CelebRussRoulette v. Friday, August 25 2006

More! (All new additions are not necessarily at the end. I also added a portion in the middle this time...)


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[this is a draft]
"Celebrity Russian Roulette" by Zeno Izen 2006
zenoizen@gmail.com

The ship was anchored, not necessarily in the safest waters, but far from major shipping lanes and in a very good place for communicating with the satellite constellation. There were no civilians on the ship this time of year, only employees of the network. Technicians, actors, writers, production assistants and ship's crew kept the whole show running. The vessel was like a city unto itself, in continuous operation. The galley was never empty. The galley crew served a wide variety of food at every hour of the day. This was a critical element of anything to do with Watson's organization. “Watson Co. personnel will eat well, free of charge, so long as they are on Watson Co. property.” said a memo from the early days. And this protocol had remained unchanged since it had been implemented.

Todd Hubert sat at a table in the galley dining room, sipping on a strawberry milkshake and reading through a script for the next day's program. There wasn't much to the script, really. There were some introductory remarks from the host, which needed fleshing out, directorial instructions for crowd pans, graphical and musical interludes, and various other incidental moments in the show. Most of the script would be rewritten on the fly during production of the show, and then lost completely in the editing process. The final version of the show would be entirely different from the script that Todd had before him now, but still it was necessary to have something on paper before shooting began at 6 o'clock tomorrow morning.

Todd scratched out a line or two with his red pen, and then circled his scratch-outs and marked them “stet.” This is what he did every week. The network wanted “script edits” submitted before shooting began on any show. It was a rule that some production manager, long since gone, had put into the policy manual years ago and no one had seen the need to rescind the rule. Todd obeyed this rule as he did most of the network rules. His job was too easy, and he was paid too well to cause any kind of trouble. It's not smart to rock the boat when you're paid $500,000 per annum, plus bonuses, to do little more than keep an eye on an altogether perfectly-running machine.

He took a last gurgling suck on his milkshake and stood up. He straightened out his tie, buttoned his suit jacket and checked himself over in case any of his beverage had splattered onto his expensive suit. Todd picked up the script and began to leave

Just at that moment he caught a glimpse of one of his bosses walking through the galley with a tray of food. It wasn't one of his usual bosses whom he saw most every day. It was one of the higher-ups who seldom visited the ship. Todd had to struggle to remember the fellow's name. Is it Mel? That's right, Mel.

“Mr. Hubert, how are you?” Mel said. Mel had caught sight of Todd from 50 yards away, through the crowd of hundreds milling about the galley and main dining room. Obviously, whatever Mel's overall agenda on this visit to the ship, speaking to Todd was on it.

Todd smiled and moved through the crowd toward Mel, who didn't move at all. Mel only stood there, staring straight at Todd with a blank, information-free expression.

“How is everything, Mr. Williams?” Todd said when he finally got within conversational distance of Mel.

“Oh, just fine Mr. Hubert. Listen, I'm only here until later this evening. Can you come by the offices in about an hour or so? We'll have ourselves a little chat,” Mel said.

“Of course. I'll be there at...” Todd looked at his watch. “I'll be there at one o'clock sharp,” he said.

“Splendid. See you then,” Mel said, and then turned to walk through the dining room in search of a table.

Todd walked out to an outside corridor and lit a cigarette. The weather was cold and wet, as it usually is on the upper decks of ships on the high seas. Todd paid no heed to the ocean mist, though. His suit was woven with a moisture resistant fiber. He'd ordered the suit online a month ago, after disposing of his third $2,500 ensemble in the fourth month of the year.

He took a couple puffs on his cigarette and then pulled out his cellphone. He dialed up the office.

The office manager answered on the first ring, as usual.

“Hello, Mr. Hubert, how was lunch?” said Mustague, in his polite New Colonial accent.

“Lunch was just fine, Musty. Bumped into Mel Williams, I think his name is,” Todd said.

“Did you, now?” said Mustague. Todd was certain that in Musty's infinite professionalism, he was undoubtedly already searching the databases for Mel Williams' personal information.

“I did indeed. And I've got a meeting with him in about 45 minutes. And who the hell is he anyway?” said Todd.

