake a federal crime, can you? If my calculati-
ons are correct, our dear Mr. Finch will be trading his director’s chair for a sewing machine in a prison workshop very, very soon.”
The chat: “…”
”
