TallBlond1
Forum Regular
- Joined
- Jan 10, 2012
- Messages
- 184
- Location
- Cleveland, Ohio
I Stayed Too Long At The Fair
by Steve Geary
I always had a thing for Jeremy.
Since childhood, we were rebels, he and I. We thought of ourselves as renegades -- rebels without a cause. James Dean would have related to us.
Imagine two young guys, the same height and weight, but opposite colorings. That would be us.
Jeremy had an olive complexion, a boyish face with dark sideburns that traveled southward almost to his earlobes. Even after shaving, his incredible face had 5 o’clock shadow at ten in the morning. He had the most perfectly shaped, sexy head, and he could let the hair grow long, or buzz it short, and it always looked sexy. His back was rippled, his butt was gorgeous, his dick was something to behold. He was my god, and I idolized him.
I was like him, only a blond-haired, blue-eyed version. I’d help my hair along by spraying Sun-in on the upper strands. After working out at the gym, we’d sometimes compare our dicks, putting them alongside each other to see how they looked together. Mine was just as big, but of course it had the blond pubic patch. His black pubes had such a sexy sheen, they sparkled when the sun hit them just right.
When we worshipped each other’s cocks, sucking on them like babies seeking their daily nourishment, time stood still. Neither of us wanted to be anywhere else.
We didn’t fit into any ‘clique.’ We were our own entity, never the most popular kids in school, not because we couldn’t be, but because we didn’t want to be. That would have been too traditional, too conformist. We were mysterious and antisocial. That was our style.
It may surprise you when I tell you this, but in the sweetest sense of the word, we were nerds. You may think I’m knocking us here, but I’m not. We were proud of it.
How could two muscular, attractive guys be nerds? All I can tell you is that in addition to being hunky, we were intelligent, incredibly into sci-fi TV programs, and were walking warehouses of worthless information regarding stuff that we both admired. We were both optimistic idealists, passionately into ourselves, and we loved it. We saw ourselves as everyone’s hope for the future, constantly striving to make tomorrow better than today.
We loved Star Trek, and identified with every main character. We felt the present world was too ordinary, too boring, for two such extraordinary human beings as ourselves. The fundamentals of Star Trek represented exciting, infinite possibilities of what might transpire for the human race through years of unfettered imagination.
Yes, I was honored to know that down the street from where I resided in my parents’ basement, there lived the love of my life, sexy Jeremy. More often than not, I spent my sex-filled weekends hanging out with him at his place.
One day, Jeremy came running up to me, excitedly waving a newspaper. That new reality show, “Fatality Fair,” was coming to town. It would be an exciting event--for one week, our little hometown would be on the map.
Anyone with any desire for fifteen minutes of fame could strut their stuff in front of a national audience. More importantly, as much as we despised materialism, the money earned on the show could buy us freedom from a society we’d learned to despise.
“Fatality Fair” was the logical result of years of inexpensive shows in need of over-the-top sensationalism. It was a quiz show with a notable, horrifying difference.
Reality programs had enjoyed a heyday around the turn of the century. They’d been cheap to make because they didn’t require real actors or genuine scriptwriters. After many years, the shows petered off in popularity as the fickle American public came to realize that self-involved people talking about themselves on TV were just as boring as everyone else.
Years after those antiquated shows disappeared, they were resurrected -- in a big way -- with “Fatality Fair”. Its debut was as sensational as any opening night could be.
Anyone could play who was into trivia. Each episode had a different trivia theme. There was no limit to the amount of money you could win. Theoretically, millions of dollars could be yours by simply providing correct answers to a few trivia questions. You could stop at any time, and take your earnings home with you.
There was only one catch to the show. If you missed a question -- just one -- you were dead meat. You needed to respond correctly, or you’d warp speed out of this existence faster than you could say “Live long and prosper.”
The audience would stamp their feet and pick your method of death for you. And there, in front of a huge crowd, your demise was televised from every angle conceivable, with close-ups at just the right moment, and slow-motion replays so the fat audience at home could savor your untimely end while they inhaled their pizzas and beer.
It was an odd relationship each contestant held with his audience. The crowd was awestruck by your courage and grateful that you’d be willing to risk everything to give them a thrill. If you won, they’d be happy for you and grudgingly appreciate how well you did. If you lost, they’d be happy for themselves. For the audience, it was a win-win proposition--not necessarily so for the contestants.
The show became so popular, it would tour the country, with a new stop every week. A carnival would be held outside each tent where the festivities took place. Thus, the show became known as “Fatality Fair”. This weekend, it was to arrive in our community, and city council was ecstatic.
The producers were masters at self-promotion. They’d set up the ferris wheels and thrill rides to make sure entire families would turn out. The local economies would always do well, and the ‘carnies’ would make some quick cash.
Generally, Jeremy and I would ridicule the show as yet another example of man’s escalating inhumanity to man, but as Jeremy pointed out to me, this time around, there was an intriguing enticement.
“Look at what the theme-of-the-week is,” Jeremy said. I looked. Star Trek! Oh, man. This meant that every single trivia question was going to focus on the Star Trek enterprise, pun intended. If ever there was a category that we could excel in, this was it.
We’d first discovered the phenomenon through the "Next Generation" series, and gradually we worked our way back to the original series, every spin-off, and every film. I, for one, knew the 79 episodes with Kirk and Spock backward and forward. Granted, others probably did, too, but how many of them were willing to risk their very lives to get so much money?
It’s not as though the contestants competed with each other. It was like that old show “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.” You competed only with yourself. With “Fatality Fair,” if you were smart, you knew when to get out.
“Do you want to do it, Bruce?” Jeremy asked with a combination of both fear and excitement. God, what a question. It was so tempting. We’d be able to kiss our uneventful lives good-bye and retire in our early twenties to some distant island. On the other hand, we’d be playing right into the very cruelties inherent in America that had recently so turned us off. A crowd can become mesmerized and indifferent to blood.
We debated about it for the entire week, and finally, hours before the Saturday taping, we both decided we’d do it. If we lost out, well, we went down in a blaze of glory. We didn’t tell our families because they’d never have said yes.
The two of us drove together in the same car and parked it in the makeshift lot. We were impressed by how far away from the tent we had to park. People had come from all over, and happy families, eager for entertainment, had brought sack lunches. The air felt electric. As we walked through the crowd, we could feel their energy.
Police knew that when “Fatality Fair” was videotaping, the crowds might get out of hand, and sure enough, our town was no different. Occasionally we’d see a sexy young dead guy in the parking lot with his legs wrapped around his ass awkwardly, blood oozing from his body, and flies sucking up sweat from his hairy armpits for a moment before buzzing off. “Fatality Fair”’s carnival atmosphere was like an over-the-top, traveling Mardi Gras, and many people, at least temporarily, went nuts.