“Mel Williamson is his name, to be precise. Vice President of programming and active member of various content-development committees. Bear with me a moment, there's a lot of redundant information here...” said Musty.

Todd puffed again on his cigarette and gazed off to where the ocean met the sky.

“Oh, I think you can be excited about this, sir. There's an open memo on the Watson Co. boards. He mentions a tour he's making this week to get the ball rolling on -- this is a direct quote – 'some very interesting new projects.'” said Musty.

“You don't say,” said Todd. Somehow, Todd could not let go of his skepticism.

“Here's more, I'm quoting-- 'I'll be visiting the production vessel on international waters, and assigning some of these new shows to our finer directors. I will issue a full report when I've returned from my tour.'” said Musty.

“Very interesting, Musty. Thank you... one more thing?” said Todd.

“Yes, sir?” said Musty.

“Which office is he working out of while he's aboard?” asked Todd.

“That would be M322, practically the conning tower,” said Musty.

Todd stifled a profanity and flung his cigarette overboard. The butt caught the wind and hooked sharply back toward the ship, butt Todd did not see this. He had already signed off with the office manager and began the long journey up into the highest heights of the Watson Co. production vessel.

The cigarette butt drifted along the starboard side of the ship, trailing smoke and ash along the way, until it came to an open portal near sea level close to the aft of the ship. The butt, now no more than a burned-out filter, turned sharply into the portal and grazed against the cheek of Milan Bianne, film actress. Ms. Bianne tried to curse in reaction to the indignity of a filthy cigarette butt in her face, but she was gagged, as well as bound, and was pretty much helpless to do anything but feel even more depressed than she already was.

She looked over at Reginald Stone, Hall-of-Fame pitcher for the Chicago Cubs, who was also gagged and bound. He, however, was at least lucky enough to be asleep and a nice distance from the open portal which had been routinely allowing various pieces of airborne debris to fly into the small room to hit Ms. Bianne in her very famous face.

--
“Mr. Williamson isn't here right now. Shall I tell him you dropped by?” said the receptionist. She sat behind a bank of computer screens and wore a telephone headset on her head.

“No, actually, I have an appointment with him at one o'clock.” Todd said.

“No, Mr. Williamson doesn't have a one o'clock,” the receptionist said. She looked at a computer screen as if referring to Mr. Williamson's schedule.

“I made the appointment with him personally earlier today,” said Todd.

“There's nothing in Mr. Williamson's schedule for one o'clock. Would you like to leave a message for him?” the receptionist said.

“Thanks, I'll wait,” said Todd. The receptionist looked at him coldly. Todd turned away from her and pretended to look at the bad art on the wall. He had made it in to the lobby of the offices with just a couple of minutes to spare. From experience, Todd knew that the office personnel hated to have people waiting in the front lobby. He never understood the reason for it, and he tried not to think about it as much as it irritated him.

“Sir, if you like I can make an appointment for you,” the receptionist said.

Todd turned and looked at her with what he hoped was an intimidating expression. He took an audible breath to punctuate his displeasure.

“I'll tell you what. Why don't you call Mr. Williamson and tell him that Mr. Hubert is here for his one o'clock meeting.” Todd said.

The receptionist stared deep into Todd's eyes. She was preparing for battle. A small wave of frustration passed across Todd's mind. The receptionist was better at this than Todd. She did this all day, every day. Most likely she lived for these little skirmishes. If this turned in to a full-blown confrontation, Todd knew that he was bound to lose. However, Todd was, at heart, an angry person, and didn't mind losing a fight if he could do some kind of damage to his opponent on the way down.

Just on the brink of war, a pleasant voice diffused the tension.

“Well, hello Mr. Hubert. Excuse the delay. Got caught up in a conversation on the elevator...” said the voice. It was Mr. Williamson coming in through the front lobby door.

Todd directed a nearly imperceptible sneer toward the receptionist who returned a hateful look bound in thick layers of blank professionalism.

“Lots to discuss, Mr. Hubert. Let's get to it,” said Mr. Williamson. He breezed past the receptionist's desk to the inner offices and Todd followed.

