by Ben Larracey
DeLeo dropped Sadie to the ground as four of the beasts leaped out of the fog, their heads abnormally large, their mouthes tiny and beak-like, like an octopus or some sea-creature. Their eyes were huge, like bugs or even some cave-animal that had never seen the light of day. They towered over him, slimy, swaying, their chests heaving up and down, like a pack of hyenas ready to eat.
Sadie shook harder, spitting up more foam and mucus. DeLeo panicked, dropped her into the fog and ran.
His lungs burned as ran through the dark streets. He didn’t dare look back at whatever those things were that remained. He could hear them, grunting, groaning, hissing, anything to get their claws on him.
DeLeo kept his hands out in front of him afraid some structure would pop up from the dark and knock him out leaving him for the beasts. DeLeo prayed the casino was just up ahead.
He passed the burnt, charred remains of what appeared to be an old Chevy truck. What seemed like traffic lights could be made out through the fog, dangling from a pole above. He came to an intersection but nothing looked familiar. Just keep moving he told himself. The casino had to be close.
Suddenly a flashing neon red blur appeared in the fog, then blue, and then yellow. That was it. The casino. It had to be. He ran harder, then tripped over something and fell to the ground, the palms of his hands scraping against the asphalt.
He tried to get to his feet and it was then that he felt it. Soft carpet rubbed the exposed cuts on his hands. It was the red carpet. He had tripped over one of the brass railings.
Excitement and hope overcame him. He was close but then again, so were those creatures. He quickly got to his feet and ran down the carpet, the neon rainbow colors of the sign coming into to focus:
“Endz Casino & Resort” sparkled and blazed in the night. Below, the revolving door slowly oscillated at the entrance, causing the fog to twist and swirl.
Running towards salvation, DeLeo hit the ground hard. Unseen and unheard, one of those things had jumped on his back. He turned to look, continuing to crawl back toward the door. It was Sadie, or whatever was left of her. Her face was contorted, her eyes black, her skin slimy and translucent. She made snapping, clicking sounds as she crawled across the ground toward him.
Behind her, DeLeo saw the shadows of what looked like a hoard of creatures. There had to be forty or fifty of them, maybe more.
The air had changed. It was warmer now, foul and wet, like rotting garbage. Sadie grabbed for DeLeo’s foot. Her eyes hungry, her mouth drooling with thirst.
DeLeo kicked her off him and dove towards the revolving door. He knew this was it, this was his chance. He had to make it inside or the whole pack of creatures would tear him apart.
Safely inside the casino, he looked back through the glass, expecting those things to swarm in through the door and follow him inside. But they didn’t. The door continued to turn easily but not one of the things even tried to enter. Instead, they smashed into the glass window, smudging it with their blood, mucus, and slime, licking the window like it was a lollipop.
“Welcome back, Sir,” DeLeo heard a voice say from behind him. He turned and saw the Dealer standing behind the poker table, just like he had left him. “Don’t worry,” he said, casually shuffling a deck of cards, “You’re safe in here. They can’t get in.”
DeLeo stood up and took a deep breath. “What the hell are those things?”
The Dealer raised one eyebrow, “People, just like you – or what’s left of them. Lost souls. Shells of their former selves.”
“Where the hell am I?” DeLeo exploded.
“Hell is a state of mind, Wes.”
“No, No. I don’t believe you. This isn’t real. I don’t belong here.”
“No one does,” the Dealer replied indifferently. “Are you ready to play now?” The Dealer placed his neatly shuffled deck of cards on the green felt of the poker table.
DeLeo looked back out the window. Those things were still licking and spitting on the window, smudging it with whatever foulness oozed from their pores.
Resigned, DeLeo dropped his shoulders, wiped the sweat off his face, and walked slowly towards the table. “I’m ready to play,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
6
“If I play, will you let me leave?” DeLeo sat at the poker table, his hands shaking, traumatized from what he just experienced.
“It’s possible,” the Dealer replied vaguely.
