Segmented Chronology

"Sir? There's a Mr. Stevens here to see you?"

She was only calling me 'sir' because we had company. I could feel my cheeks actually flushing. Two visits in one day and Harenthal wasn't one of them, well, that's something. The guest who was currently being blessed by an audience with Dorge Kas, moi, of Weapon Mods was some mousy chick who said she was 'super' devoted to the blog. But she was here with a few concerns.
But I think she's lying. First off, I think she's lying with the whole mousy bit, with the short haircut and all. She walked in here like she owned the place, or worse, she's a stalker, but I'm not going to flatter myself, so I'm not falling for any mousy schtick. Second, 'super' devoted? I mean, come on. I barely read this rag and she's quoting lines to me that just illustrate that I drink when I write. And third, who would drive to Thornbelle just to express a few concerns?
No, the reason she's here became clear to me thirty seconds before the fact-checker said, "Sir-There's-A-Blah-Blah-Blah," she wanted to tell me about her blog. Cripes.

"I'm sorry, Ms.-,"

"Mrs.," she says.

"Right, would you mind to excuse me?"

"I came a long way," she reminds me.

"Ah. Right, so you did. Please tell...Mr. Stevens I'll be with him shortly," I give the fact-checker a pleading look and she shuts the door. "Sorry about that, so, you were saying about 'Segmented'?

"Well," she began, "I think it's confusing to your readers and people are coming to a point where they're just not reading it."

"And this is different than any other day of the week?" I smile.

"I'm being serious, it's not coming across well and the next time you do some 'Daddy' post there probably won't be anyone around to read it." Great, charming isn't going to work with her.

I looked at the pictures on my desk and sighed, she may have a point. "So? Stop writing them?"

"No! No, no. Just, clean them up a bit, make it easier to read, less confusing," she smiles and slides a tablet across my desk, "This should do it, just a little something I put together. This way, the reader doesn't have to keep going back and forth from Mods to Drop Station," she was beaming now.

http://www.whajasia.com/timeline.html

"Wow, that's really...,"

"'Super'?" she offers.

"I was going to say 'devoted', but, yeah."

"So you'll take a look at my blog? The Only Girl Playing?"

"Hell, I'll follow the sonuvva bitch."

"Great!" she says, popping up and standing with her arms akimbo. Mousy. Right.

By the time she left I had forgotten about Mr. Stevens but a gentle rapping on my door resolved all that, "Mr. Stevens! Right, I'm sorry-," I stammered.

"He left, Dorge," the fact-checker said, sliding in, "And it was only Pete Stevens, the guy from Drop Station?" she said, setting a journal on my desk. "He left this."

"Why?" The thought of Pete Stevens actually standing in my office gave me that weird feeling I always got when I watched Gilligan's Island. I pushed back murderous thoughts and opened the journal.

"He just said to tell you it was from Mr. J."

Pete Stevens had walked over here to deliver a journal whose contents were completely blank. How could anyone be so utterly useless? The murderous thoughts rose in me again and this time they felt palpable.

A blank journal. Or was Mr. J trying to tell me something?

Yeah. Probably just a blank journal. Asshole.