Smitty
Smitty imagined people nodding, smiling, cheering, and in some cases, cursing. He had his fan base but there were also a lot of people who hated him more than Guy Fieri. But fuck them. All of them. Trolls were brave on the Internet. They weren’t so brave when it came to real life, and as far as he could tell, not a single one of them had accepted his invitation to meet him on the island during a game.
Chicken shits.
Smitty narrowed his eyes and turned up the charm.
“Fifty players. A $25 million dollar prize. But only one person will survive. It’s the bloodiest gladiator combat game ever devised, and it’s coming to you live. I’m Leonard Smith, but most of you know me as Smitty. For the next four hours I’ll be your host. So grab your drink of choice. I know what mine will be.” Smitty smiled as he lifted the energy drink and took a sip, careful to display the advertiser’s logo.
“As you can see on the reader board behind me, or the helpful ticker below the game feed on your screen, we’ve had a few kills, and at least one was purely accidental.” Smitty paused for a second as the player’s picture came on screen for the viewers. “Shane Wood misjudged his jump, went down too fast, and ended up tangled in his chute. Then ground met man, and I think you can guess who won that battle.”
A drone’s feed of the man, splattered across a road, appeared onscreen. The man’s fingers twitched as life faded and he went limp. If the producers did their job correctly, the same clip would play a number of times over the next hour.
“For the players, I’m sure they don’t care how another player goes out, because it’s one less person they don’t have to worry about.” Smitty smacked his fist into his palm to punctuate his words.
He pressed his hand to the side of his head as if he had just received a message, but it was just his producer giving him the signal.
“Folks, I know we’ve been teasing you with a shocking twist in this year’s game and I’m going to reveal it in a minute. But first, as you know, we need to pay the bills so we can keep the lights on. After this quick word from one of our sponsors, I’ll let you all in on the big secret. So grab a snack, and get ready to drop your jaws. We’re back in sixty seconds.” Smitty winked.
His producer motioned and the light on the camera went dark.
“Looking good, Smitty,” his producer said.
The camera operators, mic holders, and various other staff who had gathered to watch him work his magic, smiled and nodded. A guy near the back lifted his hand and gave Smitty a big thumbs up.
Smitty took a minute to revel in the fog of euphoria that rode his mind. Makeup came in and touched up his toner.
All in a day’s work. Now the biggest twist the game had ever offered would be revealed.
As soon as the advertisers got their due.
“Welcome back!” Smitty said as the camera zoomed in on him. “Now, as you know, we’ve added a big surprise this year, and we’ve kept you in suspense long enough, so it’s time for the big reveal.”
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Smitty turned and walked. He kept his hands close to his chest and gestured as if conjuring a spell. “For the past ten years Chicken Dinner has stuck to the same formula, and it’s been a hit. Fifty people drop into a battle zone filled with weapons, gear, and first aid supplies. They fight it out until only one remains to claim the prize of $25 million dollars. A fortune. Enough money to live on comfortably for the rest of your life.”
Smitty paused dramatically and faced the camera.
“But today we’re throwing a monkey wrench into the game. We have twelve players who are not your typical testosterone-laden wannabe killers.” Smitty paused again to build up the tension. “Nope. These are twelve people who were chosen for Chicken Dinner.”
Smitty continued his stroll along the path of blue tape that allowed the massive row of screens to be displayed at all times.
“These are the worst of the worst. Let’s take Colin Lundgren, for instance. Does that name ring a bell, because it certainly did for me.” Smitty stopped and stared into the camera screen, knowing full well that millions of people were currently googling the man’s name and then letting out gasps of surprise.
“Yeah. Colin Lundgren. The banker with a heart of black coal who bilked the public out of over a billion dollars. He was sent to the big house for a term of no less than fifty years. Later, it came to light that he may have been involved in even more insidious crimes. Upon further investigation, he was found guilty of murdering his second wife in the Caribbean. Colin fancied himself a man of the people, but his crimes did nothing but hurt a lot of people.” Smitty’s eyes narrowed. “And now he’s in the game, and some lucky son of a bitch will get a shot at him. Literally.”
Smitty moved again, aware that he was about to reach the end of the path, but he was wrapping up his pre-game show and they would soon go live to the players.
“Or maybe Colin is a badass, and he will come out on top. Winning Chicken Dinner, for any of the convicts, means a full pardon.” Smitty paused again as the camera zoomed in on his face. “But my money is on Colin, asshole currently at large, getting his head popped like a fucking pimple. The names of the convicts are now appearing on your screens, so feel free to look them over, and don’t forget to vote on who you think will be the winner. If you pick the winner you could win five thousand dollars! And don’t forget to subscribe, and give our video a thumbs-up. Remember, folks. The more subscribers we have, the longer we can afford to keep this show on the air.”
Smitty rambled on about the rules, again, because it never hurt to go over them. Then he reviewed the fact that all participants were volunteers, and none had been coerced. Of course, he also reminded the viewers that everything was real and that the show was not, in any way, appropriate for anyone under the age of eighteen.
“We’re going to switch screens and get back to the action, but I’ll be here. You can control my beautiful face’s placement by dragging it to any corner of the screen.” Smitty gestured to the four corners of an imaginary rectangle to demonstrate.
Smitty pulled up the tablet, located Arnold Turner, who had been hiding in a small room while fixing optics to a gun, and highlighted it for the audience.
One of the producers, and head of the podcast, Dinner Incorporated, named Trevor Lowe, came onto the channel, and went live to the audience.
“So, Smitty, what can you tell us about the gun he’s holding?” Trevor asked.
“It looks like Arnold Turner found himself a Ruger Mini-14, one of my personal favorite weapons. It came into use in the late ‘60s and continues to be used by a number of correctional facilities today. The Ruger Mini-14 fires a 5.56 round and if you look at Arnold’s gun, you’ll notice the magazine is fairly small. Probably ten rounds. He also found a box of bullets, but he’ll want to keep track of how many he fires.”
The view changed as Arnold left his hiding spot. He moved quickly down a dark hallway and then stopped at a set of stairs. Arnold’s camera tilted as the man looked over the railing. The barrel of the Ruger came into view as Arnold waved it around.
The view shifted as Arnold, breathing fast and furious, rounded the banister and met a double barrel shotgun. The blast took off most of Arnold Turner’s head as it fired with a resounding roar.
“And that leaves us with forty-seven players.” Smitty said as he sucked in a shocked breath. “Looks like Arnold didn’t follow rule number one. Never charge into a room without checking it out first. Wow. Okay, folks, let’s go to the replay so I can break down the kill frame by frame.”