--
“Marcia Gelzer, you're the next Citizen Executioner!” screamed the announcer. The camera panned the audience until it settled on the figure of Marcia Gelzer struggling to make her way through the narrow space between the rows of theater seats. She was so excited that she stepped on nearly every toe on her way toward the aisle. Once she'd made it to the aisle, she ran to the stage bouncing and clapping her hands.

The host of Citizen Executioner greeted her as she climbed up onto the stage.

“Well, well, Marcia Gelzer, how are you?” said Steve. He spoke to Marcia as if she were a small child.

“I'm great Steve. I can't believe it... hi Dio!” Marcia screamed and jumped up and down again.

“Okay. All right, Marcia. Tell me about your shirt here,” said Steve.

“Oh, my friends and I made this for me to wear on the show. I can't believe it. Oh my god!” Marcia screamed again and began jumping up and down and clapping.

“Marcia Gelzer is so excited to be here lady's and gentlemen. Marcia, why don't you tell the audience at home what your shirt says,” Steve said.

“Oh, I'm so nervous. It says Kim and Jill and Lynda and Flip and Wiley and Tina and Tina love Steve and Citizen Executioner,” said Marcia. She managed to keep from jumping up and down now. She screamed, though, and waved wildly at someone in the audience.

“All right, Marcia Gelzer, are you ready to play Citizen Executioner?” said Steve. While Marcia went nuts again and the audience responded enthusiastically to the 'applause' sign that lit up over their heads, a cut-away floor on the stage turned slowly, revealing a large wheel of fortune with eight colored wedges painted on it, each with a different symbol.

The audience got quiet and Steve spoke again.

“Marcia, I think you know how this is done. Do you? Step over here with me, Marcia, we need you right here for this. Marcia are you a big fan of Citizen Executioner?” he said.

“Yes, I watch it every day,” Marcia said.

“Good good. So I'll bet you can tell me exactly how we do this,” Steve said.

“Yeah, you spin the wheel. You spin it and--” Marcia said, all in a rush.

“That's right, you spin the wheel and it lands on your method of execution,” Steve said.

“Oh, my god,” Marcia said. She turned toward the audience and laughed.

“Stay with me, Marcia. Are you ready?” Steve asked.

“Yes, yes. Oh my god. I'm so nervous,” she said.

“There's nothing to be nervous about, Marcia Gelzer. Just get up there and spin that wheel!” Steve said. He gave Marcia a little shove and she ran up to the wheel and yanked on it, sending it spinning.

“All right, come on back here with me, Marcia. Let's watch that wheel spin...” Steve said.

Marcia stepped back along side Steve and they watched the wheel spin. The wheel spun around three or four times and then began to slow. It wound down dramatically, clicking loudly as each colored wedge passed.

“And here it comes... and... it's... Marcia Gelzer you get the sledgehammer!” Steve shouted. Marcia jumped up and down wildly, screaming and then wrapped her arms around Steve, kissing him and still jumping up and down and nearly knocking Steve over.

“Oh Marcia! Oh, Marcia Gelzer, she's so excited lady's and gentlemen. So much enthusiasm.” Steve said. He pushed her away somewhat gently.

“Okay, Marcia. Shall we bring out the prisoner? Jimmy tell us about the prisoner,” Steve said.

“Steve, our dead man walking is a three-time convicted thief and rumored to have spoken lies against the government of the People's Republic of China. Ladies and gentlemen, what do you have to say about Xiao Pimh D'nuh?” said Jimmy's voice, coming from nowhere.

The crowd booed and hissed while Xiao Pimh D'nuh was dragged out, hooded by two armed guards. An aluminum can came flying out of the audience, but it was not caught by the cameras. Also unseen by the cameras, or the audience at home was the security guard who grabbed the thrower and dragged him out of the studio to be locked in a cell, fodder for a future show.

Xiao Pimh D'nuh was led to a block on the stage where he was forced to kneel, facing the audience. His hood was removed and the audience renewed their booing and jeering. Xiao's face was heavily bruised. One eye was swollen badly, but not quite shut. The armed guards forced Xiao's head down onto the block, while at the same time an attractive woman in a red sequined dress wheeled out a cart with a large sledgehammer on it.

“Marcia Gelzer, is this exciting or what?” asked Steve. The camera panned to Marcia's face which was lit with exhilaration. The audience was quiet, but sharply attentive. Later, the show's directing team would dub in dramatic music.

