rubs them back and forth.
“You wanted to know what the numbers are for. So here it is. The numbers are based on the votes the audience has given you when you were crossing the main street to the Monorail, disconnected from the outside world. That was when you, Decca, stepped out of your fears before everyone and found the Monorail station. Since your little sacrificial lottery last night, the crowd decides we play your game — but the crowd’s way.” Timmy begins to explain.
“The audience has decided, on a scale from one to ten, who is most likely to die first and last. Leo has been spared, because the audience considers him a repentant, not an actual Monster. They want to see him in the games tomorrow. And he is so gawd-damn sexy. Aww,” Timmy screams and does a 360-degree round flip as if he were James Brown. “Ten is most likely to die last, the strongest link. The audience loves you too, Decca.” Timmy takes a deep breath, looking envious. “One is most likely to die first, the weakest link.”
“No,” Vern screams, trying to free himself from his balcony. He is number one. “Not me. Why always me?”
“What’s wrong with you people?” I yell at the screens. “You think we’re some kind of lab rats?”
“Tsk, tsk.” Timmy wiggles his index finger. “You don’t want to upset the audience. They’re beginning to love you.”
“So the numbers were predetermined?” I wonder. “Then what was the entire Wheel of Fortune thing for?”
“That was for overseas audiences.” Timmy munches on a Mango. “They didn’t get to vote, so we gave them something to munch on. Foreign politics, you know. Mango?” He stretches out his hand, offering me a bite.
“So what is the damn game?” I sigh.
“Look in the hole again, please.” Timmy means the circular hole in the middle of the ring.
Now that the fog and smoke are gone, I can see what awaits us down in the hole. There is a large elastic net like the one you see in a circus underneath the flying trapeze performers. The one that allows performers to fall safely into it if they miss a catch or fall off the bar.
Welcome to the next game…
This net is hung from the ring and looks like an inverted cone. Its base is so far below. Underneath it, there is a swimming pool full of crocodiles — or some genetically manipulated creatures that look like crocodiles.
The tip of the inverted cone, which acts like a base far below, has another hole in it, big enough for a person to fall through right into the pool of crocodiles. The pool is about only five feet below the base of the inverted cone, which is made of net fabric.
Those who design these games have some twisted imaginations.
“As you see,” says Timmy, “we are going to ask you to jump down there. The net can only handle a certain weight before it stretches down toward the pool. If the sum of your weight exceeds a certain limit, the net will stretch farther. If it does, you will fall into the pool and the crocodiles will eat you alive. Yum. Yum. Yum.”
“What’s the maximum weight the net can carry before it is pulled down enough for the crocodiles to yum-yum us?” asks Leo.
“The maximum weight the net can carry? That is the question,” Timmy speculates, acting as if thinking. “I thought ‘to be or not to be’ was the question, you know.” Timmy is torturing us. “But it turns out Shakespeare was wrong. ‘What is the maximum weight the net can carry?’ That’s the question.” Timmy stops again for effect. I have the feeling I am not going to like the answer. “I’d say ten of you,” says Timmy finally. “More than that, the net will definitely stretch down. That’s if none of you ate two bags of French fries and a double Burning Burger with extra mayo and ketchup yesterday.” Timmy bites down on a Burning Burger, the most famous hamburger I know of. It comes with live fire on top of it that fades out once you open your mouth. Hunger tickles my throat when I see this. I
“You wanted to know what the numbers are for. So here it is. The numbers are based on the votes the audience has given you when you were crossing the main street to the Monorail, disconnected from the outside world. That was when you, Decca, stepped out of your fears before everyone and found the Monorail station. Since your little sacrificial lottery last night, the crowd decides we play your game — but the crowd’s way.” Timmy begins to explain.
“The audience has decided, on a scale from one to ten, who is most likely to die first and last. Leo has been spared, because the audience considers him a repentant, not an actual Monster. They want to see him in the games tomorrow. And he is so gawd-damn sexy. Aww,” Timmy screams and does a 360-degree round flip as if he were James Brown. “Ten is most likely to die last, the strongest link. The audience loves you too, Decca.” Timmy takes a deep breath, looking envious. “One is most likely to die first, the weakest link.”
“No,” Vern screams, trying to free himself from his balcony. He is number one. “Not me. Why always me?”
“What’s wrong with you people?” I yell at the screens. “You think we’re some kind of lab rats?”
“Tsk, tsk.” Timmy wiggles his index finger. “You don’t want to upset the audience. They’re beginning to love you.”
“So the numbers were predetermined?” I wonder. “Then what was the entire Wheel of Fortune thing for?”
“That was for overseas audiences.” Timmy munches on a Mango. “They didn’t get to vote, so we gave them something to munch on. Foreign politics, you know. Mango?” He stretches out his hand, offering me a bite.
“So what is the damn game?” I sigh.
“Look in the hole again, please.” Timmy means the circular hole in the middle of the ring.
Now that the fog and smoke are gone, I can see what awaits us down in the hole. There is a large elastic net like the one you see in a circus underneath the flying trapeze performers. The one that allows performers to fall safely into it if they miss a catch or fall off the bar.
Welcome to the next game…
This net is hung from the ring and looks like an inverted cone. Its base is so far below. Underneath it, there is a swimming pool full of crocodiles — or some genetically manipulated creatures that look like crocodiles.
The tip of the inverted cone, which acts like a base far below, has another hole in it, big enough for a person to fall through right into the pool of crocodiles. The pool is about only five feet below the base of the inverted cone, which is made of net fabric.
Those who design these games have some twisted imaginations.
“As you see,” says Timmy, “we are going to ask you to jump down there. The net can only handle a certain weight before it stretches down toward the pool. If the sum of your weight exceeds a certain limit, the net will stretch farther. If it does, you will fall into the pool and the crocodiles will eat you alive. Yum. Yum. Yum.”
“What’s the maximum weight the net can carry before it is pulled down enough for the crocodiles to yum-yum us?” asks Leo.
“The maximum weight the net can carry? That is the question,” Timmy speculates, acting as if thinking. “I thought ‘to be or not to be’ was the question, you know.” Timmy is torturing us. “But it turns out Shakespeare was wrong. ‘What is the maximum weight the net can carry?’ That’s the question.” Timmy stops again for effect. I have the feeling I am not going to like the answer. “I’d say ten of you,” says Timmy finally. “More than that, the net will definitely stretch down. That’s if none of you ate two bags of French fries and a double Burning Burger with extra mayo and ketchup yesterday.” Timmy bites down on a Burning Burger, the most famous hamburger I know of. It comes with live fire on top of it that fades out once you open your mouth. Hunger tickles my throat when I see this. I
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