A sick, overwhelming feeling came to me deep in my stomach. I knew these images in the parking lot were only tolerated because of the extra revenue the towns took in.
“Welcome one, welcome all!” a happy voice declared over the loudspeaker. “Welcome to Fatality Fair, where we make you a star!”
We both looked at each other, gulped, and laughed. Stars. Yeah, that’s what we were, all right. The whole country was going to be watching. No matter what, this was going to be a memorable day.
We worked our way to the back of the tent, where we were met by the stage manager. He was a big man, smoking a fat cigar, wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit and rings on several of his fingers. “Are you the boys who contacted us?” We nodded. “You’re ten minutes late. This is television, boys! It's the big time!” He clapped his hands. “If you're going to be professionals, you need to be prompt.”
We looked at each other and shrugged. Before we could explain how packed the parking lot was, he walked away from us, beckoning for us to follow. “As you know,” he said, “you’ll be performing nude. The crowds love a contestant who looks vulnerable. Don’t worry, we have a safe place for you to put your clothes.”
We were familiar with the rules. He tapped on a locker. “C’mon, boys -- hurry up. Strip.” He stood there, chomping on his cigar while we awkwardly pulled our clothes off.
We signed waiver forms, legally excusing the show from any mishap that might become us.
There were two naked muscle guys, sitting, ready to go onstage. We recognized them -- they were on every show, and they helped move props and contestants into place. They were part of the program’s aura.
One of them was getting a blowjob from a red-haired boy. I wasn’t surprised. All over the nation, men and women alike had lusted after their bodies. They were dumber than shit but had hot physiques and incredible dicks. Only on TV could a dick attached to a lunkhead get more fan mail than Lassie.
It turned out that the red-haired boy was one of the other contestants. His name was Calvin, and he wiped his mouth happily after he finished sucking the guy off. What people won’t do to meet their idol.
The other contestant was a young, dark-haired Greek guy named Jim. Both of them seemed full of life, and were as nervous as we were.
I stood there naked, wondering. Did everyone know what they were getting into? Jeremy sure did, but what about Calvin and Jim? I could see Calvin’s hands starting to shake, now that his sexual thrill was over and it was time to confront reality. He covered his red-haired prick, recognizing it was time to pay the piper.
“Ya know that guy you just blew?” I said to Calvin. “I’m sure he loved you sucking his cock, but it won’t make a bit of difference when it comes time to kill you. You know that, of course. Right?” Calvin giggled in spite of himself.
Soon Jim was nude, too. He had a beautiful physique, and his cock was half-hard. Maybe danger turned him on. He was a mighty fine looking straight boy. He looked at me and smiled wide. “Bring it on,” he said, and all of us laughed nervously.
Because we were all naked, the show required a lot of make-up. I was the first one to get the pancake smeared over my body. I swear the make-up boy was gay. I could just tell by the way he looked at me, smiling in awe at this body that may or may not still be breathing by afternoon’s end. He obviously took pleasure in his work. “Lift your arms, dude,”
he said, and soon my armpits were a deep fleshy color, too.
“C’mon, hurry up, Bill,” the stage manager growled through his cigar. “You’ve got three more guys to do, and we go on in ten minutes.”
I watched Jeremy as he got made-up. God, he was beautiful. He raised his arms for the make-up boy and looked at me sharply, as if he knew what I was thinking. His eyes seemed to say, ‘Hey, we’ll be okay. Think about what we’ll be doing with all the dough.’ He smiled at me.
Guys were running everywhere with walkie-talkies, shouting important words to anyone on the other end. Various light patterns were experimented with on the stage. The curtain was rung down, and four narrow bright areas appeared on the floor. “Those are your spots,” the stage manager yelled. “Get in them.” We jumped into place just as the canned music started to play. The crowd roared their approval as they recognized the familiar strands of the show’s theme music.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for -- Fatality Fair!” a faceless voice called out, and a stage hand, prepping the audience, led them in a cheer. The curtain went up. A special light hit our side of the stage. “Contestants, identify yourselves!”
Jim had his line down pat. “My name’s Jim, and I’m here to win a lot of money!” he said as he grinned into the camera, his hard-on almost at full-mast. The crowd went wild.
The camera then panned over to Calvin. “My name’s Calvin,” Calvin squeaked, “and I’m here to win a lot of money!” For some reason, the crowd didn’t respond as heartily to Calvin, and as I glanced over at him I noticed that his dick wasn’t hard. He was starting to sweat.
Jeremy looked defiantly into the camera and said his line, as did I. “Yes, friends, these are your contestants! Today’s theme is that old TV franchise, ‘Star Trek’. We tossed a coin in the booth, and Calvin, you’re the first to go! Step up and play -- Fatality Fair!"
Calvin practically choked as he came to the center of the stage. There was a hush in the crowd. “Calvin, we’re going to start with questions concerning the original TV series. As you know, each question is worth double the question preceding it. Calvin, for $500, in what year did the original show premiere?"
Calvin gulped. ‘Oh no,’ I thought. ‘If he can’t answer that one, he’s in deep shit.’ Calvin looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Uh - uh…” he said.
“Quickly, Calvin. Time’s running out.”
“1975?” Calvin blurted.
DAMN!! How could Calvin be so stupid?! That’s as easy a “Star Trek” question as there could be. Did he get on this program just so he could suck that dick?!
The crowd went crazy. “Sorry, Calvin, the correct answer is 1966. Audience, it’s up to you now. You can spare him, or go for the kill. What’ll it be?"
“KILL, KILL, KILL!” they cried. I could see tears starting to come to Calvin’s eyes, and I was hard pressed to feel sorry for him. He’d been downright stupid! What the hell was he thinking? The kid must’ve had a death wish.
“And what will be his method of departure?” the voice cried out happily.
Lots of mixed answers were coming out, but eventually one word rang above the others. “The SAW! The SAW!” I shook my head and stared at the floor.
The two huge, nude muscle guys came out. Kicking and screaming, Calvin was led to a table by the very guy he’d worshipped a moment before. He was thrown onto it and strapped down. “Now don’t move, Calvin, or it’ll be harder on you,” the voice said.
Soon, just above his neck, a circular saw started lowering, swinging from the ceiling like a pendulum. I watched it, amazed. I’d seen it a number of times on television, but this was the first time I’d viewed it in person.
The show’s theme music played happily as the pendulum swung closer and the saw started spinning. The two guys holding him in place had both sprouted hard-ons, and I could see that some of the guys in the crowd were rubbing at their crotches.
Tears flew out of Calvin’s eyes. Fear overtook him as he started feeling the saw’s breeze. I could see his neck veins popping as his head started thrashing back and forth. Big mistake.
