"You don't need to cover it, per se, but just be there and take some pictures and eat dinner."

Thusly was I sent out on every reporter's "dream" assignment Wednesday when my boss told me to go to the annual Chamber of Commerce gala. When I got there, the place was packed out, probably because the governor of West Virginia was slated to speak. Even though this county is overwhelmingly Republican and Joe Manchin is a good Democrat, everyone wants to be able to say they "saw the governor last night."

I was taken from the ticket table to a "special" table for journalists. I always love these "special" tables, because the only kind of table more "special" is the one table at a wedding reception where a groom's family plants all the schizos, drunks and black sheep of the bride's family.

After dinner, the real show began, and I dutifully scribbled random thoughts on my legal pad and tried to take photos in the horribly lit room where we were gathered. Halfway through the governor's speech, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Miss Mabel said I'd find you here," I heard Citizen Jim say, a little too loudly. "Where's all the severed hands dangling from the light cords and people jumping out from behind corners and rattling chains in my face?"

I tried to ignore him, but it was no use.

"Where's the coffins and executioners and blood splatters on the walls?" he asked me, landing a loud WAP! against the back of my head. "I'm asking you! Now, say!"

"Precious Lamb, PLEASE go away!" I begged in a whisper.

"What kind of Chamber of Horrors is this?" he shouted. "I've been more scared at a Fairhope Public Library book review. NOW BRING OUT THE ZOMBIES!"

The governor stopped talking for a moment, then smiled right at Jim. "Hey there," he said from his podium. "Let's have a seat, now. I'm making me a good speech here. I'm the new CEO of West Virginia, and this state is open for business."

Jim crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot. "Well, I heard there was a chamber of horrors open for business up here, but it looks more like a damned morticians' convention. And I don't care if you're the head undertaker: I want some chills and thrills, or my friend Chicken Sheets, here, she's going to write a scathing story about this hoax in the newspaper. She's already got lots of notes here on her little tablet, and I know she's not afraid to use them."

The five hundred sets of eyes upon me drove my body underneath the table, where I crossed myself and prayed to St. Francis de Sales, the patron of writers, and to John Nepomucene, the patron saint of silence, who is also the saint invoked against indiscretion.

"Where are all the homeless people, she wants to know. Where are the oxycontin addicts and the people down their luck?" Jim asked. "She has here that maybe they ought to be citizens of the year, and that the soup kitchen on Florida Street should be the business of the year. And in big, bubble letters, it says, 'Hang the rich.' Ha! I like that!"

A loud boo rose from the crowd, followed by, "Get him out of here!" and "He's wrecking everything!" and "Have security taser this kill joy!"

Jim reached under the table and grabbed my arm, dragging me into the light and yanking me upright. "Grab your shit and let's make a run for it!" he yelled over the cacophony. The governor's security team was soon closing in on us.

As we ran past the people now standing, they reached out at us like the undead, with looks on their faces that said, "DIE!" The lights flickered while the toastmaster was moaning into his microphone like a ghoul with hangover, "My shooooow! It's ruuuuuined! AAAAUUUUUUGGGHHHH! The horror! THE HORROR!"

Just as we reached the exit, Jim looked back at me and smiled. "This is what I'm talkin' about, Stimpy! Now let's go get a steak!"

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