“I want to play. Let’s just start now.” DeLeo placed his arms on the green felt of the table. “What do I have to do?”
“Overcome a series of challenges,” the Dealer said matter-of-factly. “But it will not be easy. You will have to confront things you might not be willing to accept.”
DeLeo clasped his sweaty hands and looked the Dealer directly in the eyes.
“I’m ready.”
The Dealer smiled for the first time, a mischievous, playful grin, and said, “You’re in for a hell of a ride.”
Turing away from DeLeo, the Dealer’s voice took on a newfound charisma as he announced, “Welcome to It’s Your Life!” His voice was newly amplified, joined by what sounded like an entire crowd of voices.
DeLeo shielded his eyes from the giant spotlights that suddenly appeared from the ceiling. The walls around him rotated, revealing a studio audience and a production crew pointing cameras at his face.
Gone were the slot machines, craps tables, and bar. He was now standing in what appeared to be a TV studio. Bewildered, DeLeo looked at the Dealer. He was standing in front of him in a black bow-tie tuxedo, holding a long skinny microphone like Bob Barker on the Price is Right.
“Where are we?” the Dealer shouted into the microphone.
“It’s Your Life!” the studio responded with cheers.
“That’s right,” the Dealer exclaimed, now all smiles. It was a complete transformation from what he had been before.
Confused and speechless, DeLeo could do nothing other than stand and stare like some awestruck animal caught in the headlights of a Mac truck right before getting sucked up into the wheel-well.
“I’m your host Chip Johnson,” the Dealer continued, “and welcome to another episode of, It’s Your Life,”
The Dealer, now Chip Johnson, walked toward the studio audience, with a bounce and pizazz of natural performer. “Do we have a great show for you or what? How about those special effects? Phenomenal right? And those performances?”
The crowd burst into applause. Chip flashed a smile for the first time. “We saw action, we saw horror, and was there more – a romance? Did we see a budding relationship or what?”
“Oooo!” the audience responded enthusiastically.
Chip paused on stage and turned toward DeLeo. “Look at him! Does he looked shocked or what?”
The hot glare of the light illuminated DeLeo. He stood alone, drenched in sweat on the opposite side of the stage. He was in shock, disheveled, his eyes red, his hair a mess. Chip raced across the stage and shoved the long pencil thin microphone in his face.
“How do you feel Wes?”
The audience went silent, the cameras zoomed in for the dramatic reveal. Chip inched the mic forward. “Wes,” Chip said tilting the microphone away from his mouth for a moment. “The audience and the people watching at home want to know how you feel.”
“Is this real?” DeLeo finally managed to get out. His words echoed across the stage.
Chip burst into laughter, “Of course it’s real,” he said into the microphone. “Let’s give Mr. DeLeo a few moments to catch his breath, while we get caught up.” Chip pointed to three giant LCD screens lowered from the ceiling.
The studio went dark. Areal footage of a nameless, rough desert landscape appeared on screen, accompanied by a thick, gravely, movie trailer voice. “Coming to you live. Deep in the desert of an undisclosed location comes the groundbreaking
new show, It’s Your Life.”
Just as the narrator dramatically stated the name of the show a large, arena-sized dome appeared in the middle of the desert.
“What is this?” DeLeo said to Chip, his eyes fixated on the screens. The areal footage faded to black and suddenly the footage was inside the arena. Dark buildings and the burnt out remains of cars were scattered throughout an apocalyptic city. The aerial drone footage moved through the fog until the glowing neon sign appeared reading:
Endz Casino & Resort.
Chip leaned over to DeLeo, “I told you, you’re in for a hell of a ride.”
Handheld footage of DeLeo singing and playing acoustic guitar at dive bar appeared. DeLeo instantly remembered the venue. That’s the place he was right before he woke up here.
“Shots,” a female voice said behind the camera. The bartender made the drink and handed it to the person wearing the camera, who took out two small pills and put them in the glass where they instantly dissolved on contact with the liquid. The person stirred the shot with a straw and turned to the mirror behind the bar. It was Sadie. She was wearing a small camera hidden in her glasses. She winked and smiled at her reflection.
