Chapter Text
“...and we’re clear, Tucker!”
Tucker Carlson let out a sigh of relief as the bright lights of the studio shut off with an echoing shoooom. A moment of silence as the crew collectively exhaled, and then the broadcasting room exploded into life once more.
A cacophony of shuffling feet and shouting voices accompanied the cameramen and sound team as they gathered their equipment and reviewed the last hour of must-see television. Tucker felt for a moment like he was sitting in the eye of a hurricane as the crew scurried around his desk facade, disconnecting microphones and pulling up tape. They looked like a team of worker ants, running back and forth carrying crumbs of equipment–a bunch of grimy little insects in dark t-shirts and cargo pants.
As he waited for the crew to finish striking the equipment, Tucker stared at the now-dark teleprompter in front of his facade. The face that looked back at him was a good face, Tucker thought—masculine, intelligent, and certainly the best hair in conservative show biz; there was no hint of the decidedly unvirile baldness that had afflicted so many of his less potent predecessors. But the eyes of the man staring back at him from the blank monitor were, while impressively bold, strangely empty.
He hated this part of the day, when the cameras shut down and Tucker Carlson Tonight came to an end for another evening.
It wasn’t that Tucker was conceited; although some might call him downright narcissistic, it wasn’t the bright lights and the steadily-climbing ratings that made his heart race and gave his life meaning. His was a purely altruistic fame. Tucker Carlson knew, as surely as he lived and breathed, that he had been put on this earth for one purpose and one purpose only–to enlighten the pathetic liberal masses with his divinely-granted wisdom, to shake them from their meaningless existence and bring them into the light. Like mindless sheep, the people of the United States had been misled for far too long, and he was the shepherd that would usher them into a new golden age.
That was why every evening, when the blinking red light of the “LIVE” indicator went dim, Tucker felt his own soul grow a little darker, knowing that for another twenty-four hours, the people would be left without his guiding light. They would be left to their own devices, free to steadily march toward their inevitable destruction.
And worst of all, for another twenty-four hours, he would have to endure the crushing weight of his own eminence, without the adoring hearts of his public to help lift the heavy burden.
And so it was that Tucker Carlson stared at the dead teleprompter screen, at the face of unbearable greatness watching him with expectant yet unimpressed eyes.
Tucker Carlson’s reflection stared back at him, and despaired.
“Great show, Tuck.”
Tucker blinked, shaken momentarily from his internal anguish. He looked up to reprimand the interloper, and was greeted with the plastocene smile of–oh, great. Where had he come from?
“The ratings are going to be hot,” Will Cain said, grinning down at Tucker. “I think that segment about the school litter boxes might put us above CNN this week.” His bleach-white smile was disconcertingly wide, and at the same time not yet wide enough to actually move his face in any noticeable way. He put Tucker in mind of one of those wax figures at roadside tourist traps–greasy, uncannily stiff, and constantly on the verge of melting under the bright lights. Even his hair stayed permanently fixed in place as he nodded importantly at the scurrying ants trying to work around him.
Tucker shuffled the papers on his desk. They were, of course, completely blank, but his audience didn’t know that. Hell, they didn’t know much of anything unless he told them. “Thanks, Will. You, uh…” Tucker fumbled for something civil to say. “You made some great points tonight about those illegals making kids gay.”
“Trans, Tucker,” Cain cut in, his waxy face still frozen in a slappable simper. “The illegals are turning the kids trans.”
“Right, yeah, same thing.” Tucker straightened his tie and stood up from the facade, giving a very wide berth to a nearby crewman rolling a length of wire. He brushed at the shoulder of his blazer as he walked by. Who knew what he’d picked up being near these people?
Cain kept irritating pace with Tucker as he wove his way towards the green room, ducking around the workers in a carefully practiced dance. “So about that co-hosting idea me and the other boys had–”
Tucker slammed to a stop, almost knocking into another scurrying worker ant. “I already told you, no. I don’t need a co-host.”