Just before the saw hit, he did the unthinkable. He raised his head up, trying to get away! The muscle guys tried to put his neck back where it was, but it was too late. This was going to be a messy death.
The saw started chewing just below the nose and ripped through Calvin’s face. Calvin screamed. Down, down, down the saw went, and blood sprayed all over his eyes, the floor, and the table. Teeth flew left and right, along with bits of tongue. The video monitors showed the carnage, both from a side angle and a front view. Soon the saw was slicing through the brain, sending gray matter flying, and within seconds, a messy top two-thirds of Calvin’s head slid off his body. Calvin was dead.
The crowd jumped to their feet and gave his demise a standing ovation. ‘So much for that little life,’ I thought. ‘The late Calvin.’
It was one of the messiest deaths the show had ever seen. The rest of the body twitched involuntarily, blood spewing out of the strange looking third of the head still remaining.
The muscle guys smiled as they gathered up the two main pieces of corpse and mopped down the floor. ‘Must be good to have a job you enjoy so much,’ I thought. No matter how many times it happens, each death must be a little different. I now fully understood why they were naked, too, as any clothes would’ve been ruined by the massive blood spillage.
The show had gone to commercial. We were all breathless. Somehow, it was so much more real in person.
The two muscle guys returned and started showering the blood off their bodies, getting ready for the next segment. It was obvious they were turned on because their dicks stuck straight up at 45-degree angles. As beautiful as they were, I resented their shower because I knew they were so sexy, the audience wouldn’t be watching us during these moments.
The red light came back on. “Welcome back, America!” the voice happily droned.
Now it was Jim’s turn. He stood in the light. “Jim, for $500, who played Mr. Scott?”
“James Doohan,” Jim said proudly, his cock twitching with pride.
“Correct.” The audience applauded. “Do you wish to continue?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Very well. Jim, for $1000, what star of TV’s ‘Dynasty’ played in the episode, ‘City on the Edge of Forever’?”
“Joan Collins,” Jim said, smiling at us. The audience again applauded.
“Very good, Jim. Do you wish to continue?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Very well, Jim. In what year were both William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy born?”
Jim faltered. I grimaced. “Uh, 1940?” he asked. The crowd went wild, and the announcer chuckled.
Jim looked like a truck hit him, and he stared at Jeremy and me while we shook our heads. “1931,” I told him.
“What’ll it be, crowd?” the voice happily asked.
“BIG BRUTE, BIG BRUTE, BIG BRUTE!” they yelled, and out came a slab of beef, familiar from past shows, who I swear had the biggest, fattest package I’d ever seen. Jeremy and I dropped our jaws. Somehow he looked even bigger in person. The two muscle guys strapped Jim down, this time putting their victim on his stomach.
Brute surveyed the crowd, yelling, clenching his fists in the air and showing off his body and biceps. He waved to his fans. He looked like someone who belonged on some wrestling show. He could’ve smashed any of our faces in.
I’d already seen his act, and I knew how he was going to dispatch Jim. Brute walked up to Jim’s butt. This was not going to be a pleasant ending for a straight guy. Too bad. Jim had seemed like a cool dude.
I’m sure Jim could’ve attempted to run off the stage, but those three guys wouldn’t have let him get far. Besides, he was in front of a national audience. A guy needs to keep some dignity, anyway.
Brute forced Jim’s mouth open and dipped two fingers into the face hole, coating them with saliva. That spit would be Jim’s entire lube for this session. He then took hold of Jim’s well-developed asscheeks and pulled them apart, exposing the hole. The camera went in close while Brute forcefully crammed both fingers into Jim’s tight rectum, twisting them around. Wider and further into the hole he screwed his fingers. Jim’s eyes bugged out as he yelled with pain. His whole body shook as it desperately tried to adjust to so massive an internal onslaught.
Brute put one arm around Jim’s neck, locking Jim’s head into a death grip. He bit his lip and clenched his teeth. The job of Brute’s fingers was to pulverize the insides and beat them to a pulp so they wouldn’t work anymore. As Jim screamed and bawled his eyes out, Brute’s fingers made wider and wider circles. I knew Jim would soon be a goner.
With a sudden jab, his thumb and forefinger skillfully lanced a bit of gut the way a fork spears a glob of spaghetti. He started wrapping those intestines around his hand, tearing them from where they’d comfortably rested for all of Jim’s twenty-odd years. Round and round his hand, Brute spooled the intestines.
When Brute had gathered up enough guts, he suddenly yanked his hand out, causing much of the intestine to tear out, too. Jim cried in anguish as a blackish red blood poured all over the table. Jim’s face was shaking and had gone white.
With some of the intestines still wrapped tightly around Brute’s hand, the bastard now came around, wrenched open Jim’s jaws and crammed five fingers down the throat, feeding the intestines directly to Jim’s stomach.
Blood from Jim’s ass poured onto the floor. He moaned and groaned. Brute forced his hand further into the mouth and Jim screamed when the back of his jaw broke. The pain must have been blinding. He was literally being terminated at both ends.
In close-up, the camera showed that Brute’s entire hand had been packed straight up to the wrist into Jim’s heterosexual mouth. All Brute needed to do now was wait. Jim’s eyes were wide with fear and his face got redder, then turned purple, as his oxygen was cut off completely.
Jim’s head jerked as it tried to adjust to being impaled so deeply. His eyes started to dart around helplessly, then stared at us for emotional support. It looked to me as though his face was going to explode as he was forced to taste his own entrails. He tried to breathe through his nose, but couldn’t. His life force was quickly twinkling away.
Brute started making slow circles in the neck. Jim’s eyes acquired a distant, glazed-over quality as purple veins in his forehead became very pronounced. A deathly gray pallor was intermixing with the purple.
We could feel the exact moment his heart stopped. His entire body tensed, then went limp. He’d been converted to nothing but a chunk of dead meat. Brute pulled out his hand, took the other one and batted the body off the table where it tumbled into an awkward death heap with a messy thud. The camera went in for a close-up of his horrified death face, the eyes dilated and the broken jaw hanging stupidly to the side.
The crowd stamped their feet and cheered! Two down, two to go.
During commercial, Jeremy and I looked at each other. “Please, Jeremy, whatever you do,” I said, “don’t get greedy. When you’ve gotten enough, get out!!” Jeremy smiled and nodded, telling me to keep cool. My guy always reassured me.
“Jeremy, for $500, what studio produced the first season of the original series?”
“Desilu,” Jeremy said defiantly. The crowd applauded politely. The next several questions went fine. Time and again I held my breath, and Jeremy always came through, grinning at me after every answer.
He was on a winning streak and soon was at $32,000. “Do you wish to continue?”
“I sure as hell do,” he said.
