Smitty

Smitty would love nothing better than to sit around and watch replays of his kills. It wasn’t that he was a complete fucking psychopath, it was more that he loved seeing himself on screen. It was hard to believe that he had survived two trips into Chicken Dinner, with the last being five years ago. So much had changed in his life. He was a celebrity, he had the highest-rated show in the world, and he had been, at times, filthy rich. He drove either a Lamborghini or a Tesla when he tooled around LA. Lived in a mansion filled with so much shit he oftentimes threw unopened gift boxes into a bedroom on the third floor.

Smitty had it all.

“So why do I feel like I’m missing something in my life?” Smitty muttered.

He sat back on the couch of his Star Trailer, and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes before someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” he yelled.

His personal assistant, Gretchen, strolled up the stairs and through the door. Today she wore a peach top that set off her tanned skin, and a skirt that ended just under her ass. Goddamn, but he could stare at her all day. Her hair, brown with blonde highlights, piled around her face in graceful waves. Gretchen was beautiful, but the terms of her employment dictated that he never try to make a move on her, so he’d settled for looking at her. She’d settled for a nice paycheck and copious amounts of objectification.

Gretchen, to her credit, was cool as a cucumber.

“Nice skirt. You like like a million bucks,” he said.

“You look like fifty million bucks.”

“Shit. I’ve spent a lot of that money, but it’s all good. I have a pretty good investor.”

“You’d have to in order to maintain your lifestyle.”

“I told you. I’m going to cut back on my spending,” Smitty said.

He had, too. After the government had taken their cut, he’d been left with about fifteen million, post game. Multiply that by two, and he’d had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life. But there were the cars, so many automobiles, half of which he never drove. The trips to Vegas where he was treated like a prince, and consistently blew a princely sum.

Then there were the women. Christ. He’d spent a damn fortune on tail and what did he have to show for it? He should meet a nice girl and settle down, but it wasn’t that easy. The minute a woman recognized him he wasn’t sure if she was interested in him or his bank account.

What Gretchen didn’t know was that for the last week his account had been running dangerously close to empty. It was time to sell some of his cars, and maybe, just maybe, let his accountant put some of the money into the market. He talked a big game, but he had less than a hundred G’s invested in other things.

At least he had his endorsement deals. But it was a pittance compared to what he had made in the game.

“Are you going to sit there reliving past glories all day, or are you going to get off your ass?” Gretchen asked and pointed at the television. His face, framed in the center, gave away the fact that he’d been watching himself.

Smitty stared at the man on the screen and wondered if that guy would recognize his future self.

“Okay. Okay. I’m on my way,” Smitty said with a grin. He leaned over to find the remote control and turned the television off.

“They’re ready for you now. The players are getting on the plane and the camera crew wants to get a quick pre-flight interview.”

“Alright,” Smitty said as he stood up.

He managed to keep his face a mask of stone even though his body hurt. It got a little bit worse every day, because all of those old injuries added up to a hellacious amount of pain. He’d tried physical therapy, yoga, and even a few sessions of medieval torture nicknamed Pilates.

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It was the pills that did the trick.

“See? I’m up and at ‘em.”

“Cool beans, boss,” Gretchen said as she looked him up and down. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s all good. I’m just a moody little bitch today.”

“Well, get your bitch ass down there I think “here” should be “there” before I have to turn into a bitch of a personal assistant. A few minutes in the spotlight always helps.” Gretchen winked.

“Are they still whining about ratings at HQ?”

“They are, but they have a trick up their sleeves.”

“Ratings aren’t that bad, are they?”

“It’s not good. They cover it up with big talk, but there’s also big talk of how to get back to the glory days.”

“I’m sure it’s going to get back on track this time,” Smitty said with bravado. “After all, they have me to get the viewers excited again.”

“They do. But the new twist is going to be interesting. Did you read the files?”

“The players? Yeah. I like this Chuck guy. Former military turned mercenary. He’s going to kick ass.”

“What about the other files?”

“I like that Miljan guy too. He’s shady as fuck, so he’ll do well.”

“Shady?”

