A panel of twelve contestants was led in by four armed, ex-military guards. With their heads bowed, they took their seats in the designated area at precisely 7:48 p.m. on Monday, November 30, 2037. The audience, whom were already seated, roared to life. Their cheers echoed throughout the studio. Farrah, the co-host, briefly appeared at the podium to announce that the countdown would begin momentarily. The trademark counter sprung to life, bringing gasps from the audience, as it began counting down from ten minutes. Today, the numbers radiated a cherry colored glow as it ticked down. Each second to the next seemed to last forever.
With mere seconds left until the host brought the show to life, the lights above the audience dimmed and the stage lights burst on. For this show, the stage was set in a “shades of red” theme. The three curtained areas were sheltered by crimson velvet drapes. The golden rod cords were each weighed down by thick, over-sized tassels. The host, Carson Jennings, stepped onto the stage floor. The tiled floor consisted of burgundy and charcoal checkerboard tiles. As soon as Carson’s Italian leather boots hit the stage, the audience resumed their excited applause. He donned his traditional black tuxedo, enhanced only by a brilliant, scarlet pocket square. Carson flashed his ultra-white teeth at the audience as the unknown announcer bellowed over the sound system: “Welcome back, America, to your favorite game show ‘Win, Lose, or Die,’ with host, Carson Jennings, and his stunning co-host, Farrah Black.” The applause continued as Farrah strode out, stage right, in a snug costume. For this show, she was dressed as a court jester. Half of her suit was ruby, and the other half was black. Her russet locks were neatly tucked under the matching fool’s cap. Each overhanging quarter was furnished with glistening golden bells. A shocking wine red slash was painted across her mouth that made her smile menacing. The audience howled as she came out, bowed, and blew kisses to them. “Thank you, thank you.” "It seems as though our audience approves of your costume choice, Farrah.” “Thank you everybody! I’m ready to play, Carson.” “Okay, let the games begin!” The golden bingo cage slowly descended from the ceiling, filled with twelve numbered ping-pong balls. Each marked, white globe held the fate of the twelve contestants. Carson spoke into the camera, “Are you ready to play America?” When the basket was completely lowered, Carson gripped the handle and mixed up the balls, “Farrah, would you do the honors?” “Absolutely,” she lifted the tiny latch and stuck her gloved hand in, chose a ball, and handed it over to Carson. “Number eight, come on down!” The audience erupted in excitement. Any color that remained in number eight’s face quickly diminished. When she didn’t rise to her feet quickly enough, the armed guard closest to her quarter took two huge steps her way. She rose halfway up before the guard grabbed her cuffed hands and yanked her the rest of the way up, her slight frame nearly floated away from the force. He hauled her down the four stairs to solid ground where a second guard handed her a small purse and quickly removed her cuffs. She was escorted to the edge of the stage where she collapsed to her knees. The guard seized his cattle prod and, as discreetly as possible, jammed it into her thigh. She let out a shriek. She shook violently, and fell forward, catching her upper body with her hands. “Come on number eight, don’t be shy.” She scrambled to her feet in order to avoid further punishment. Shakily, she walked over to the host, Carson Jennings. Farrah, the co-host, skipped over and nudged her to center stage. When she arrived at her destination the audience roared with anticipation. “Welcome Number Eight! Are you ready to play?” She nodded weakly. “Silent type, aren’t you? How would you like to play Finders Key-pers?” Cheers rose to a deafening volume as Farrah raised her hands and urged the audience on. Two stage hands wheeled a giant black peg board out from stage left and placed it in front of the center curtain. Twenty numbered keys jingled and glittered on their small hooks. They were all different, ranging from dirty bronze to shiny silver. “Have you ever seen this game, Number Eight?” Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes and spilled over as she shook her head. The host turned to the audience, “Well, it appears that we have a virgin in the house tonight folks!” The audience came to life again, applauding and shouting. Carson placed his arm over Number Eight’s bony shoulders and spun her to face the props. Farrah strode over to curtain number one, the curtain furthest away from the board, and wrenched the rod cord. The audience gasped as a large, gray garage door was revealed. At the base of the door, a shiny silver padlock secured the door to the stage floor. “Inside of this garage, Number Eight, is a brand new car. Inside of that car is—“ Carson pretended to fiddle with a tiny envelope he produced from his pocket. He pulled out a tiny white card and read: “—your husband of thirteen years, Sam.” Inside of the garage, the engine of the car roared to life, and in the studio, the audience went wild. One half was chanting “finders,” while the other returned it with “key-pers.” Number Eight began to tremble all over. “We will start the clock with fifteen seconds on it. Taking one key from the board at a time, you will rush over to unlock the padlock. Keep in mind, however, that only one of these keys will work.” “Can’t we give the poor lady more time, Carson?” Farrah faux-pleaded. “It seems as though my co-host has taken a shine to you Number Eight. Should we give her more time folks?” The cheers were overridden with “boo’s.” Farrah turned to Carson with puppy dog eyes, “Pleeease?” “Okay, I can’t turn you down,” he turned to Number Eight, “for every item of value that you relinquish to me, we will add five seconds to the clock.” Number Eight frantically unzipped the small purse that the guard gave her, and leafed through it. She first handed him a small pink slip. “This is a note of ownership for a 2033 Ford Synthesis, please add five seconds to the clock.” The clock hung above the middle curtain and the crimson numbers rose from fifteen to twenty seconds. Number Eight’s bony fingers disappeared into the small purse and produced a small pair of diamond earrings. “Another five seconds please.” There were two items left in the bag. One was the deed to her house; the other was her fourteen year old son’s birth certificate. She let out a sob as she handed Carson the yellow paper. “Whoa, you’re a big spender Number Eight. Five more seconds will be added. Is that all you are willing to spend for a chance to save your husband?” She pressed her hand firmly over her mouth to stifle her sobs and nodded her head; gelatinous tears slowly dripped from her eyes and over her pale hands. “Alright, you have added fifteen seconds to the clock, and now have a total of thirty seconds. Are you ready to play Finders Key-pers?” Turning to the audience and cameras, he asked, “Are you ready America?” The audience began chanting once again. “Get ready to go in… THREE… TWO… ONE…” As the air horn sounded, Number Eight dropped her purse and raced to the keys. As she ripped key number two from the board she raked her palm across the hook. It slit through her thin flesh and hot blood immediately began to gush down her arm. She screamed out as she flew over to the garage door. “Twenty-five seconds,” Carson boomed over the microphone. She put her hand out to stop herself once she reached it, leaving a bloody handprint behind. Down on her knees, she reached for the lock, the slippery blood made it difficult to grip. Once she got a hold on it, she slid the shiny key into the lock, closed her eyes, and turned. Nothing happened. “Twenty.” Tossing the key aside, she stood up and sprinted back to the board. Blood was freely dripping from her palm onto the hard tile below. The board seemed to swim before her eyes. “Fifteen.” She reached out blindly and snatched key eleven. It was a small, grimy key that may have once been golden in color. As she knelt by the lock for the second time, she got a faint whiff of the fumes from within. “Ten!” The audience always joined in for countdowns. She tried to fit the key in the wrong way. “Nine!” She flipped the tiny key around and it sprung from her hands as if it were trying to escape. “Eight!” Clawing at it with her free hand, she captured it. “Seven!” She shoved it into the lock, “Six!” Closed her eyes, “FIVE!” Twisted the key, “FOUR!” A satisfying click indicated that the lock had disengaged. “THREE!” As fast as humanly possible, Number Eight slipped the lock from the loops. "TWO!” She grasped the door handle, and, with all of her might, simultaneously stood up and pulled the door. Time seemed to stop in the studio as the audience silenced. Farrah couldn’t hide her shocked expression, but it was Carson who broke the silence, “Oh my goodness folks, Number Eight has just become the first contestant to win Finders Key-pers!” The earsplitting exclamation only enhanced the silent background. Number Eight took a deep breath and walked into the garage. Her footsteps echoed on the cold tile floor as she approached the car. Her husband was barely lucid and his eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness. A white gag had been tightly tied around his mouth, and his hands tightly bound to the steering wheel by zip ties. Someone had even taken care to make sure he was buckled in. A gleaming pair of scissors lay on the dashboard millimeters away from his grasp. “Let’s hear it for Number Eight and her husband Sam, folks! Guards, will you please help our winners off of the stage? It’s time for the final round!” The audience applauded weakly at first, but as the basket descended for the last round they regained their enthusiasm. Again, Farrah reached in and chose a ball. Carson glanced at the ball and announced, “Number one, will you please join us on stage?” Number One hopped up like someone had set fire to him. A guard released him from his cuffs and he exited the panel toward the stage. Farrah joined the audience’s applause. “We are so glad to see such an eager contestant, aren’t we Farrah?” “Yes sir, it has been quite some time since we’ve had one, Carson.” “I-I just want to get this over with.” The audience “booed” Number One. “And get it over with you shall! Are you ready to play Sink or Swim, Number One?” The audience erupted with gleeful shouts. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” A stage hand wheeled a cart out to center stage. The cart contained two black boxes with clear back panels. They were nine inches deep and six inches wide. As the contents of the boxes dawned on them, the audience made sounds of agony. “Now, Number One, you don’t know what these boxes contain, but the audience can see into them, can’t you folks?” More sounds of pain emanated from the darkened seats. “Farrah, would you please reveal what is behind curtain three?” Farrah took her time getting to the curtain. She slowly drew upon the cord to reveal the horror behind. Two rectangular, Plexiglas tanks, fifteen feet high, stood within the chamber. Broad hoses were attached at the top of each tank and both tanks encased one unknown participant. Number One rushed over to them. “In the tank on the left is Number One’s twenty-eight year old sister, Tia. In the other is his fifty-nine year old mother, Ellen.” They were bound and gagged with no way to escape. Number One began pounding on the tanks, pleading for someone to help him. Two of the guards that were standing watch went over to subdue him. They lugged him back over to the cart where they released him, but remained nearby. Number One was wracked with sobs, but Carson continued on, “At the bottom of each box there is a button. Number One will have to decide if he will stick his hands in the boxes to reach the button at the bottom. Once depressed, the emergency shutdown system will be engaged preventing the tanks from filling up any further.” “Oohs” and “awes” emitted from the audience. “When the water begins to flow, you will only have two minutes to make a decision. You can stop one, or the other, or both. Left tank, left hand, the same applies to the right. Do you understand?” He looked over at his mother and sister in the tanks, their faces red and bloated from crying, and sniveled, “O-Ok, Carson.” “There could be something nice in those boxes, or something naughty. Are you ready to see what Number One will do, people!” They chanted, “YES. WE. ARE.” “Then let’s begin in THREE… TWO… ONE…” Number one looked on in terror as the water began to surge into the tanks. His mother and sister scrambled around trying to avoid the brutal flow that was already mid-calf in depth. Bursts of drilling water beat his sister down to her knees and she pressed her face against the tank looking outward at her brother. He turned swiftly to the looming black boxes. He jammed his hand into the left box and let out a blood curdling scream. When he withdrew his hand dime sized chunks of broken glass were sticking out of it. Blood began beading up all over his fingers, and he shook his hand wildly. He looked over at his mother. The water was waist deep now. Her plump figure was indiscernible through the rushing waterfall. His right hand went for the corresponding box, but he pulled it away before it went all the way in. He slammed his fist down in defeat. He took a deep breath and tried the left box again. Plowing his hand through the box, shards of glass slid through his flesh like softened butter. “No! Dammit! I can’t do this, I can’t!” When he pulled his hand out this time slivers of flesh hung from it. Somebody in the audience gagged loudly. A shiny coat of blood gloved his hand. Number One doubled over and vomited. Carson and the guards hopped back to avoid the splatter. The water sloshed over the breasts of the two women, and Number One collapsed into his own mess. The guard that didn’t move in time took the opportunity to “check” on Number One. He reached to his utility belt, pulled out his prod, and wedged it into Number One’s ribs—nothing. He nudged him with his boot. As the water level exceeded the participants foreheads, the audience performed a standing ovation. Cheers rumbled throughout the studio. “Well folks, it looks as if they’re going to sink.” “Too bad he didn’t try the other box, Carson.” “I’m sure he will be sorry that he didn’t. And we are out of time anyway, folks! Thank you for joining us for another episode of your favorite game show ‘Win, Lose, or Die’.” “And don’t forget to join Carson and me next month for our annual New Year’s Eve edition!” Comments are closed.
|
Editorial StaffEditor in Chief Categories
All
|