“Very well, Jeremy. Jeremy, who played the former commander of the Enterprise, Captain Christopher Pike, strapped into a wheelchair in the episode, ‘The Menagerie’?” Jeremy didn’t even have to think, that was so easy. Everyone knew who had played the role in the series’ first pilot.
“Jeffrey Hunter!” he said, and I nodded my approval.
“I’m sorry, Jeremy, you’re wrong.” The crowd roared their enthusiasm.
“WRONG?! HOW CAN THAT BE?!” I screamed.
“Please mind your place,” the voice said to me. “Jeremy, it’s true that Jeffrey Hunter played Christopher Pike. But when they came around to shooting the additional material, they had another actor play the Captain years later, strapped into the wheelchair, able to blink only yes and no. It was a trick question. You should’ve listened more carefully.”
“NOT FAIR!” I cried. “NOT FAIR AT ALL!” This show was beyond contempt.
Jeremy looked devastated, and looked at me helplessly. What could I do? He looked at the ground. He was going through all the stages of denial.
“What shall it be for Jeremy, audience?”
“ACID, ACID, ACID!” they cried out. The Roman theater, back when they crucified the Christians, couldn’t have been more barbaric.
God, I hated to imagine Jeremy in that pool of acid. But out came this huge container of wet liquid, the size of a small swimming pool, along with a ladder and a diving board about two stories high. Half the audience was squirming in their seats -- from hard-ons, I suspected.
My heart sank.
Jeremy looked at me, and his face was one of resigned acceptance. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve gotta do it, pal,” he said. He climbed the ladder. The audience was on their feet, cheering him on.
He looked around and surveyed the scene. Nude, standing there on that diving board facing his death, he looked out angrily at the mob. It struck me that this was a being whose almighty soul could not be destroyed, no matter what happened to his body.
With subtlety, he blew me a kiss. I knew what it meant. In our hearts, we’d always be together.
He then did the most amazing, glorious thing. He faced his death without fear. Bouncing up and down on the diving board, he took off into the air and did two somersaults before swan diving directly into the acid. An Olympic diver would’ve been proud.
Even as he thrashed around and the acid tore through him, chewing into his body, I could differentiate between his body’s screams and his own personal courage. How quickly those sexy sideburns must’ve been eaten up. That beautiful cock. That perfectly muscled ass.
Smoke, smelling of burning skin, rose in the air. Gradually, his thrashing subsided. His body imploded, broke up and separated. The angry acid bubbles stopped washing over him, and a red pool quickly spread away from his point of impact.
After half a minute, everything became still. The crowd gave him the standing ovation he so richly deserved. His death had been heroic. His was a brave, fearless ending.
After they took Jeremy’s life, I had no choice. I was going to answer so many fucking questions, this operation was going to go bankrupt.
I took on one question, then another, and another, desperate to knock this franchise out of business. I drove the audience into a frenzy. They were as mortified as they were thrilled, and they cheered every time I agreed to an even more difficult question.
I passed the million-dollar mark, then two million dollars. Soon I was up to thirty-two million, then sixty-four. No doubt the “Fatality Fair” owners started quaking in their overpriced boots.
Never before had my endless hours of memorizing TV shows seemed more worthwhile. I was the nerd to end all nerds, and I didn’t care.
I displayed my knowledge proudly, cutting into their wallets with bigger and bigger bites. Any reasonable guy would’ve quit, because who needs that much money? They did, I told myself, and I wanted to make sure they were taught a lesson they’d live to regret.
My winnings got higher and higher. I passed half a billion dollars. “Leave now,” they told me. And I refused. They’d taken out my guy.
The audience became more and more intrigued and horrified. What was I trying to do, wreck their fun, destroy their show? Nobody had ever gone this far before. “Bruce, haven’t you had enough?”
“NO!” I'd scream angrily. In the back of everybody’s minds, they must’ve realized my mission was to send this program to hell. I wouldn’t stop.
“Bruce -- you need to stop. Quit while you’re ahead. You have more money than anyone could possibly ever need.”
“No way,” I screamed. “You killed my buddy, and I’m going to BANKRUPT YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!!”
The entire room gasped. Everyone stared at each other. It felt like a vacuum had sucked every ounce of oxygen from under the tent. A sickening quiet finally settled on the premises. Slowly, a quiet, angry murmur grew throughout the audience.
Finally, after a long, dramatic pause, the faceless voice returned to its microphone. “Bruce,” it said. “We have standards here at our network. We answer to the FCC. We’re shocked. You just swore in front of a national audience, and you have no business being on so respected a program.”
I was aghast. “I'm afraid we're going to have to remove you from our stage,” the voice said.
The audience cheered. The two muscle guys picked me up by the arms and legs, carrying me off. “Time for you to say bye-bye,” they said.
“I can't go,” I yelled back at them. “Jeremy had the keys to our car, and they’re back in his locker.”
“We’ll get you home,” they said as they planted me into some sort of contraption, locking me down with a heavy seat belt. Two cameras were focused on me, one in close-up, the other in a medium-shot. “What’s your address?” I told them.
“Zip code?” I told them that, too. A remote camera crew flew by helicopter across town to catch my arrival at my parents’ home. “We don’t want you coming back,” one guy said. “It’s a shame, man. You were good.”
They punched some numbers into the control panel, and the machine started whirring. Just before my seat started rising up, someone smashed his fist through my jaw.
Higher and higher my seat went until I could see the tent and parking lot beneath me.
Dead bodies were strewn everywhere, as if we were in a war zone. Buzzards picked at body parts as if they were roadkill. I saw Jeremy’s car in the parking lot, and I wished I were in it. I had a perfect view of the highway and the town. I felt like I was a quarter-mile up in the air.
Suddenly, my seat started flying around in circles. Round and round I went, faster and faster as the cameras showcased my dilemma. Everything became a blur. I was so dizzy I thought I’d throw up.
A button was pushed, and the belt holding me in the seat flew open. I felt my nude body being catapulted helplessly through the air, my arms and legs flailing wildly at nothing as I tumbled through the sky at hundreds of miles an hour.
With a camera catching every nuance, my body crashed through my parents’ living room window. My right arm somersaulted into the stairwell. One leg landed in the fireplace. My torso did untold thousands of dollars’ damage as it demolished my parents’ Steinway. Blood splattered throughout the entire room.
Back at the fairground, the crowd cheered.
Mom had been fixing dinner in the kitchen. She screamed as my head rolled up to her feet and stared at the ceiling, my mouth agape and my eyes wide open but lifeless.
Well, Jeremy and I had wanted to leave town. In one way or another, I guess we’d done just that.
Looking down at the mess, I supposed their method of home delivery was an editorial comment against my insubordination. I had to hand it to them -- it was a pretty cool death.
