Post by Admin on Jul 7, 2015 5:34:34 GMT
The voice clicks back on to the radio. It is raspy with age, but has a level of wisdom to it with it’s calm and clear mannerisms. “Before I sign off for the night I want to have sort of moment with you here, think you can handle that San Diego.”
He takes a sip of something and then comes back, “For those new to the show my name is Vic, and you are listening to the Lost Hours.” He sighs for a moment, not the sound of defeat, but of thought before his next words. “I want to tell you a bit about myself, as well as yourself too, San Diego. I have been doing these late shows for a long time now. Different city, different stories, but all of them had a special sort of darkness to them. Some it was watching them eat themselves to death, taking their fill on what they could offer and leaving nothing but a wreck of scars and husks behind. Others looked so clean and perfect, built with castles of glass and steel that rested on the bodies and graves of what and who came before. You San Diego, you somehow are something else.”
“You not only fight to live, you survive. Your history is a story, a book of enduring and making it through darker days better than those with more money and time. Now maybe that has to do with having a stronger leadership, or a past that built for you, its future, and for you as people who build for those coming after you, but we know. We children of the Lost Hours see things in the early and late hours and in other cities it was always the same.”
“You see a mugging; you turn your head and walk on.”
“You see someone breaking into a car; you turn your head and walk on.”
“You see…” he pauses for a moment to take a deep breath, “you see a young girl in trouble, you turn your head and walk on, or you ended up like your host Vic.” The sound of a squeak could be heard on cue, for the regulars to the show they knew that was the sound of Vic’s wheel chair.
“But not San Diego, you have ‘Them’. I don’t know who you all are, but I know you are out there. I have seen some of you in action, caught the last minute glimpses and I want to thank you. Hiding among us as cops, doctors, teachers, electricians, whatever you are and who ever you are, thank you. You carry the torch of this city, and you hand it off to those you know can handle its weight and flames. You show wisdom, courage, cunning, and honor in a world that needs it. I just hope we are able to pay you back when we can.”
“That’s enough rambling from a nostalgic old man, till tomorrow night listeners.”
He takes a sip of something and then comes back, “For those new to the show my name is Vic, and you are listening to the Lost Hours.” He sighs for a moment, not the sound of defeat, but of thought before his next words. “I want to tell you a bit about myself, as well as yourself too, San Diego. I have been doing these late shows for a long time now. Different city, different stories, but all of them had a special sort of darkness to them. Some it was watching them eat themselves to death, taking their fill on what they could offer and leaving nothing but a wreck of scars and husks behind. Others looked so clean and perfect, built with castles of glass and steel that rested on the bodies and graves of what and who came before. You San Diego, you somehow are something else.”
“You not only fight to live, you survive. Your history is a story, a book of enduring and making it through darker days better than those with more money and time. Now maybe that has to do with having a stronger leadership, or a past that built for you, its future, and for you as people who build for those coming after you, but we know. We children of the Lost Hours see things in the early and late hours and in other cities it was always the same.”
“You see a mugging; you turn your head and walk on.”
“You see someone breaking into a car; you turn your head and walk on.”
“You see…” he pauses for a moment to take a deep breath, “you see a young girl in trouble, you turn your head and walk on, or you ended up like your host Vic.” The sound of a squeak could be heard on cue, for the regulars to the show they knew that was the sound of Vic’s wheel chair.
“But not San Diego, you have ‘Them’. I don’t know who you all are, but I know you are out there. I have seen some of you in action, caught the last minute glimpses and I want to thank you. Hiding among us as cops, doctors, teachers, electricians, whatever you are and who ever you are, thank you. You carry the torch of this city, and you hand it off to those you know can handle its weight and flames. You show wisdom, courage, cunning, and honor in a world that needs it. I just hope we are able to pay you back when we can.”
“That’s enough rambling from a nostalgic old man, till tomorrow night listeners.”