“But Jesse said that–”
“I don’t care what Jesse said!” Tucker spun around and glowered viciously at Cain. He was struck suddenly by the height difference between them. An entire two inches. Two. While some might say that two inches wasn’t enough to make a difference, Tucker knew from experience that this was a dirty lie. He suddenly felt his blood racing, his heart rate spiking as he threw every amount of masculine dominance he could muster into his glare. “It’s ‘Tucker Carlson Tonight’, Will. Not ‘The Jesse Watters and Friends Fuck Around Hour’.”
He knew it had been a mistake to bring on guests. But the network had insisted, claiming that Tucker’s ratings would give the newbies a boost. Tucker, of course, was not opposed to helping out the little guys–he was the soul of generosity, always happy to give his fellow broadcasters a short ride on his coattails if it would lead to furthering the enlightenment of the American people. But the guests weren’t interested in enlightenment. They wanted spectacle. Will Cain with his endless sports quips, Sean Duffy and his smug sense of intellectual superiority, and Tulsi Gabbard–a woman. They had turned his show into a circus, and Jesse Watters was the worst of them, upstaging Tucker at every turn.
Sure, Watters might be loud and aggressive, and his bravely heroic forays into the badlands of liberal protest marches in search of interviews might make every tradwife from here to Alabama swoon, but Tucker was taller. And funnier. And everyone knew that if you needed a well-crafted progressive argument interrupted by a shouting white man, Tucker was the true debate champion. He could be just as loud as Jesse when he wanted to be, and if the libtard still wouldn’t give in, Tucker had his secret weapon—the Confused Carlton Stare (patent pending). It may have been Watters’ World, but it was Tucker’s ratings that brought in the ad revenue.
But none of that mattered to the network, who continually forced him to give these clowns airtime on his show. And they were gradually taking more and more time, demanding more and more of his audience’s attention. Tonight, Duffy had gone on for three full minutes, citing statistics (statistics! And citations!) related to the crime rate among illegal immigrants. Gabbard had spoken. And as if all that wasn’t enough, Watters had used Tucker’s favorite slur before he’d even gotten the chance.
And now Will Cain, the plastic-faced hosehead who couldn’t even hack it on ESPN, had the audacity to approach him with this insulting proposal–again.
Even though his face hadn’t moved, Tucker could tell that Cain was about to offer one of his odiously placating replies, so he rushed to beat him to it. “I’m not co-hosting with anyone, Will,” he snarled. “Not you, not that fossil Brian, and not Jesse. If Hannity doesn’t need cohosts, neither do I. And furthermore,” he continued, noticing that Cain’s frozen facial muscles had tensed in the beginnings of a response, “I don’t want to hear another word about it, or I’m going to Bill.”
Cain stiffened. His smile still didn’t move, but his eyes suddenly grew wide with terror. “Bill?”
Tucker smirked, knowing the threat had landed right where he’d wanted it to. He softened his gaze, adjusting his blazer nonchalantly. “We all remember what happened to Limbaugh, William,” he said softly. “I’d hate to see you disappear, too.”
Cain’s face fell, and he took an involuntary step backwards. Tucker could have sworn he saw a drop of melted wax fall from the man’s hair. “S-sorry, Tucker,” he said haltingly, “I won’t bring it up again. Please…” His voice trembled slightly. “Please don’t tell O’Reilly.”
Coward.
Tucker smiled, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’s fine, Will. Just go and forget all about this co-host nonsense, alright?”
Cain nodded, face still tight with fear–or maybe his face had always looked like that. He retreated quickly, bumping into a mic operator in his hurry to put distance between himself and Tucker’s still-lingering threat.
Watching Cain’s retreating form, Tucker let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He’d reached the door of his dressing room, and he opened it with another heavy sigh. The attempted coup might have been postponed another day, but he couldn’t hold them off forever. And god forbid O’Reilly find out that he’d used his name to get Cain off his back.