In retrospect, however, I probably would’ve preferred Scotty’s transporter.
by Steve Geary
I always had a thing for Jeremy.
Since childhood, we were rebels, he and I. We thought of ourselves as renegades -- rebels without a cause. James Dean would have related to us.
Imagine two young guys, the same height and weight, but opposite colorings. That would be us.
Jeremy had an olive complexion, a boyish face with dark sideburns that traveled southward almost to his earlobes. Even after shaving, his incredible face had 5 o’clock shadow at ten in the morning. He had the most perfectly shaped, sexy head, and he could let the hair grow long, or buzz it short, and it always looked sexy. His back was rippled, his butt was gorgeous, his dick was something to behold. He was my god, and I idolized him.
I was like him, only a blond-haired, blue-eyed version. I’d help my hair along by spraying Sun-in on the upper strands. After working out at the gym, we’d sometimes compare our dicks, putting them alongside each other to see how they looked together. Mine was just as big, but of course it had the blond pubic patch. His black pubes had such a sexy sheen, they sparkled when the sun hit them just right.
When we worshipped each other’s cocks, sucking on them like babies seeking their daily nourishment, time stood still. Neither of us wanted to be anywhere else.
We didn’t fit into any ‘clique.’ We were our own entity, never the most popular kids in school, not because we couldn’t be, but because we didn’t want to be. That would have been too traditional, too conformist. We were mysterious and antisocial. That was our style.
It may surprise you when I tell you this, but in the sweetest sense of the word, we were nerds. You may think I’m knocking us here, but I’m not. We were proud of it.
How could two muscular, attractive guys be nerds? All I can tell you is that in addition to being hunky, we were intelligent, incredibly into sci-fi TV programs, and were walking warehouses of worthless information regarding stuff that we both admired. We were both optimistic idealists, passionately into ourselves, and we loved it. We saw ourselves as everyone’s hope for the future, constantly striving to make tomorrow better than today.
We loved Star Trek, and identified with every main character. We felt the present world was too ordinary, too boring, for two such extraordinary human beings as ourselves. The fundamentals of Star Trek represented exciting, infinite possibilities of what might transpire for the human race through years of unfettered imagination.
Yes, I was honored to know that down the street from where I resided in my parents’ basement, there lived the love of my life, sexy Jeremy. More often than not, I spent my sex-filled weekends hanging out with him at his place.
One day, Jeremy came running up to me, excitedly waving a newspaper. That new reality show, “Fatality Fair,” was coming to town. It would be an exciting event--for one week, our little hometown would be on the map.
Anyone with any desire for fifteen minutes of fame could strut their stuff in front of a national audience. More importantly, as much as we despised materialism, the money earned on the show could buy us freedom from a society we’d learned to despise.
“Fatality Fair” was the logical result of years of inexpensive shows in need of over-the-top sensationalism. It was a quiz show with a notable, horrifying difference.
Reality programs had enjoyed a heyday around the turn of the century. They’d been cheap to make because they didn’t require real actors or genuine scriptwriters. After many years, the shows petered off in popularity as the fickle American public came to realize that self-involved people talking about themselves on TV were just as boring as everyone else.
Years after those antiquated shows disappeared, they were resurrected -- in a big way -- with “Fatality Fair”. Its debut was as sensational as any opening night could be.
Anyone could play who was into trivia. Each episode had a different trivia theme. There was no limit to the amount of money you could win. Theoretically, millions of dollars could be yours by simply providing correct answers to a few trivia questions. You could stop at any time, and take your earnings home with you.
There was only one catch to the show. If you missed a question -- just one -- you were dead meat. You needed to respond correctly, or you’d warp speed out of this existence faster than you could say “Live long and prosper.”
The audience would stamp their feet and pick your method of death for you. And there, in front of a huge crowd, your demise was televised from every angle conceivable, with close-ups at just the right moment, and slow-motion replays so the fat audience at home could savor your untimely end while they inhaled their pizzas and beer.
It was an odd relationship each contestant held with his audience. The crowd was awestruck by your courage and grateful that you’d be willing to risk everything to give them a thrill. If you won, they’d be happy for you and grudgingly appreciate how well you did. If you lost, they’d be happy for themselves. For the audience, it was a win-win proposition--not necessarily so for the contestants.
The show became so popular, it would tour the country, with a new stop every week. A carnival would be held outside each tent where the festivities took place. Thus, the show became known as “Fatality Fair”. This weekend, it was to arrive in our community, and city council was ecstatic.
The producers were masters at self-promotion. They’d set up the ferris wheels and thrill rides to make sure entire families would turn out. The local economies would always do well, and the ‘carnies’ would make some quick cash.
Generally, Jeremy and I would ridicule the show as yet another example of man’s escalating inhumanity to man, but as Jeremy pointed out to me, this time around, there was an intriguing enticement.
“Look at what the theme-of-the-week is,” Jeremy said. I looked. Star Trek! Oh, man. This meant that every single trivia question was going to focus on the Star Trek enterprise, pun intended. If ever there was a category that we could excel in, this was it.
We’d first discovered the phenomenon through the "Next Generation" series, and gradually we worked our way back to the original series, every spin-off, and every film. I, for one, knew the 79 episodes with Kirk and Spock backward and forward. Granted, others probably did, too, but how many of them were willing to risk their very lives to get so much money?
It’s not as though the contestants competed with each other. It was like that old show “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.” You competed only with yourself. With “Fatality Fair,” if you were smart, you knew when to get out.
“Do you want to do it, Bruce?” Jeremy asked with a combination of both fear and excitement. God, what a question. It was so tempting. We’d be able to kiss our uneventful lives good-bye and retire in our early twenties to some distant island. On the other hand, we’d be playing right into the very cruelties inherent in America that had recently so turned us off. A crowd can become mesmerized and indifferent to blood.
We debated about it for the entire week, and finally, hours before the Saturday taping, we both decided we’d do it. If we lost out, well, we went down in a blaze of glory. We didn’t tell our families because they’d never have said yes.
The two of us drove together in the same car and parked it in the makeshift lot. We were impressed by how far away from the tent we had to park. People had come from all over, and happy families, eager for entertainment, had brought sack lunches. The air felt electric. As we walked through the crowd, we could feel their energy.
Police knew that when “Fatality Fair” was videotaping, the crowds might get out of hand, and sure enough, our town was no different. Occasionally we’d see a sexy young dead guy in the parking lot with his legs wrapped around his ass awkwardly, blood oozing from his body, and flies sucking up sweat from his hairy armpits for a moment before buzzing off. “Fatality Fair”’s carnival atmosphere was like an over-the-top, traveling Mardi Gras, and many people, at least temporarily, went nuts.
