Film At Eleven

He’d been there twenty-seven years, reporting it all. Robbery. Rape. Murder. Arson. Fraud. The evils of man, delivered by him to a voyeuristic audience. He struggled with his next move. Quit. Rant on-air. Or something else.
The studio hand cued him.
“Five, four, three, two, one...”
The lead anchor of the evening news was on the air, the standard intro preceding him. He began.
“Good evening, and welcome to the six o’clock news. I’m Kurt Sawyer. Tonight, something a bit different.”
He touted film at eleven, but they would never show it.

Bang!
Instead, they ran his memorial.