“All right, Marcia. Are you ready?” Steve asked.

“Oh, yes, Steve. I'm ready,” she said.

The attractive woman in the red sequined dress picked up the sledgehammer with two hands. Her smile was wide and white. She handed the sledgehammer to Marcia, who immediately dropped it because it was so heavy.

“Come on, Marcia, you can pick that thing up. Pick it up, Marcia. We know you can do it, don't we ladies and gentlemen?” Steve said. The applause sign lit, and the audience cheered.

Marcia struggled, but managed to get the sledgehammer up over her shoulder. Steve guided her toward the prisoner, who's forehead was pressed firmly against the block and who's hands were tied behind his back. Marcia walked up to the block and stopped. She looked at the audience which cheered loudly for her. Marcia looked back at the prisoner and without any hesitation lifted the sledgehammer from her shoulder, swung it clumsily and brought it down weakly upon the prisoner's head.

His head twisted under the weight of the hammer and broke open at the top, toward the audience, sending a single glob of red and gray to slosh out onto the stage. The blow did not kill the prisoner, and he began to wail miserably.

“Oh, no Marcia. You didn't get him. Get him again, Marica,” said Steve.

Marcia stood there holding the sledgehammer. The heavy, iron head of the thing rested on the stage, and Marcia held the other, lighter end of the handle at her crotch with both hands. The prisoner was now steadily oozing blood from his head, and groaning loudly with pain. His body twitched so vigorously that the two guards had to hold him down against the block. Marcia looked at Steve with a stupid smile. She seemed confused. The audience was screaming. Marcia turned to look at them. She waved and smiled. Steve grabbed her by the shoulder. “Over here, Marcia,” he said. He turned Marcia back toward the prisoner.

“Get him, Marcia. Get him. Let's hear it for Marcia, everyone!” said Steve.

The audience was at a maniacal froth now. Marcia hefted the sledgehammer and swung it down again, in a very girlish fashion. The two guards leapt back just in time to avoid being struck. The head of the hammer came down square on the prisoner's head and his wailing abruptly turned to silence. The audience jumped to their feet and erupted into a roar that shook the studio.

--
Deep within the less comfortable parts of the ship, Reginald Stone woke up. Milan Bianne watched him stir. His eyes peeled open slowly, moved around surveying the room, and then turned upward as if in a confused appeal to the heavens. A cold blast of ocean spray shot through the portal and coated Milan with more salt water.

Reginald looked at Milan and she looked back at him. They recognized one another. In their eye contact they exchanged complicated messages of hopelessness and uncertainty. Both were gagged with wide stretches of metallic fabric, bound hand and foot with synthetic rope and chained to the iron pipes that ran from the floor of the room to the ceiling.

Across from the open portal, the door opened. A man in helmet and uniform escorted another prisoner into the room. Milan felt a desire to say something, to question the guard, or to curse at him. She repressed this desire in order to squelch her frustration.

The guard dragged the new prisoner into the tiny room and lashed him to the piping with a heavy chain. Milan saw two more helmeted guards in the corridor outside the room. She turned her gaze toward Reginald, who was looking toward the open window.

She looked again at the guard and new prisoner. The guard had finished fastening the prisoner to the pipes and was now in the corridor closing the door slowly. The room turned dim as the door fit into its frame. The thick noise of a deadbolt finalized the sense of imprisonment.

Within a few minutes, Milan's eyes adjusted to the dimness. The new prisoner seemed familiar to her, but she was not sure who he was. He was in his middle years, Arabic or Latin, dressed in a nice sweater and slacks and his face bore the marks of a recent beating. The man looked back at Milan with red wet eyes. Milan looked away from him, toward Reginald, who was still gazing longingly out the window. She moved her gaze again, the only thing she could control, to share the view out the tiny round window into the darkening ocean sky.

--

The windows in Mel Williamson's office were large and wrapped entirely around the office, making it seem as if he and Todd were flying high above the surface of the sea. The setting sun reflected sharply off the waves and cast an uncomfortable light into the room. Mel picked up a rectangular remote control device from his uncluttered desk and pressed a button on the device, turning the windows opaque, decorated with a slowly changing pattern of soothing greens. He set the the remote control back onto the desk with a 'clack' and walked around the desk to his chair.