A sick, overwhelming feeling came to me deep in my stomach. I knew these images in the parking lot were only tolerated because of the extra revenue the towns took in.
“Welcome one, welcome all!” a happy voice declared over the loudspeaker. “Welcome to Fatality Fair, where we make you a star!”
We both looked at each other, gulped, and laughed. Stars. Yeah, that’s what we were, all right. The whole country was going to be watching. No matter what, this was going to be a memorable day.
We worked our way to the back of the tent, where we were met by the stage manager. He was a big man, smoking a fat cigar, wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit and rings on several of his fingers. “Are you the boys who contacted us?” We nodded. “You’re ten minutes late. This is television, boys! It's the big time!” He clapped his hands. “If you're going to be professionals, you need to be prompt.”
We looked at each other and shrugged. Before we could explain how packed the parking lot was, he walked away from us, beckoning for us to follow. “As you know,” he said, “you’ll be performing nude. The crowds love a contestant who looks vulnerable. Don’t worry, we have a safe place for you to put your clothes.”
We were familiar with the rules. He tapped on a locker. “C’mon, boys -- hurry up. Strip.” He stood there, chomping on his cigar while we awkwardly pulled our clothes off.
We signed waiver forms, legally excusing the show from any mishap that might become us.
There were two naked muscle guys, sitting, ready to go onstage. We recognized them -- they were on every show, and they helped move props and contestants into place. They were part of the program’s aura.
One of them was getting a blowjob from a red-haired boy. I wasn’t surprised. All over the nation, men and women alike had lusted after their bodies. They were dumber than shit but had hot physiques and incredible dicks. Only on TV could a dick attached to a lunkhead get more fan mail than Lassie.
It turned out that the red-haired boy was one of the other contestants. His name was Calvin, and he wiped his mouth happily after he finished sucking the guy off. What people won’t do to meet their idol.
The other contestant was a young, dark-haired Greek guy named Jim. Both of them seemed full of life, and were as nervous as we were.
I stood there naked, wondering. Did everyone know what they were getting into? Jeremy sure did, but what about Calvin and Jim? I could see Calvin’s hands starting to shake, now that his sexual thrill was over and it was time to confront reality. He covered his red-haired prick, recognizing it was time to pay the piper.
“Ya know that guy you just blew?” I said to Calvin. “I’m sure he loved you sucking his cock, but it won’t make a bit of difference when it comes time to kill you. You know that, of course. Right?” Calvin giggled in spite of himself.
Soon Jim was nude, too. He had a beautiful physique, and his cock was half-hard. Maybe danger turned him on. He was a mighty fine looking straight boy. He looked at me and smiled wide. “Bring it on,” he said, and all of us laughed nervously.
Because we were all naked, the show required a lot of make-up. I was the first one to get the pancake smeared over my body. I swear the make-up boy was gay. I could just tell by the way he looked at me, smiling in awe at this body that may or may not still be breathing by afternoon’s end. He obviously took pleasure in his work. “Lift your arms, dude,”
he said, and soon my armpits were a deep fleshy color, too.
“C’mon, hurry up, Bill,” the stage manager growled through his cigar. “You’ve got three more guys to do, and we go on in ten minutes.”
I watched Jeremy as he got made-up. God, he was beautiful. He raised his arms for the make-up boy and looked at me sharply, as if he knew what I was thinking. His eyes seemed to say, ‘Hey, we’ll be okay. Think about what we’ll be doing with all the dough.’ He smiled at me.
Guys were running everywhere with walkie-talkies, shouting important words to anyone on the other end. Various light patterns were experimented with on the stage. The curtain was rung down, and four narrow bright areas appeared on the floor. “Those are your spots,” the stage manager yelled. “Get in them.” We jumped into place just as the canned music started to play. The crowd roared their approval as they recognized the familiar strands of the show’s theme music.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for -- Fatality Fair!” a faceless voice called out, and a stage hand, prepping the audience, led them in a cheer. The curtain went up. A special light hit our side of the stage. “Contestants, identify yourselves!”
Jim had his line down pat. “My name’s Jim, and I’m here to win a lot of money!” he said as he grinned into the camera, his hard-on almost at full-mast. The crowd went wild.
The camera then panned over to Calvin. “My name’s Calvin,” Calvin squeaked, “and I’m here to win a lot of money!” For some reason, the crowd didn’t respond as heartily to Calvin, and as I glanced over at him I noticed that his dick wasn’t hard. He was starting to sweat.
Jeremy looked defiantly into the camera and said his line, as did I. “Yes, friends, these are your contestants! Today’s theme is that old TV franchise, ‘Star Trek’. We tossed a coin in the booth, and Calvin, you’re the first to go! Step up and play -- Fatality Fair!"
Calvin practically choked as he came to the center of the stage. There was a hush in the crowd. “Calvin, we’re going to start with questions concerning the original TV series. As you know, each question is worth double the question preceding it. Calvin, for $500, in what year did the original show premiere?"
Calvin gulped. ‘Oh no,’ I thought. ‘If he can’t answer that one, he’s in deep shit.’ Calvin looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Uh - uh…” he said.
“Quickly, Calvin. Time’s running out.”
“1975?” Calvin blurted.
DAMN!! How could Calvin be so stupid?! That’s as easy a “Star Trek” question as there could be. Did he get on this program just so he could suck that dick?!
The crowd went crazy. “Sorry, Calvin, the correct answer is 1966. Audience, it’s up to you now. You can spare him, or go for the kill. What’ll it be?"
“KILL, KILL, KILL!” they cried. I could see tears starting to come to Calvin’s eyes, and I was hard pressed to feel sorry for him. He’d been downright stupid! What the hell was he thinking? The kid must’ve had a death wish.
“And what will be his method of departure?” the voice cried out happily.
Lots of mixed answers were coming out, but eventually one word rang above the others. “The SAW! The SAW!” I shook my head and stared at the floor.
The two huge, nude muscle guys came out. Kicking and screaming, Calvin was led to a table by the very guy he’d worshipped a moment before. He was thrown onto it and strapped down. “Now don’t move, Calvin, or it’ll be harder on you,” the voice said.
Soon, just above his neck, a circular saw started lowering, swinging from the ceiling like a pendulum. I watched it, amazed. I’d seen it a number of times on television, but this was the first time I’d viewed it in person.
The show’s theme music played happily as the pendulum swung closer and the saw started spinning. The two guys holding him in place had both sprouted hard-ons, and I could see that some of the guys in the crowd were rubbing at their crotches.
Tears flew out of Calvin’s eyes. Fear overtook him as he started feeling the saw’s breeze. I could see his neck veins popping as his head started thrashing back and forth. Big mistake.
