#that and my bg's been 300+ since morning so I'm just all around feeling like trash

[diabeticgirl4]

I'm so understimulated rn I've been driven to pinterest

[justtryingyaknow]

Hey it's me the anon from earlier... I'm glad to hear you got a round 2 and are feeling a bit better! My au idea was basically that the Reds and the Blues are rival newspapers and that they are battling it out to become the main newspaper locally. You could add in some other factions if you wanted to of course. Idk I just like the concept and I think you have really creative ideas so I wanted to send in the request. Thank you for your time :)

Hello anon! Here is a very casual, slightly longer than expected response to this! I did take some creative liberty because, as recorded, I am a plot whore and I love you’re AU idea but couldn’t find a way to condense! So still rivals, but over more casual setting! Thanks for the request and I hope you enjoy!

Grif’s fingers hover over the keyboard. He’s acutely aware that Simmons is leaning over his shoulder watching his screen, assessing his every word. The sweat on his face forces him to push his glasses up.

“Just type a damn word, Grif!” Simmons breaks, causing Grif to smash the keys ending with a jumble of letters on the otherwise blank document.

“I can’t type when you’re watching me like this! It’s too much goddamned pressure.” Grif pushes back and storms to the box of donuts he brought in this morning.

“You can’t eat right now! You’re going to get the keyboard all sticky with jelly!”

“It’s my keyboard, I can cover it in as much stickiness as I want.”

“What was that?” Donut removes an ear bud perking up.

“Fuck off, Donut!” Grif growls around a mouth of boston creme.

“Yeah, fuck off Donut!” Simmons echoes.

“Fine, at least my segment is written.” Donut pops the ear bud back in. Simmons can’t argue with him about that.

“Just write the fucking segment, Grif. Literally anything. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“If Grif’s writing it, it’ll never be perfect.” The team has really done it now. Simmons stands up straight watching Sarge raise from his chair where he’s been sitting quietly (for once). “So, if you want to be the reason we don’t make it to print this week, and there by making us lose to the damn blues, well, be my guest!” His spit flies out, coating Grif/

“Why don’t you just write it, if you’re so freakin’ perfect?” Grif reluctantly tosses the donut, now covered in Sarge’s spittle.

Sarge looks at the computer, as though considering it as a possibility. “Oh? And then I could make ya dinner, and wash your clothes while I’m at it?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grif makes his way back to the chair.

“Then I could tuck you and your little sister into bed, give you kissies on the forehead?! Huh, soldier?” And there was the spit again.

“I already sat down, just let me type!” Grif swiveled the chair and immediately started cranking out a feature on a new dog park.

“Simmons! Report!” Sarge stands, power posing in the middle of the workroom. He delights in watching his worker bees buzz around; Donut getting ahead on an entertainment piece, Lopez checking the weather and business information, and Simmons red in the face checking the layout for the hundredth time that day.

“Everything is in; we just need 500 words from a certain lazy fatass who put off the article assigned to him two weeks ago.”

“200.”

“You did not write 300 words in just that time.” Simmons sputtered and rushed back to Grif’s computer. “Oh my god.”

“I’m a fucking prodigy, Simmons. Bask in my glory.”

“You did nothing all day!”

“Don’t fight the muse, man… Oh, and grab me a coke.”

“Fuck you. And even if he finishes right now, can we get it to print in time?” At the close of his question, Donut is strapping on rollerblades.

“I can do this, years of rolling around with a bunch of guys is paying off!”

“[Please, just say you were on a men’s roller skating team.]” Lopez doesn’t look up from his computer, only sighing to express his continued discomfort with the rest of the team’s shenanigans.

Across town, the rival newspaper team’s boss pores through the final copy.

“Did you… make this figure up? The average person owns 4 and a half dogs in Blood Gulch? That cannot be possible.” Church sips his coffee while staring at the statistic.

“I did the math, asshole. Caboose counted the dogs in BG and I divided it by the population.” Tucker sips his drink, which is definitely not coffee.

“Do you know anything about outliers? Caboose has like 10 dogs dude. Do you know how much he’s going to skew this shit?”

“So what, do you want me to take it out?” Tucker crosses his arms.

“Eh… You think someone’s going to call us on some bad numbers?”

“My numbers aren’t bad! My numbers are good. I have the best numbers, like 6!” Caboose sips his orange juice out of a mug, trying to fit in with everyone else.

“Yeah, we know. Thanks, buddy. The movie review is good this week, by the way.” Church turns to face him. Tucker would call him out on the kindness, but he knows that Church (despite being an unending asshole) has a somewhat soft spot for Caboose. Caboose beams.

“Ok, so we sending it to print or what?” Tucker is still standing by. “You know the reds probably are running to the shop right now.”

“When did you care about the stupid rivalry?”

“I don’t. I just like the way they all get pissed off, man. It’s fucking comedy gold. Simmons gets all red and starts yelling at Grif, you know he’s all ‘GrIF” Tucker fakes a voice crack, “ This is your fault!’ And Sarge’s face gets all scrunched up and he starts threatening us.”

“You know, it is a pretty good time. Alright, 4 and a half dogs it is. Caboose, take this to the printing press!”

Tucker and Church watch Caboose take off. Neither are in a hurry, but they do want to be there to watch the Red Post’s team explode (like they always do). Church locks up the office front when a pink figure speeds past them.

“Oh shit! Donut got skates?” Tucker watches him speed up to catch Caboose. Neck and neck, they speed toward the printing shop with a paper copy in hand.

“Why don’t we just email it, I fucking hate walking down this stupid street every damn week.” Grif’s voice comes through the office door across the way. Sarge spots the Daily Blue’s Letter team and whips his head toward the race.

“Hoo boy, get ‘im Donut!” Sarge takes off running, and something snaps in Church as he starts speedwalking to keep pace.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Tucker waits for the reds to cross the street and join him. “You idiots actually have a paper this week?”

“Did you idiots even fact check your’s?” Simmons quips back. Tucker looks at the ground, the thought of half a dog running in his mind.

“I’m just saying; it does take a team of 3 to do what you guys do in a team of 5, and we’re always on time. Because Blue’s Letter’s got it baby.”

“What possible joy do you get out of this?” Grif says from the back of the group. “It’s just a fucking job.”

“Who do you think actually made it to press first today?” Simmons pushes his glasses up to try and get a better look, but the fore group has disappeared inside the building. Before anyone can wager a bet, Sarge emerges, triumphant.

“Glory glory to the Red Post! We got in first, cheers to Donut, the wheeled wonder!” Sarge hollers while pulling Donut out the door.

“It was a good run, Caboose!” Donut comforts. “I haven’t had that much fun edging out a guy since last week!”

The staff reunites, Grif and Simmons shoving Tucker lightheartedly while Lopez stays beyond the fray.

“Yeah, yeah, but now you’re just a bunch of assholes standing on the sidewalk screaming, so who’s the real winner.” Church pushes past everyone.

“Ugh, fucking Reds, cockbite!” Grif shouts.

“Drinks on Blues! To the bar!” Sarge starts the chant.

“To the bar!” The rest of the reds respond. The group makes their way to the only bar in town, forcing everyone to suffer through Sarge’s 10 verses of his Red Post Salute song.