“Tell me, Mr. Hubert, what is it that you're working on these days?” Mr. Williamson said. He sat down in his chair while addressing Todd.

“It's called 'Violation Jukebox.' It's essentially a hidden camera show.” Todd said.

“Oh, yes. Cameras in dressing rooms, bathrooms, that kind of thing?” Williamson said.

“Exactly. Nothing complicated.” Todd said. He smiled a little in an attempt to loosen up the atmosphere and perhaps get Williamson to his point.

“You enjoy that, then, do you?” Williamson asked.

“Love it, sir. It's not entirely as challenging as I might like, but it's a lot of fun.” Todd said.

“That's a shame, Hubert. Terrible shame,” Williamson said. He pulled open a drawer in his desk and removed a slim file. He checked the label on the file quickly and then, with a mischievous smile, handed it across the desk to Todd.

Todd was confused. He took the file with a little greed and whipped it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, the color of a robin's egg, headed with the word “PROPOSAL."

“Congratulations Mr. Hubert, you'll be producing one of our most exciting new programs this season.” Williamson said.

Todd glanced up at Williamson and then back at the proposal sheet. Except for the heading, the rest the page was written in a tiny, cramped font and seemed impervious to any attempts at a quick skim. Todd closed the file and placed it back on the desk.

“Tell me...” said Todd, in an almost hypnotic state.

Mr. Williamson picked up his remote control again and turned to face the left end of the room.

“I'll show you,” he said.

Williamson pressed a button on the remote and the wall/window furthest from them both became a wide-screen television monitor. On screen there flickered a test pattern, and then some crude white text on a black background which read “Program 1A71 DEMONSTRATION.” After a moment this was replaced by a medium-length shot of a man in an Oxford and tie, holding a microphone.

“Coming to you LIVE from the free ship Osterlink, it's the first ever Celebrity Russian Roulette World Championship!!!” the man said in typically overdramatic television style. The screen cut away again to a montage of seemingly random stock footage, overlayed with truly horrible synthesizer music.

Todd looked toward Mr. Williamson. Mr. Williamson looked back at Todd and smiled.

“Don't worry, young fella,” Mr. Williamson said. “We put this together in a single day. By the time you're running the show, you'll have the best graphics and music at your disposal.”

On the screen, two figures sat at a table facing one another, silhouetted against a bright white background. The background dimmed until it was completely black.

“Except for this. The background goes to black, revealing the identities of the contestants. We really like that. We're going to use it,” Mr. Williamson said.

Once the background was black, both of the figures became visible.

“Is that Johnny McDean?” Todd asked?

“Was Johnny McDean, yes,” Williamson replied.

“And who's that other fellow?” Todd asked.

“That's Mitchell Dickson, the newspaper columnist. You've heard of him, I'm sure,” Williamson said.

“Oh, I hate that guy,” Todd said.

The show host stepped out from the darkness of the background and stood next to the table and the two men. Pensive synthesizer music swelled. Closeups of the two men showed them looking worried.

“Here's the rules, contestants. Six chambers, one bullet. We flip a coin to determine who goes first. The weapon is traded from player to player until the bullet discharges. Are you ready?” the host said.

“This is bullshit, man. I'm going to sue you to the ground,” said Johnny McDean.

“Okay, call it in the air Mr. Dickson,” the host said. He flipped the coin and caught it. Mitchell Dickson remained silent. The host remained unaffected.

“Mr. Dickson has defaulted. The first round will go to Johnny McDean. Mr. McDean, you may take the first shot. Be sure to spin the chambers before firing,” the host said.

Johnny McDean stood up quickly, knocking over his chair. He grabbed the revolver from the table, pointed it at the host and pulled the trigger three times. Each time the gun made a loud empty clacking sound.

Before he could pull the trigger any more, a group of security guards emerged from off-screen and tackled him to the ground. The screen turned blue and silent.

Mr. Williamson picked up his remote control and switched the screen back to its previous soothing pattern.

“We've still got a few kinks to work out, of course. But you get the rough idea,” Mr. Williamson said. He looked at Todd expectantly.