Just before the saw hit, he did the unthinkable. He raised his head up, trying to get away! The muscle guys tried to put his neck back where it was, but it was too late. This was going to be a messy death.
The saw started chewing just below the nose and ripped through Calvin’s face. Calvin screamed. Down, down, down the saw went, and blood sprayed all over his eyes, the floor, and the table. Teeth flew left and right, along with bits of tongue. The video monitors showed the carnage, both from a side angle and a front view. Soon the saw was slicing through the brain, sending gray matter flying, and within seconds, a messy top two-thirds of Calvin’s head slid off his body. Calvin was dead.
The crowd jumped to their feet and gave his demise a standing ovation. ‘So much for that little life,’ I thought. ‘The late Calvin.’
It was one of the messiest deaths the show had ever seen. The rest of the body twitched involuntarily, blood spewing out of the strange looking third of the head still remaining.
The muscle guys smiled as they gathered up the two main pieces of corpse and mopped down the floor. ‘Must be good to have a job you enjoy so much,’ I thought. No matter how many times it happens, each death must be a little different. I now fully understood why they were naked, too, as any clothes would’ve been ruined by the massive blood spillage.
The show had gone to commercial. We were all breathless. Somehow, it was so much more real in person.
The two muscle guys returned and started showering the blood off their bodies, getting ready for the next segment. It was obvious they were turned on because their dicks stuck straight up at 45-degree angles. As beautiful as they were, I resented their shower because I knew they were so sexy, the audience wouldn’t be watching us during these moments.
The red light came back on. “Welcome back, America!” the voice happily droned.
Now it was Jim’s turn. He stood in the light. “Jim, for $500, who played Mr. Scott?”
“James Doohan,” Jim said proudly, his cock twitching with pride.
“Correct.” The audience applauded. “Do you wish to continue?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Very well. Jim, for $1000, what star of TV’s ‘Dynasty’ played in the episode, ‘City on the Edge of Forever’?”
“Joan Collins,” Jim said, smiling at us. The audience again applauded.
“Very good, Jim. Do you wish to continue?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Very well, Jim. In what year were both William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy born?”
Jim faltered. I grimaced. “Uh, 1940?” he asked. The crowd went wild, and the announcer chuckled.
Jim looked like a truck hit him, and he stared at Jeremy and me while we shook our heads. “1931,” I told him.
“What’ll it be, crowd?” the voice happily asked.
“BIG BRUTE, BIG BRUTE, BIG BRUTE!” they yelled, and out came a slab of beef, familiar from past shows, who I swear had the biggest, fattest package I’d ever seen. Jeremy and I dropped our jaws. Somehow he looked even bigger in person. The two muscle guys strapped Jim down, this time putting their victim on his stomach.
Brute surveyed the crowd, yelling, clenching his fists in the air and showing off his body and biceps. He waved to his fans. He looked like someone who belonged on some wrestling show. He could’ve smashed any of our faces in.
I’d already seen his act, and I knew how he was going to dispatch Jim. Brute walked up to Jim’s butt. This was not going to be a pleasant ending for a straight guy. Too bad. Jim had seemed like a cool dude.
I’m sure Jim could’ve attempted to run off the stage, but those three guys wouldn’t have let him get far. Besides, he was in front of a national audience. A guy needs to keep some dignity, anyway.
Brute forced Jim’s mouth open and dipped two fingers into the face hole, coating them with saliva. That spit would be Jim’s entire lube for this session. He then took hold of Jim’s well-developed asscheeks and pulled them apart, exposing the hole. The camera went in close while Brute forcefully crammed both fingers into Jim’s tight rectum, twisting them around. Wider and further into the hole he screwed his fingers. Jim’s eyes bugged out as he yelled with pain. His whole body shook as it desperately tried to adjust to so massive an internal onslaught.
Brute put one arm around Jim’s neck, locking Jim’s head into a death grip. He bit his lip and clenched his teeth. The job of Brute’s fingers was to pulverize the insides and beat them to a pulp so they wouldn’t work anymore. As Jim screamed and bawled his eyes out, Brute’s fingers made wider and wider circles. I knew Jim would soon be a goner.
With a sudden jab, his thumb and forefinger skillfully lanced a bit of gut the way a fork spears a glob of spaghetti. He started wrapping those intestines around his hand, tearing them from where they’d comfortably rested for all of Jim’s twenty-odd years. Round and round his hand, Brute spooled the intestines.
When Brute had gathered up enough guts, he suddenly yanked his hand out, causing much of the intestine to tear out, too. Jim cried in anguish as a blackish red blood poured all over the table. Jim’s face was shaking and had gone white.
With some of the intestines still wrapped tightly around Brute’s hand, the bastard now came around, wrenched open Jim’s jaws and crammed five fingers down the throat, feeding the intestines directly to Jim’s stomach.
Blood from Jim’s ass poured onto the floor. He moaned and groaned. Brute forced his hand further into the mouth and Jim screamed when the back of his jaw broke. The pain must have been blinding. He was literally being terminated at both ends.
In close-up, the camera showed that Brute’s entire hand had been packed straight up to the wrist into Jim’s heterosexual mouth. All Brute needed to do now was wait. Jim’s eyes were wide with fear and his face got redder, then turned purple, as his oxygen was cut off completely.
Jim’s head jerked as it tried to adjust to being impaled so deeply. His eyes started to dart around helplessly, then stared at us for emotional support. It looked to me as though his face was going to explode as he was forced to taste his own entrails. He tried to breathe through his nose, but couldn’t. His life force was quickly twinkling away.
Brute started making slow circles in the neck. Jim’s eyes acquired a distant, glazed-over quality as purple veins in his forehead became very pronounced. A deathly gray pallor was intermixing with the purple.
We could feel the exact moment his heart stopped. His entire body tensed, then went limp. He’d been converted to nothing but a chunk of dead meat. Brute pulled out his hand, took the other one and batted the body off the table where it tumbled into an awkward death heap with a messy thud. The camera went in for a close-up of his horrified death face, the eyes dilated and the broken jaw hanging stupidly to the side.
The crowd stamped their feet and cheered! Two down, two to go.
During commercial, Jeremy and I looked at each other. “Please, Jeremy, whatever you do,” I said, “don’t get greedy. When you’ve gotten enough, get out!!” Jeremy smiled and nodded, telling me to keep cool. My guy always reassured me.
“Jeremy, for $500, what studio produced the first season of the original series?”
“Desilu,” Jeremy said defiantly. The crowd applauded politely. The next several questions went fine. Time and again I held my breath, and Jeremy always came through, grinning at me after every answer.
He was on a winning streak and soon was at $32,000. “Do you wish to continue?”
“I sure as hell do,” he said.
