Debris rained all around. Smoke coiled. Cinder flaked. Flames licked the air.
The air was turbid. From somewhere within, the first survivor emerged, skin waxy and charred. His clothes still burned. A tortured wail. Then he collapsed.
Cameras flashed. Calls for interviews rent the air.
And, futilely, he assented. His fifteen minutes had begun; he clung to them, despite the direness of his predicament, as though his very life depended upon them. He managed a pose. A practised smile. Then the interview began.
The hounds continued to call out to him. They cared not for his life, only for the story.
Great analogy, Barry. With the Internet, endless junkmail, etc., etc., we’re all pretty much hounded each and every day! Liked it!