Todd paused a moment, searching for the right words. After a moment he spoke.

“That's a concept for sure,” Todd said. Then, in an effort to sound enthusiastic, he said, “A lot of potential, there.”

In the recesses of his mind, Todd began to feel the itch of a whole lot of work ahead of him. He would, however, never vocalize this to Mr. Williamson, who was essentially his boss. In fact, judging from the expectant look on Mr. Williamson's face, Todd realized that he needed to show even more fake enthusiasm than he already had.

The silence of the room was interrupted momentarily by a passing helicopter. The thumping of the chopper blades soon faded away as the helicopter made its way to the landing pad at the other end of the ship. Neither Mr. Williamson or Todd knew it, but the helicopter was returning from the deep-sea disposal of three cubic tons of waste which included the ground remains of one Johnny McDean.

When the din of the helicopter had subsided, Todd spoke again.

“Wow, this is a great concept. I can't wait to get started,” he said.

Mr. Williamson appeared satisfied with this false display of excitement.

“Splendid,” he said. “We've already handed your hidden camera show over to the B-crew. Why don't you take a 48-hour break and then you can come back and work your magic,” Mr. Williamson said.

A man can relax quite deeply in 48 hours, if he goes about it correctly. One thing that get in the way of enjoying two days off duty is travel. Todd chose to stay on board the network ship and redeem a coupon for a free stay in one of the ship's hotel suites. He packed a small bag with some clothes, toiletries and a bottle of single malt and grabbed an electric shuttle to his hotel room. Soon he was reclined in his suite's jacuzzi, sipping his Scotch and forcing the nagging problem of his new project's “kinks” down deep into his subconsciousness.

But his miniature vacation was over as soon as it began. Within days he could no longer avoid the show's various practical issues. He stood at the head of a long table addressing his writing crew.

“All right, look guys and gals. Let's think. You've got two candy ass movie stars sitting in chairs. You can't tie them up, because they need their hands free to shoot the gun. How are we going to force these people to cooperate?” Todd said.

The group of writers looked at one another. Mike, the youngest of them, spoke up almost immediately.

“How come we don't have any cash prizes? Maybe that'll get them to play along,” he said.

“Money's no incentive to participate in your own death,” said Ulivia. She was a writer that Todd had worked with before, and he had respect for the sharpness of her intellect and her unflappable professionalism.

“That's right,” said Todd.

Michael interrupted. “We can offer it for their next of kin,” he said.

“Damnit, are you a retard?” said Dale. Todd had never worked with Dale, but he'd heard about him. Dale was also very smart, but his professionalism was more or less entirely flappable.

“Fuck you, Dale,” said Michael.

“Enough,” said Todd. He was beginning to hate this a lot sooner than he had expected.

“Let's keep our cool, okay?” he continued. “We've got a lot to accomplish by the end of next week. If any of you slow the process down, I can easily do without you,” he said.

“Here's an idea,” said Ulivia.

“I'm listening,” said Todd.

“We dope them up. We don't need a performance out of these people. We just need them to be famous and die on camera,” she said.

“I didn't want to have to settle for that option. But if we can't come up with anything better, it'll have to do,” Todd said.

The first episode of Celebrity Russian Roulette was scheduled to air live in approximately twelve days and four hours. Todd worked twenty hour days every day, and never felt as if he were doing any better than barely getting things done. There were countless facets to the production which he had to oversee. The studio was built in two days in the hold of the ship. Promotional spots for the program had to be filmed and edited. There were numerous personnel issues that needed his attention each day, including firing, hiring, paperwork, negotiations, vacations, scheduling and interpersonal mediation. He tried to delegate some of his duties, but putting together a decent management team turned into a project unto itself. The theme music turned into a small nightmare, beginning with the composer not showing up for the first meeting. A couple of the performers turned out to be the worst sort of prima donnas. The graphics team was a pair of top notch professionals, but of course they were continuously stymied by every sort of computer problem. The Watson Co. computer technicians fixed most of the hardware difficulties by installing all new equipment, and that lead to the need for new software installation, which meant hours of trial-and-error debugging work for the graphics people. On top of this, the various Watson Co. programming committees required daily meetings with Todd, and had all sorts of “suggestions” which forced Todd to stop production in midstream, backtrack and undo and redo minute details of
the show.

