The camera remained focused while the two screaming people were stripped naked and tied with ropes to the legs of a table. In front of the camera were at least ten people and they were now all holding knives and guns. They whooped and shouted at the two bound and terrified people, and with the ever present eye of the camera, they proceeded to slice and stab at them for around five minutes. Finally, the carpet soaked with blood, and the couple gasping every last blood-filled breath, the gang shot the two people — the man in the head and the woman in the chest.
The camera followed as some of the gang dipped their fingers in the blood and wrote, all over the large television set: THIS IS EVIL and DEATH TO MASS MEDIA.
Lingering one last time on the severely butchered bodies, the screen went black.
The screen changed back to the bright lights of the studio and the man sat behind the desk sporting a maniacal frown. “Well, well, well,” Sam said. “How’d ya all like that?”
The sounds of mass crying could be heard in the theatre.
“Bill, ask Shorty if we’re still on the air.”
Bill talked into his earpiece, and then nodded.
“Good,” Sam said, grinning. “Good.”
“This is awful,” Francis huffed. “Turn it off George.”
“That looked so damned real,” George muttered. “Wonder what this show is?”
“It’s sick, that’s what it is. Some people have a sick sense of humor.”
“But that little bald guy is funny. In a peculiar sort of way.”
“Well I’m not watching it,” Francis said and stood up. “I’m going to bed.”
George waved at her to be quiet, and Francis huffed and marched out of the lounge room.
Stewart McGregor knocked on the door of his parent’s room, waited for a few seconds, then stepped inside. His father looked up from his paperback and smiled.
“Hey, Stew. What is it?”
His mother still had her head buried in the folder of her current case.
“Mom, Dad,” he said.
His dad slipped off his reading glasses and frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“I think you both better come and look at this.”
The three of them walked into the lounge room, where the T.V. was still on. Stewart asked his parents to sit down on the couch and he took one of the chairs beside it. On the screen a bald man with a long, unwashed beard was sitting behind a desk.
“That looks like the Marty Laffin set,” Luke McGregor said.
“It is. Well, was,” Stewart corrected.
“What is all this?” Pam McGregor said. “What’s going on?”
“I think you’ll be interested in this,” Stewart told them both. “That man, he killed Marty Laffin. On screen. Right before the camera.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Luke chuckled.
“It’s the truth,” Stewart said solemnly.
Both Luke and Pam gazed at their twenty-year-old son. They saw it in his eyes.
“Oh my God,” Pam muttered. She flicked her eyes toward the screen. “Who is he?”
“A terrorist?” Luke asked.
“I don’t think so. I think he’s some sort of cult leader. Like Charles Manson or David Koresh. Calls himself Uncle Sam. He’s taken over the show.”
“Jesus,” Luke muttered.
“He’s already shown a video of the gang murdering a couple at their home. It was…horrible.”
“Where’s the police?” Pam said.
Stewart shrugged. “He hasn’t said anything about the cops yet. But he must have it all under control because he ordered two of his followers to shoot the guests.”
“He shot celebrities?”
Stewart nodded. “And the show’s live.”
They all turned and faced the television screen.
A very frightened woman was sitting in one of the chairs beside the desk. She was a heavyset woman with a lot of make-up, which was now streaming black and red torrents down her chubby face.
“Here we have Doris. Welcome, Doris, to Who Wants To Be A Survivor!”
The only sounds were the blubbering of the woman and the clapping of the bald man.
“Doris hails from…where did you say?”
She responded with a loud and wet onslaught of crying.
“Let’s say Miami. She looks like she comes from Miami, doesn’t she, Dave?”
The camera panned wildly across to the bandleader. He gave a forlorn glance at the camera, then nodded ever so slightly. The camera just managed to catch some of the other band members. A few were crying. The camera lingered on Dave for a while before returning to the little man at the desk.
“Don’t talk much, do ya Dave?” He chuckled. “How are you doing up there, Shorty?”
The man looked beyond the camera. Somebody muttered. The man nodded then turned back to Doris.
“Shorty, Bobby and Flag are all going fine,” the man said with a grin.
Doris sniffled and wiped her nose and eyes.
“Now, here’s how we play the game. I’m gonna ask you ten questions. If you answer all of them correctly, you live, if you answer even one wrong, I’ll give you a choice on how you want to be killed. Understand?”
The woman, who was bawling uncontrollably, attempted to run away. She was stopped by two bald men who grabbed her and shoved her back into the chair.
One of the men leaned close and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and remained in the chair.
“We all settled down?” the man asked.
“Yes.” The woman spoke softly.
“Okay. First question. How…” He stopped and looked over at Dave. “Hey Dave, how about some music for Doris? Some thinking music.”
He grinned when Dave began playing a soft, moody arpeggio pattern.
“Perfect. Now, Doris. How many balls did Hitler have?”
The woman sniffed and looked at the man with a peculiar frown. “W…what?”
“How many testicles did Adolf Hitler have?”
The woman swallowed and whispered, “One?”
“Very good,” the man laughed. “That was an easy one to begin with. Next question. What’s the capital of Australia?”
With a fearful frown, the large woman looked to the floor and sobbed. She shook her head.
“Hurry up. Only ten seconds left.”
There was a faint shout from the audience. The microphones barely picked it up, but the word, “Canberra”, was heard.
The man rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Canberra?” the woman said, looking up at the man with a hopeful stare.
The man looked past the camera and nodded.
A gunshot blasted and everybody in the audience screamed. The man stood up and raised his hands. “Silence! All be quiet or else you will suffer the same fate!”
The music stopped. It took a little while before the audience quieted down. With the sounds of many crying, the man sat down and said to the camera, “Turn around and show it.”
There was a whirl of motion until the camera rested on the dark audience.
“Lights!” shouted the man from behind.
The theatre illuminated to reveal the horrendous sight of a man whose head had been blown apart. Those around him were splattered with the man’s blood, as well as gooey bits of brain and tissue. As one woman vomited, the camera swiveled back to the man at the desk.
He had a large smile.
“We don’t allow cheating on this show, do we, Dave?”
A quick pan to Dave showed him with his head in his hands and crying. The camera went back to the man.
“Dave’s a little distraught at the moment. But we’ll continue. I’ll ask you another question, okay, Doris?” He looked at the audience. “And no more yelling out the answers.” He turned back to a shaking Doris. “Which one of Saturn’s moons resembles the Death Star from the movie Star Wars?”