Life is not easy being a submarine sandwich investigative journalist. The sandwich game is dry in Charlottesville — the old joints are vanishing, and every cohort of first-years endures more bowl-based food. Slop in a trough. All my buddies have moved onto bigger and better things — bagels, for example. But as a longtime Subway fanatic myself, it was a dream come true to have a woman in a comically large hat strut into The Cavalier Daily office. The cigarette butt lazily hanging off my lips nearly fell to the floor when she exclaimed that she had a story. A sandwich story.
I tipped my fedora in her direction and snapped my paper closed, ready to receive her. I motioned for her to sit, but she refused. I noted this, as submarine sandwich investigative journalists do.
“Do I have a story for you. You remember Littlejohn’s, the submarine sandwich parlor down by the Corner?” Her New York accent was stronger than the stench of her perfume. Seagull’s Kiss, I presumed.
I cooly replied, “Better finish your story quickly. I have an acupuncture appointment at six.”
She continued, “Well, it closed a few months ago. And not for the first time. The case has already gone cold, but I was walking by the vacant building the other day and — Mr. Jimmy, not everything is as it seems.”
“Please, call me Potbelly. Mr. Jimmy was my father,” I responded.
As she left, I turned back to my desk. Could it be true? I needed to know more.
Strolling past the seemingly abandoned shop and elbowing millions of orientating first-years in the Starbucks line around the block, I struggled to see what that mysterious woman was smacking her gums about. The empty storefront was a sad sight for sure, but there was nothing that was there that should not have never been nowhere.
Circling the building, I looked for clues with my giant magnifying glass. I came across a window-looking structure. Its glass pane was slightly ajar. Knowing what I had to do, I took a quick swig from my pocket flask. Malibu. Malibu Mango.
I removed my shorts and wrapped my fist with them, smashing the window-looking structure and entered the abandoned restaurant. Standing in the dark, shortless, shirtless — I immediately began sleuthing.
Just before I opened the back door, I heard a voice mumble something from the room behind it. I leaned in to hear better, but could not recognize the voice.
“Finally, Littlejohn’s is closed, and the final step of our evil plan is complete!” said the voice, gleefully. “We can open a store that new students will not be able to resist — an overpriced burger joint with a quaint millennial atmosphere. The evil catch, you may ask, is that as soon as they are inside, they are forced to watch a three-hour documentary on the dangers of liberal thought narrated by Stephen Miller! Also, they have to pay $8 for fries. They do not come with the burger.”
At this, I gasped, and I heard footsteps approaching the door.
“Who are you?” the voice asked, “and why are you not wearing any clothes?”
It was a screen door.
I rushed towards the voice, who appeared to be the singer Jelly Roll. I tackled him, slapping him repeatedly. As we grappled, I noticed a flap near Jelly Roll’s neck. I pulled it off to reveal the voice’s true identity. Ken Cucinelli.
Kenneth soon recognized his defeat. “And what are you going to do about it?” screamed Ken from the floor. His failed bid to become a member of the Board of Visitors, blocked by the Senate Privileges and Elections Committee in June, had driven him to find a new way to wreck havoc on the innocent University student body.
“Your amazing journalistic integrity overcame my sick and twisted plot to convert left-leaning college students to conservatism through sandwich selling! Who are you?”
I grinned, whispering in his ear, “I’m from The motherfreaking Cavalier Daily.”
Ken's eyes widened in fear as I pulled him up, handcuffed him and escorted out of the former Littlejohn’s store. By this time, a crowd of orientation parents had formed around the entrance.
Feeling the need to soothe the anxiety of the people, I shouted, “Never fear, an official spokesperson of The Cavalier Daily is here!”
The crowd burst into applause, and after I was done signing autographs and kissing babies, I handed Ken to the police. They shook my hand and offered me the job of commissioner. I, of course, politely declined. The Cavalier Daily needed me. The students needed me.
I returned to my desk an accomplished man. The editor-in-chief approached me, complimenting me profusely on my fantastic work. And when I say profusely, I mean profusely. Like, please stop this, is getting embarrassing. I was even told our Instagram following increased by over 2,000, with community members enraptured by my reporting and rallying around the lack of sandwich places on the corner. Or, at least sandwich places unbeholden to the whims of conniving Youngkin appointees or members of the Jefferson Council.
All in the day’s work of The Cavalier Daily’s submarine sandwich investigative journalist.
Fin.
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