“Very well, Jeremy. Jeremy, who played the former commander of the Enterprise, Captain Christopher Pike, strapped into a wheelchair in the episode, ‘The Menagerie’?” Jeremy didn’t even have to think, that was so easy. Everyone knew who had played the role in the series’ first pilot.
“Jeffrey Hunter!” he said, and I nodded my approval.
“I’m sorry, Jeremy, you’re wrong.” The crowd roared their enthusiasm.
“WRONG?! HOW CAN THAT BE?!” I screamed.
“Please mind your place,” the voice said to me. “Jeremy, it’s true that Jeffrey Hunter played Christopher Pike. But when they came around to shooting the additional material, they had another actor play the Captain years later, strapped into the wheelchair, able to blink only yes and no. It was a trick question. You should’ve listened more carefully.”
“NOT FAIR!” I cried. “NOT FAIR AT ALL!” This show was beyond contempt.
Jeremy looked devastated, and looked at me helplessly. What could I do? He looked at the ground. He was going through all the stages of denial.
“What shall it be for Jeremy, audience?”
“ACID, ACID, ACID!” they cried out. The Roman theater, back when they crucified the Christians, couldn’t have been more barbaric.
God, I hated to imagine Jeremy in that pool of acid. But out came this huge container of wet liquid, the size of a small swimming pool, along with a ladder and a diving board about two stories high. Half the audience was squirming in their seats -- from hard-ons, I suspected.
My heart sank.
Jeremy looked at me, and his face was one of resigned acceptance. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve gotta do it, pal,” he said. He climbed the ladder. The audience was on their feet, cheering him on.
He looked around and surveyed the scene. Nude, standing there on that diving board facing his death, he looked out angrily at the mob. It struck me that this was a being whose almighty soul could not be destroyed, no matter what happened to his body.
With subtlety, he blew me a kiss. I knew what it meant. In our hearts, we’d always be together.
He then did the most amazing, glorious thing. He faced his death without fear. Bouncing up and down on the diving board, he took off into the air and did two somersaults before swan diving directly into the acid. An Olympic diver would’ve been proud.
Even as he thrashed around and the acid tore through him, chewing into his body, I could differentiate between his body’s screams and his own personal courage. How quickly those sexy sideburns must’ve been eaten up. That beautiful cock. That perfectly muscled ass.
Smoke, smelling of burning skin, rose in the air. Gradually, his thrashing subsided. His body imploded, broke up and separated. The angry acid bubbles stopped washing over him, and a red pool quickly spread away from his point of impact.
After half a minute, everything became still. The crowd gave him the standing ovation he so richly deserved. His death had been heroic. His was a brave, fearless ending.
After they took Jeremy’s life, I had no choice. I was going to answer so many fucking questions, this operation was going to go bankrupt.
I took on one question, then another, and another, desperate to knock this franchise out of business. I drove the audience into a frenzy. They were as mortified as they were thrilled, and they cheered every time I agreed to an even more difficult question.
I passed the million-dollar mark, then two million dollars. Soon I was up to thirty-two million, then sixty-four. No doubt the “Fatality Fair” owners started quaking in their overpriced boots.
Never before had my endless hours of memorizing TV shows seemed more worthwhile. I was the nerd to end all nerds, and I didn’t care.
I displayed my knowledge proudly, cutting into their wallets with bigger and bigger bites. Any reasonable guy would’ve quit, because who needs that much money? They did, I told myself, and I wanted to make sure they were taught a lesson they’d live to regret.
My winnings got higher and higher. I passed half a billion dollars. “Leave now,” they told me. And I refused. They’d taken out my guy.
The audience became more and more intrigued and horrified. What was I trying to do, wreck their fun, destroy their show? Nobody had ever gone this far before. “Bruce, haven’t you had enough?”
“NO!” I'd scream angrily. In the back of everybody’s minds, they must’ve realized my mission was to send this program to hell. I wouldn’t stop.
“Bruce -- you need to stop. Quit while you’re ahead. You have more money than anyone could possibly ever need.”
“No way,” I screamed. “You killed my buddy, and I’m going to BANKRUPT YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!!”
The entire room gasped. Everyone stared at each other. It felt like a vacuum had sucked every ounce of oxygen from under the tent. A sickening quiet finally settled on the premises. Slowly, a quiet, angry murmur grew throughout the audience.
Finally, after a long, dramatic pause, the faceless voice returned to its microphone. “Bruce,” it said. “We have standards here at our network. We answer to the FCC. We’re shocked. You just swore in front of a national audience, and you have no business being on so respected a program.”
I was aghast. “I'm afraid we're going to have to remove you from our stage,” the voice said.
The audience cheered. The two muscle guys picked me up by the arms and legs, carrying me off. “Time for you to say bye-bye,” they said.
“I can't go,” I yelled back at them. “Jeremy had the keys to our car, and they’re back in his locker.”
“We’ll get you home,” they said as they planted me into some sort of contraption, locking me down with a heavy seat belt. Two cameras were focused on me, one in close-up, the other in a medium-shot. “What’s your address?” I told them.
“Zip code?” I told them that, too. A remote camera crew flew by helicopter across town to catch my arrival at my parents’ home. “We don’t want you coming back,” one guy said. “It’s a shame, man. You were good.”
They punched some numbers into the control panel, and the machine started whirring. Just before my seat started rising up, someone smashed his fist through my jaw.
Higher and higher my seat went until I could see the tent and parking lot beneath me.
Dead bodies were strewn everywhere, as if we were in a war zone. Buzzards picked at body parts as if they were roadkill. I saw Jeremy’s car in the parking lot, and I wished I were in it. I had a perfect view of the highway and the town. I felt like I was a quarter-mile up in the air.
Suddenly, my seat started flying around in circles. Round and round I went, faster and faster as the cameras showcased my dilemma. Everything became a blur. I was so dizzy I thought I’d throw up.
A button was pushed, and the belt holding me in the seat flew open. I felt my nude body being catapulted helplessly through the air, my arms and legs flailing wildly at nothing as I tumbled through the sky at hundreds of miles an hour.
With a camera catching every nuance, my body crashed through my parents’ living room window. My right arm somersaulted into the stairwell. One leg landed in the fireplace. My torso did untold thousands of dollars’ damage as it demolished my parents’ Steinway. Blood splattered throughout the entire room.
Back at the fairground, the crowd cheered.
Mom had been fixing dinner in the kitchen. She screamed as my head rolled up to her feet and stared at the ceiling, my mouth agape and my eyes wide open but lifeless.
Well, Jeremy and I had wanted to leave town. In one way or another, I guess we’d done just that.
Looking down at the mess, I supposed their method of home delivery was an editorial comment against my insubordination. I had to hand it to them -- it was a pretty cool death.
In retrospect, however, I probably would’ve preferred Scotty’s transporter.