“Yeah. A Serb with a bunch of tattoos. Plus he’s built like a tank.”

“So that’s two. How about the rest of the player files?”

“I didn’t really have time to read everything.” Smitty shrugged. “It’s all good.”

“Dude.” Gretchen approached Smitty, eyes wide, and mouth open. “You didn’t read the notes? This is a big deal. I told you to read it all because I wanted you to see the surprise.”

“Surprise? It’s the same game, Gretch. They might have some oddballs along for the ride, but so what? They’ve done it before.”

“Oddballs?” Gretchen’s eyebrows went up. “Do you call a dozen federal convicts with life sentences oddballs?”

Wait. What the fuck?

“Uh,” Smitty scratched the back of his head.

“You really didn’t read them.” Gretchen stepped back and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Shit. Shit. Shit! I need to get you up to speed ASAP.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Smitty said. “But give me a moment. I gotta take a leak, then I’m all yours.”

“You’re probably going to blow this off, so I’m forwarding you the email. Read it, Smitty!” Gretchen shouted after him.

Smitty went straight to his bathroom and removed a bottle of pills from his vanity. He popped the top and shook a couple into his hand. It was a true balancing act, being able to keep the pain at bay, but also keeping the fog in place. He was addicted and he knew he should go to rehab, but after three years of increased dosages, it was easier to just keep taking them.

His hip flared with pain as he leaned over to take a sip of water to wash down the drugs. Just a reminder that he needed these. The knife had gone deep, and had led to a nasty infection that had kept him in the hospital for four days following his second win.

“So they wanted to make it more interesting. I don’t think it was the best idea, but what do I know? The genius was getting the Government to bless the project since they have been so wishy washy on the game from the beginning, but I don’t have to tell you about that.” Gretchen yelled to be heard over the running water.

No shit. After Chicken Dinner had been approved for United States viewers, a task that required millions from lobbyists, and intensifying public pressure, the folks in office had showed an amazing ability to look the other way on game day. Some legislation had come to the table, but it had died a quiet death when Congress had learned it would piss off a third of the registered voters in the good ole US of A.

Smitty took one more pill from the bottle and slid it into his mouth. He rolled it under his tongue and let the bitter substance melt. He would have to take an amphetamine in an hour to offset the effects.

Smitty splashed water on his face and then toweled off before rejoining Gretchen.

“Everything good?” Gretchen asked as her eyes followed the little brown prescription bottle before he slipped it into his pants pocket.

“S’all good.” Smitty grinned. “So tell me more while we walk.”

“Of course. But aren’t you forgetting something for the interview?”

Smitty snapped his fingers as he spun, and reached for the dark wood humidor on his kitchen table.

If there was one thing he needed for his persona it was the damn cigar. Ever since he had left the game and asked for one he hadn’t been able to escape their presence. It was assumed that he was a hardcore cigar guy. The truth was, he didn’t know why in the hell he had wanted one in the first place.

“You have that look in your eye again. You miss it, huh?”

“Oh hell no,” Smitty lied. “I wouldn’t go through that ordeal for a hundred million dollars.”

“If you say so, boss. Sometimes you get that faraway look before a game. I assumed you missed it is all.”

“It’s all fun and games until some lamer takes the first shot at you.” Smitty turned away. “Then you realize just how real it is.”

“Save that for the camera, boss. You know how they love that insider stuff.” Gretchen reached for the door. “So here are the high points.”

Smitty listened as they walked into the blinding sunlight.

Smitty rolled his shoulders, and wished he had taken a few minutes to do a dozen or more pushups. He might have a thing for pain pills, booze, and women, but he’d also got his ass back in shape before Chicken Dinner came back. Hours in the gym, high protein diets, and within a few weeks the muscles had responded. It didn’t hurt that he had a doctor willing to prescribe shots to help him along.

Smitty extracted a gold lighter from his front pocket and set the cigar alight.

“Time to put on my game face.” He blew out a puff of smoke and prepared to meet the lights, cameras, and a few hundred million followers on the internet.

But first he needed details from Gretchen, because this was going to be a hell of an interesting day.