This would have been enough of a challenge for Todd, but Williamson, who was taking a personal interest in the success of the show, insisted that everything be done under a thick layer of secrecy, both for legal reasons and because he wanted to create and air of mystery for promotional purposes.

For twelve days, Todd worked his tail off and barely slept. Every day his heart was broken by the compromises he had to make, and because so much of his efforts were turned to nothingness in the berserk maelstrom of this large-scale project.

By air time, he had to take a pill just to keep his eyes open, and even still it was difficult for him to concentrate on the countdown.

“And five, everone get ready... two, one. We're on the air,” he said. There was a stall. The camera opened on the host, a different fellow than the demonstration episode. The host blinked, clearly not aware that he was on. There was an off-camera voice. The host snapped from his open-eyed slumber into a gleaming, telegenic smile.

“Live from the high seas, on the Watson Co. floating megalopolis, it's Celebrity Russian Roulette!” said the host.

“Cut to file A1,” said Todd. All of the screens before his eyes turned double and overlapped upon one another.

Viewers at home saw a smooth transition from the host's face to the slick opening-credit montage that the graphics team had put together.

“With entertainment from the Belsen Twins, Jiminy Posture, Melinda and the Croatians, the Violent Parkers...” the host droned on excitedly.

Todd removed his headset and handed it to the relatively trustworthy co-director that had been working with him for the last three days.

“You have to take over, Paul. I'm afraid I might pass out,” Todd said.

“You got it boss,” said Paul. He took the headset greedily from Todd and slipped it over his head, after removing his own headset.

Todd sat back in his chair and watched the rest of the show between intermittent moments of unconsciousness. The action rolled along, mixed with a swirl of dreams. Todd managed to keep an eye on his co-director, offering occasional directions just to remind everyone who was in charge. Mostly though, Todd watched the bank of monitors and tried to stay awake.

Late in the program, the moment finally arrived when the two mystery celebrities faced off against one another. Todd had decided, an entire day ago, that the scene would have no accompanying music. A couple of the higher ups had balked at this decision, of course, but Todd had prevailed. On screen now, the two celebrities, one a diplomat from the Middle East wars another an extreme-sports hero, sat on opposite sides of the table, at a slight angle to appease the camera. On close up, their contestants eyes showed only the smallest hint of their medicated state. Viewers at home might attribute the glazed over look on the two men's faces to fear. At least that was Todd's hope.

Quietly, the .44 magnum traded between the two men. The diplomat held the pistol to his temple and squeezed the trigger. The hammer struck an empty chamber. A small white “1” appeared in the lower left corner of the screen.

“Camera three,” the co-director said. At home the viewers saw the extreme-sports champion with the revolver at his temple. With a loud 'clack' the hammer hit another empty chamber. The numeral “1” in the lower left of the screen changed to a two.

“Camera two,” the co-director said. Now the diplomat was on screen holding the weapon to his head. He paused a long moment. Todd made a redoubled effort to be awake. Even the control room was silent. A golden tension ran through everything. Todd's heart quickened and he noted to himself that this was one of those live-TV moments that even the best producer in history could not make happen. Only providence can supply this kind of magic.

Then he noticed something on one of the screens of the monitor bank. He swatted his co-director on the shoulder and frantically waved all five fingers in the young man's face. “FIVE,” Todd said. The co-director understood this and looked up at monitor five. Todd swatted him again. “Camera five,” the co-director said.

At home, viewers saw a closeup of the gun's hammer drawing back hesitantly. The co-director asked for a tighter pan, and then for the camera to hold. The hammer of the pistol rocked back as far as it could go and then snapped forward, disappearing from the screen. “Camera TWO,” shouted Todd. The co-director hesitated. Todd dug his fingernails into the console before him. “Camera two,” said the co-director. The screen switched to show the diplomat's face. The gun had not fired.

Todd blew out the lungsful of air he had been holding. If that gun had gone off, the diplomat would have shot himself and the viewers would have seen nothing but a dark screen. Todd yanked the headset off the co-director's head and placed it on his own. “Camera three,” he said immediately. He was awake now.

