Smitty
After departing his trailer, with his eyes glued to Gretchen’s ass as she faded into the crowd, he slid on his shades and strutted toward the press who waited in a long line next to the C-130 transport. Much like the red carpet at a Hollywood premier, the attention cast his way was worthy of a movie star. At least Smitty had earned his money by doing, instead of acting like he was doing. He could only take so many Tom Cruise movies where the guy, all five foot seven of him, fought a room full of men to the death. Try that in real life and it was a quick way to end up with at least a dozen bullets in your gut.
Hell, most of the simpering idiots he had met who adorned the big screen wouldn’t have lasted fifteen minutes in Chicken Dinner. Some talked a big game, like that guy from the Dread Hunter series, an unabashed rip-off of the real game, as well as the Hunger Games movies from the previous decade. In real life, David Hoff was about as intimidating as a wet noodle. The man had survived one round of Dread Hunter, and he acted like he was the bee’s knees, and above everyone around him. Smitty had met Hoff once. The guy had been more narcissistic than Smitty, and that took real fucking work.
Smitty shook hands, nodded into cameras, and talked nonstop.
Journalists from all over the world had been brought in for the show. Dozens of experts and a few other survivors, including Millhouse, the man who had won the previous game by ripping out another player’s throat with his teeth. Gavin Millhouse wasn’t a big man, but he was mean. His bald pate glistened in the sunlight, and whenever Millhouse’s eyes fell on Smitty, Smitty was certain the man was sizing him up. He had a chip on his shoulder about the size of a small home, and had once punched a reporter in the face because the other man had the “nerve” to suggest that Millhouse hadn’t played by the rules.
Millhouse had already taken a stroll on the plane, probably in an attempt to usurp Smitty’s fame. Millhouse was always angling, and in some respects Smitty found it hard to get too angry at the man. Everything about the game came down to sizing up the other players, getting a leg up, and knowing you were quicker on the trigger. It was no secret that Millhouse coveted Smitty’s spot as host on the game. But as long as Smitty was around, Millhouse would continue to be a backup dancer, at best.
Smitty continued to walk the carpet. He smiled, nodded, and postured for the viewers at home. He chatted with a dozen journalists, some on large cameras, but most on streaming devices, and answered questions with his usual aplomb, as he made his way toward the waiting plane. The engines had already begun to spool up, and it would depart the minute he stepped onboard.
He double checked the time. With a few minutes left before he needed to board the plane, he stopped and answered questions.
“…yeah, it’s our biggest game yet.”
“…a big surprise for our legion of fans…”
“…some of the meanest players the game has ever seen…”
“…I don’t even know how to go about guessing the winner this time…”
“…we even have a sniper who trained in the Israeli army…”
“the Serb is built like a Russian tank…”
“…this is all I need to keep me fueled up for the big game.” Smitty proffered the can of Mule Punch energy drink, thus fulfilling one of his six sponsorship spots.
“What about the fact that you’re a murderer, even though you are a celebrity? Have you thought at all about the families of the people you’ve killed?”
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Smitty came to a halt at that one. Son of a bitch. How had Anna Erikson talked her way here? Smitty didn’t have a lot of rules when it came to who he spoke with, but he did have a list of reporters who asked stupid questions.
Smitty liked to keep his cool no matter the situation. When he had been under a sniper’s sights. When he had picked up a grenade and lobbed it back into the house from where it had been flung. The resulting explosion had been captured in near perfect glory by his body cam.
But this chick.
Smitty spun and looked Anna Erikson up and down. She in her pants suit, hair in a ponytail, glasses pushed up her nose. She’d be hot if she wasn’t such a bitch.
“When I was in the shit, was it murder? When I was killing for our country, for freedom, was it murder? You and your liberal idiotic viewers need to wake the fuck up and see that Chicken Dinner is a legal affair.” He paused as his eyes roamed over her chest. “And you need to get laid, honey.”
Smitty turned away without another word; he didn’t even stay to read her expression. His base loved this shit, this act he put on. Gretchen was going to have kittens, but that was her problem, not his.
With mirrored shades in place atop his nose, t-shirt rolled up to display his bulging biceps, hair set by enough gel to glue a book together, he strolled onto the plane with as much confidence as he could muster.
He pushed past the contestants, most of whom sat quietly in their seats. Some chatted with others next to them, but for the most part, it was quiet. Smitty nodded at the big Serbian in the back. Christ, that guy looked like he hated every person he had ever met. He didn’t have a look other than a grimace, and his brows ran so close together he could probably pass for half werewolf.
The Serbian nodded back, but his face remained impassive as granite.
Smitty took a minute to use the head as the plane’s engines roared to life, and the big transport began its lumbering roll to the runway. He popped out his cell phone, opened his email, and immediately found the forwarded email from Gretchen. Judging by the original date, he must have simply missed it, or blown off the missive because it had come out almost a week ago. Smitty couldn’t believe it when he read the email. The twist was something new, and audacious.
> “There’s going to be a new addition to the game. Working with the government, we have managed to secure a dozen very unique players. Men and women with absolutely nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
>
> These are the dregs of society.
>
> Men and women convicted of truly heinous crimes, and serving life sentences. Each has a unique skill set, be it with guns, knives, or hand-to-hand combat.
>
> Each is a federal inmate.
>
> Twelve convicts who are either on death row or serving fifty plus years without the possibility of parole, will be loaded onto the plane, dressed just like the others, and let loose in Chicken Dinner. The other contestants won’t know until we are airborne, so keep this under wraps. Once the camera turns to you, you’ll reveal the twist.
>
> The marketing department has been working overtime on the campaign and the new ads have promised a shocking twist to the game, so prepare to unveil it in the usual manner. There will be a solid thirty day block of lead up and teasing.
>
> There’s a chance this will be the biggest game yet, and we expect our numbers will go through the roof. I don’t have to tell you, Smitty, that this is a very important game for us. With ratings on the decline, we need to get the audience back in front of their streaming devices, and we’re prepared to do that at any cost. You’re the face of Chicken Dinner, and it’s up to you to bring us back up to our former glory.
>
> We’re all thrilled to welcome the new contestants even though I have a feeling they will be less than excited. Still, a chance at freedom, not to mention the opportunity to be rich, may bring out the best yet that the game has to offer.”
Smitty had grimaced upon reading the note. The most-watched game was still his. He held the record because he was the only person who had ever completed the game twice. The people upstairs couldn’t expect him to be the deciding factor in who watched Chicken Dinner. He was simply the face. The players were the game, and with a bunch of convicts set loose in the world, it would be enough. He would do his job, and if they didn’t like it, they could bring in fucking Millhouse for the next one. See how much ratings dipped when that moron stood in front of the camera, gave his blow by blow in words that were simple enough for a three year old, and delivered it with as much aplomb as a man reading Dow Jones numbers.
“Jesus!” he said as the plane bumped up and down.
He splashed some water on his face, and then stared in the mirror as he put his game face back in play.
It was time to go out there and get the troops riled up before he made sure that all fifty of them left the plane by way of the back door.
He almost wished he was going out there as well.
Almost.