The audience gasped, then chuckled.
DeLeo remained confused as he watched the footage of Sadie fixing her stylish overly-sized glasses, then moved through the empty bar. DeLeo saw himself come into frame and watched as Sadie handed him the drink and he gulped it down.
The footage jumped ahead. Sadie was out in the parking lot. DeLeo watched himself burst out of one of the back doors and vomit in the bushes. His eyes rolled back, and he dropped to the ground.
A nearby van door opened and six people dressed in white coats carrying a stretcher emerged. DeLeo watched the group of white coats pick him off the ground, and take off in the van.
“You did great,” a voice said from off screen.
Sadie moved her head, turning the camera to reveal Chip Johnson stepping out of a black town car.
DeLeo watched the footage cut to the casino floor, and the same six white-coats prop him up on a chair in front of the poker table. DeLeo slowly woke up asking, “Where am I?”
The screens went black and the TV monitors retracted into the ceiling.
“How about that?” Chip asked the audience who burst into applause, laughing. “Now, that you’ve had time to take it all in Wes, what do you think?”
The microphone now inches from DeLeo mouth, “I’m on a TV show?” he said, barely able to speak. “None of it was real?”
“Nope,” Chip said, flashing a mouth full of white veneers the size of chiclets. “But it takes a village, so first let us bring out our amazingly talented actors.”
The audience whistled and applauded with anticipation.
“First let us meet our zany zealot, religious fundamentalist, overprotective mother figure. You know her as Ethel — Jane Fern.”
DeLeo watched as Ethel, or the person he had know as Ethel, walked through the revolving door behind him. She smiled and waved at the crowd. She paraded herself in front of the audience, her blouse still covered in red. DeLeo now assumed was just fake blood. Ethel stopped on the opposite side of Chip and smiled at the audience.
“Next,” Chip continued. “The dangerously deviant, fraternizing frat boy, you know him as Tucker — Shawn Blaine.”
Tucker walked through the revolving door waving to the crowd. His face was red, hair dried and matted with fake blood. After waving to the audience, he stopped next to Ethel. “Next up, the darkhorse — who saw that coming?” Chip laughed. “I see a future Academy Award on his shelf. The next DiCaprio or Pacino dare I say. You know him as Billy, or should I say, Bill.” The audience broke into laughter. Billy emerged through the revolving door performing a cartwheel, then back handspring. The crowd erupted into enthusiastic applause. Billy finished his entrance by blowing kisses at the teenage girls in the front row.
“Every story can only be as good as its villain. And boy did we have a hell of a good bad guy right?” The cheers of the audience were only white noise to DeLeo now. He was still in disbelief from people he watched die violent deaths suddenly emerge through the revolving door with smiles on their faces.
“Let me ask you this,” Chip asked the crowd, now talking to the audience like they were the best of friends, “why is the practical one, with the street smarts, and leadership qualities always the villain? What a cliche. All he wanted to do was keep everyone safe — go figure. You know him as rough and tough bad cop John, but please welcome, from across the pond—why are they always British? Rupert B. Chamberlain.”
John walked out of the revolving doors. Gone were his strong American-macho gestures as he fawned at the audience. Replaced by effeminate smiles, batting eyelashes and an unimposing posture, he humbly took his place between Tucker and Billy on the line.
“Am I missing someone?” Chip yelled to the audience.
“Yes!” they shouted when he pointed the microphone at them.
“Oh yes, how could I forget? What would a story be without the foxy fun, beautiful but deadly femme fatal? You know her as Sexy Sadie—was she good or what? Everyone give it up for Sarah Charles!”
Sadie walked through the revolving doors to a standing ovation. Covered in slime and fake blood she smiled like a prom queen.
“What was it like working with this team of amazingly talented actors?” Chip asked Sadie.
