Channel 7’s star field reporter, Lana Driftwood, stood in front of the dimly lit alley, holding her microphone like it was a sword she’d been sworn to protect. Behind her, a body bag lay zipped, solemn, dramatic, and — as far as everyone knew — occupied.
“Police say the victim was discovered early this morning. They are not sure if the middle-aged man was murdered or mugged, but the one thing they do know is he is dead,” Lana said, voice steady, professional, and blissfully unaware of the absolute circus unfolding behind her.
Inside the studio, her producers were losing their minds.
“LANA. TURN. AROUND.” “TURN AROUND RIGHT NOW.” “THE BODY BAG. THE BODY BAG IS MOVING.”
But Lana, ever the consummate journalist, continued her report with the serene confidence of someone who had never once listened to her producers. “The police think the incident took place between 2 AM and 6 AM when seen by a passing jogger.”
Meanwhile, her cameraman, Doug, stared wide‑eyed as the body bag behind Lana… unzipped.
Slowly.
Dramatically.
A pale, confused man sat up, blinked at the world, and stretched as if he’d just woken from a refreshing nap instead of, you know… being declared dead. Doug’s survival instincts kicked in instantly. He stepped away from behind the camera, leaving it on the tripod, and whispered “Nope,” and Lana’s microphone picked up the distant sound of him screaming.
Back in the studio:
“LANA. TURN AROUND. TURN AROUND. TURN AROUND, LANA! TURN AROUND NOW!”
Lana frowned, tapped her earpiece, and said on live TV, “I’m sorry, I’m getting a lot of chatter in my—” The “dead” man behind her waved politely at the camera. Lana did not turn. The producers were now communicating exclusively in primal noises. The man cleared his throat. “Uh… hi. I think there’s been a mistake.” Lana froze. Very slowly, she turned around. She saw him. He had blood on his head, shirt, and pants. He waved again. She screamed so loudly that the microphone squealed. The man flinched. “Whoa! I’m not a ghost! I just… fell asleep really hard and I suppose hit my head on something!”
Lana, still screaming, threw her microphone like a grenade and bolted off‑camera in the same direction Doug had fled. The “dead” man shrugged, zipped the body bag halfway back up, and muttered, “Umm, back to you in the studio?” The TV station cut to a commercial. The commercial was for a mattress company. The timing was exquisite.