That’s a problem for future Tucker, he reminded himself, shrugging out of his blazer. I can’t be concerned with politics right now. I’ve got the fate of America to deal with.
Sitting down at his mirror, he began painstakingly removing his makeup. There had been a time when he’d balked at the very idea of so much concealer–the Constitution clearly stated that makeup on a man was an abomination–but he knew better now. Sacrifices had to be made for the good of the American people, and if one such sacrifice was a touch of Urban Decay to cover his ever-deepening dark circles, so be it.
He was making excellent progress removing the second layer of Stay Naked from his forehead when he felt a buzzing in his pocket.
Cell phones, of course, were strictly prohibited on set. That was why Tucker had told everyone that the noticeable bulge in his pocket was from something decidedly less kosher. The latest scandal at Fox headquarters assured that no one asked him to prove otherwise, and so Tucker had been able, as he so often was, to bypass the rules.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his iPhone, glancing at the screen with what at first was only casual interest.
Then he saw the barrage of notifications.
@mmiss_green posted a new photo
@no_spin_zone commented: “u been dumped, punk. LOL”
@watters_world69 commented: “youre gf WOKE? oof that HURTS lmaoooo”
@crowder_even_lowder commented: “Carlson sux. Change my mind”
@theoretically_ben sent you a private message: “BRO WHAT HAPPENED. WHAT’S…..”
@infowars commented: “thats what happens when you drink the koolade”
There were at least thirty, all within the span of the last hour. His Instagram had exploded with messages and comments, and more were pouring in by the second. He couldn’t even make sense of what was happening on Parler or X.
@theoretically_ben sent you a private message: “CALL ME RIGHT NOW. SHOES…..”
@hannity commented: “This just in, Tucker Carlson’s girlfriend GOES WOKE!”
@pls_pick_allieb commented: “feminists hate good men! call me Tucker! <3”
Tucker fumbled to keep a hold on his phone as it continued buzzing, nearly jumping out of his hand. He swiped at the screen in a desperate panic, finally managing to open the first notification through the tremors gripping his fingers.
His Instagram loaded a photo, posted almost exactly an hour before. A photo of the woman who, almost exactly an hour before, had been his girlfriend.
Tucker almost couldn’t process what he was seeing. It took him almost a full minute to make sense of the image that assaulted his eyes, vicious and unrelenting.
Sneakers. His girlfriend was wearing sneakers.
Tucker’s chest tightened. His vision blurred. His throat went dry as he bit back a horrified scream.
This can’t be happening.
He began to hyperventilate, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The dressing room was spinning around him, the lights on his mirror suddenly so bright as to be almost blinding. He tore his gaze away from the photo, scanning the room desperately for something, anything else to look at, to cleanse his eyes of the horrible sight seared into his retinas.
His phone buzzed again.
New Message
11:07 pm - Green <3 - “Tucker, I’m sorry we couldn’t…”
Tucker stabbed his finger to the screen, opening the message before he could stop himself. Did he even want to read it?
His own heart betrayed him. Of course I do.
11:07 pm
Green <3
“Tucker,
I’m sorry we couldn’t handle this privately, and I’m sorry if it embarrasses you. I wanted to talk to you about it long before now, but I didn’t want to distract you from your work. I didn’t know how you’d react. And I’m sorry if it comes as a shock to you now.
But I cannot live a lie any longer.
I don’t like go-go boots, Tucker. I never have. And I know that hurts you, and I’m deeply sorry. But we’ve both hurt each other, too many times. And I am tired of hurting.
I’m tired of being your arm candy, your prize, the proof of your virility and the proof of your superiority. I am more than that. I am not your plaything or your trophy. I need to be my own person, and I can’t do that if I’m stuck being what you want me to be. What you NEED me to be in order to be safe in your own fragile masculinity.
I am a free fucking M&M, Tucker.
Goodbye.”
Tucker Carlson, shepherd to the masses, the great hope of the sheeple, collapsed to the ground and sobbed.