“Um,” Sadie paused, thinking out loud, smiling and chomping down on a piece of gum. “It’s always like a challenge. These guys and gals were, like, so great though! Like true professionals. And I would like work with them any day.”
“Thanks, darling,” Chip kissed her on the cheek and tapped her on the butt. “And of course, we can’t forget our disgusting, horrible monsters and our wonderful special effects team.”
One by one, slimy reptilian monsters walked through the revolving door. DeLeo was growing more furious by the minute, imagining some asshole underneath all that makeup grinning in his suit. He watched as the monsters lined up next to the actors like it was all a joke. He felt a deep swelling hatred brewing within him.
The spotlight returned to DeLeo followed immediately by Chip’s long thin microphone. “Now that you’ve had a bit of time for all that to sink in Wes, how do you feel?”
DeLeo glared at the group of actors on the other side of Chip Johnson, or whatever his name was. He could feel his shock and anger boiling over. Then slowly leaned into the microphone and growled, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
7
Chip Johnson pulled the microphone away from DeLeo. “Well how about that? Live TV, you can’t predict what will happen, but this is a family show. Anyway, we’ll be right back after a few words from our sponsors.”
“And we’re clear,” a cameraman said from a sea of crew underneath a large LCD screen showing that the broadcast had gone to commercial.
Chip let out a gasp and dropped his shoulders. A makeup artist ran out and dabbed the sweat from his face. Suddenly, DeLeo felt someone touching his face. It was another makeup artist.
“What the hell are you doing?” DeLeo pushed the young woman away from him.
“Sorry sir,” she replied frightened, “but if I don’t touch up the sweat, it will glisten on camera. It won’t look good.”
“Relax Wes,” said Chip. “It’s just TV buddy. She’s trying to make you look good.”
“Look good?” DeLeo exploded. “I’m going to sue the shit out of you.” DeLeo turned to the actors, who were gossiping amongst themselves while makeup artists touched up shiny faces and smoothed hair. “You were all in on this?” he shouted.
The group of actors glanced at each other, seeming to wait for someone else to speak. “We’re actors mate,” John said raising his eyebrows and forcing a smile.
“You better lawyer up. All of you,” DeLeo snapped
. “This is how you ruin someone’s life!”
“Come on Wes,” Sadie said, her smile sweet like the first time he saw her. “We’re artists,” she continued.
“Con artists,” DeLeo hollered.
“Chill out man,” Tucker said. “We’re just doing our job.”
“We just want to help you Wes,” Sadie added.
“Help me?” DeLeo burst into a rage. He couldn’t hold his anger back anymore. “How are you trying to help me?”
In a fury, DeLeo flipped over the poker table in front of him. It crashed to the ground startling everyone in the studio. Whispers in the audience were followed by a nervous tension filling the room.
Two security guards rushed toward the stage. Chip put his hands out motioning toward them that he would take care of DeLeo. A moment later, after the guards returned to their positions behind the crew, Chip cautiously approached DeLeo.
“Just relax Wes,” Chip said calmly, trying to talk sense into him. “You’re only making a fool out of yourself on live TV. Plus you’re destroying private property, so we’re going to have to charge you for that.”
In disbelief, DeLeo scanned the blank, frightened faces in the crowd, all staring at him with judging, nervous eyes. DeLeo breathed slowly calming himself down. There was no sense in getting angry here. It wouldn’t prove anything. He would only end up looking crazy on national TV.
DeLeo tried to think of positive thoughts. If it was all fake, maybe he could go home and sleep in his bed tonight. DeLeo straightened himself up, took a deep breath and said, “Chip, so that’s your name?”
“That’s right buddy,” Chip flashed a great big phony smile.
“As soon as this whole thing is over,” DeLeo started, grinning back at him, “I’ll be getting my lawyer, but until then I’ll play along.” DeLeo let the makeup woman dab the sweat from his face without protest.
“We’re back on in 10!” a crew member yelled from behind the camera, and pointed to Chip, “in 5, 4, 3, 2,” he motioned the number 1 with his finger.