The Eagles Club on a Friday night was a loud, cheerful place. The air smelled of stale beer, popcorn, and the faint scent of bingo daubers. Marcel Skinner, the editor and de facto photographer of the Buckhannnon Record Delta, leaned against a wood-paneled wall, a look of professional boredom etched onto his face. This was his third political photo-op of the week, and the novelty had worn off sometime during the mayoral election, circa 2018. His current assignment was tedious and bland: get a picture of Milla Slater, the wealthy car dealership magnate and new "business-savvy" candidate for mayor, presenting a donation check to the Eagles Club.
Okay, just get the shot and go, Marcel thought, raising his DSLR camera to his eye. He framed the scene. Milla Slater, dressed in an expensive-looking cream-colored pantsuit that was wildly out of place amongst the worn denim and faded flannel of the bingo-playing crowd, was in the middle of a stiff, pre-arranged performance. She was holding an oversized check for five hundred dollars, her smile a practiced, and completely lifeless curve. Her campaign manager, a nervous young man in a wrinkled suit, was fussing over the lighting, trying to find an angle that didn't make the fluorescent lights glint off Milla's expensive jewelry. Rich person gives money to veterans' club. A story as old as time, Marcel mused, his finger hovering over the shutter button. This will be a two-inch column on page four, right next to the tractor pull results and the ad for discount fertilizer.
In the background of this staged event, the final, bingo jackpot game of the night was reaching its climax. The announcer's voice, a cheerful, booming baritone, echoed through the hall. The murmur of the players was punctuated by hopeful whispers and hoarse coughs.
"Come on, G-56, baby needs a new pair of shoes!" a woman at a nearby table muttered, clutching her dauber like a holy relic.
"I'm one away, Carol, don't you dare," another woman whispered to her friend. "If you win this one, I'm putting a curse on your zinnia garden."
"Okay, folks, here we go for the big one!" the announcer's voice boomed. "Twelve hundred dollars! The next number is..."
The air in the hall was thick with a collective, held breath.
"...G... fifty-four! G-54!"
A joyous and disruptive shout of "BINGO!" erupted from a nearby table, shattering the tension.
A woman with a happy, flushed face leaped to her feet, her winning bingo card held high like a trophy. It was Misty Woody. She was immediately surrounded by a loud celebration from her friends, a chorus of whoops and cheers and celebratory table-thumping that was far more energetic than any polite political applause. The authentic, happy outburst instantly derailed Milla Slater's prepared, and very boring remarks on "community partnership."
Marcel Skinner, who had been about to snap the obligatory photo of the giant check, saw the scene erupt. His professional instincts took over. He lowered his camera for a second, his mind a rapid-fire calculation of news value. Okay, option one: the boring, staged photo of the rich lady with the fake check. The paper will run it, no one will care. Option two: the real, emotional photo of the local woman winning the jackpot. That's the story. That's the photo people will actually look at. It's a picture of a moment.
He made an editorial decision. He abandoned the boring shot of the giant check and swung his camera lens toward the real story: the ecstatic, celebrating bingo winner and her friends. The campaign manager shot him a furious look, but Marcel ignored him. He was a journalist, and a real story had just broken out in the middle of his boring assignment.
He began to snap photos, his motor drive whirring, capturing the moment. He zoomed in on the celebrating winner, Misty, and her ecstatic friends. He was in the zone, composing the shot, looking for the story-telling moment. He saw Misty's joyful face, her eyes shining with unscripted elation. He saw her friends hugging her, their faces alight with shared happiness.
Then, through the lens, he saw Milla Slater in the background. Her practiced, benevolent smile had vanished. It had been replaced by a look of undisguised fury and contempt as she glared at the loud, happy, working-class celebration that had stolen her spotlight.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me, Marcel thought, a thrill running through him. He had his shot.
The click of the shutter was a decisive sound. He knew, with certainty, that he had just captured the front page.
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Milla Slater stood there, the giant, useless check still in her hands, a storm of fury raging behind her eyes. This is a disaster, she thought. That screaming woman and her tacky friends are ruining my ten-thousand-dollar media outreach event. Who even is she? The photographer is ignoring me. This is unacceptable. My campaign manager is going to hear about this. The editor of that sad little paper will be getting a call from my lawyer in the morning.
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Later that evening at the Woody residence, the house was filled with celebratory energy. Misty came home, still giddy from her win, waving a stack of money, her twelve-hundred-dollar jackpot. She happily recounted the story to Pete and Chris, who were sitting in the living room, watching television.
"You should have seen it!" she said, her voice still buzzing with excitement. "I needed G-54 for the big jackpot, and I just had a feeling! And then he called it! The whole table went crazy! Sharon almost spilled her drink all over me. Twelve hundred dollars! I'm taking all the girls out for a nice dinner next week, and the rest is going straight into savings."
Chris listened with smug satisfaction, a warm feeling of a job well done spreading through his chest. He saw his happy mother, her [Morale] stat now reading a glowing [Elated (+30)]. The [Bolster Family Morale] quest had been a complete success. He felt a swell of pride for cheering up his mother so efficiently and so cleverly.
The next morning, Chris, feeling rested and content, casually logged onto the Upshur County Community Forum to check the local chatter. The top post was the online version of Marcel Skinner's article from the Record Delta. The headline was a work of subtle, journalistic savagery.
"Bingo Win Brings Joy, Political Frowns at Eagles Club."
And the featured image, the one that took up most of the screen, was the devastatingly unflattering photo. It was a picture of joy in the foreground, and contempt in the background. It was a picture of his happy, cheering mother, and the angry, scowling face of a mayoral candidate looming behind her; wealthy, judgmental.
The forum's comment section was a brutal pile-on.
[Gary L.]: "LOOK AT THE SOURPUSS ON SLATER! THATS THE FACE OF A WOMAN WHO HATES TO SEE A REGULAR PERSON WIN ANYTHING. SHE AINT GETTING MY VOTE."
[Tim M.]: "So she's only happy when she's the one holding the giant, fake check? Got it. She wants to run the town like a business, but she can't even handle a little competition from a bingo game."
And then, Brenda G. posted the final nail in the coffin of Milla Slater's public image.
[Brenda G.]: "A true leader celebrates with the community, not scowls at it from the sidelines. This picture tells you all you need to know about her character. My vote is for Bucky Watcher."
Chris stared at the photo, a bizarre mix of pride for his happy mother and dawning shock at the candidate's spectacular, public misfortune. He felt a flicker of something... a strange sense of causality. He thought about the impossible, one-in-a-million timing of it all. The jackpot win, happening at the exact moment to ruin her carefully staged photo-op.
Wait a minute... I made her win the jackpot. Her winning the jackpot is what caused the big, loud celebration. The celebration is what ruined the photo-op. The ruined photo-op is what led to this picture. This picture is what's destroying her campaign. Oh my god. Did I do this?
He looked from the picture on his phone to his own hands resting on his keyboard. An unsettling flicker of suspicion entered his mind.
"Wait a minute... what are the odds of that?"