The sports star already had the pistol pointed at the side of his head. “Pan back,” Todd said. The camera panned back to give a view of the athlete's head, shoulders, arm, hand and the large shining revolver. The athlete's eyes pointed directly into the camera, deep into the hearts of everyone watching. Everything on screen was still, as if in a photograph, except for the hammer of the gun, which seemed to move entirely on its own. The athlete's eyes locked in an emotionless stare. The hammer rocked forward and dropped into the body of the pistol.

The gun fired. The report was loud enough to trip the computerized sound limiters in the studio, and so there was a half second of silence while the sport star's head evaporated into a cloud of blood and bone.

“Camera one,” Todd said.

The main screen showed the table with the diplomat sitting on the left and the sports star's headless body on the right, slipping from its chair like a duffel bag full of junk. Todd scrutinized this image as a painter would scrutinize a near-complete canvas. The diplomat's expression was ambiguous. Was it relief? Was it terror? Perhaps it was shock.
Todd let the image sit silently on the screen for an entire second and then called for a commercial break. He slipped off the headset and handed it back to the co-director.

“Okay, wind this up, you all. I'm going up to my office to start next weeks'.” he said. The co-director put the headset on and turned his attention to a couple of sliders on the console in front of him.

Todd stumbled into his office, poured himself a whiskey, took off all of his clothes, downed the whiskey, poured another and then collapsed onto the couch. In seconds he had drifted off into the sweetest kind of sleep, the kind that is a well-deserved reward for a long bout of hard work.

While he slept, the crew of the show packed up the set, filed the recordings of the show into the network satellite-based archive, and whatever else it was they needed to do before clocking out for the day. At the same time, Mel Williamson, reclining in one of his apartments somewhere around the world, spoke on the phone to one or more of his associates in Programming. Also at the same time, Milan Bianne sat in her cell in the hold of the ship, hands tied, eyes squinting hatefully in the darkness.

Hours passed. Todd slept with his face smashed into a couch cushion, breathing heavily through an open mouth. Later, as the sun began to lower itself beyond the western horizon, Todd was awakened by his cell phone buzzing in the pocket of his jacket, hanging on the back of a nearby chair. He pushed himself up and, with a groan, reached for his jacket. By the time he had brought the jacket to himself and fished the phone from the interior pocket, it had stopped ringing. He checked to see who had called. The most recent missed call was from Mr. Williamson. The phone buzzed again while Todd held it in front of him. Williamson was calling again.

Todd answered the call, reluctantly.

“Hello Mr. Williamson,” he said.

“Hello there young man. Good news. Programming wants to sign you up for six episodes,” Williamson said.

Todd was, of course, happy to hear this. He was not, however, surprised. Most new shows were contracted for at least six episodes if their pilots went well enough. Todd had unconsciously been hoping for an entire season. It would take at least a full season to work the kinks out of the Celebrity Russian Roulette concept. So, in actuality, Todd was somewhat happy with this “good news,” but also not surprised and just a little bit disappointed.

“That's fantastic,” Todd said. He mumbled a little bit, because he was still groggy from his session of dreamless sleep on a lumpy couch.

“Oh, it's better than that. It's eternal. This show is going to change television. And you're the man behind it all, my boy. How does eight thirty sound?” Williamson said. Todd wasn't sure if he detected just a little bit of aggression in his boss' tone of voice.

“Eight thirty?” Todd said.

“Programming has just a few ideas they want to kick around with you. We'll draw up a contract. There all here right now, why don't you come up?” Williamson said.

Todd looked at the clock on his desk. It was a quarter to eight. Crap, thought Todd, he means eight thirty p.m. Forty five minutes from now.

“I'm on my way,” Todd said.

Punctuality had long been a point of pride for Todd. This pride had allowed him to be punctual most all the time. It was a sort of unconscious bootstrapping approach to behavior control that allowed him to overcome the chronic tardiness of his youth and had given him a little bit of an edge over many of his colleagues when he was first starting out as a television writer. Now, though, his punctuality had petrified into a habit, almost a neurosis.

All the same, Todd managed to clean himself up and travel the length of the ship and scale staircase, escalator and elevator to the very top of the ship's main tower where Williamson's temporary offices were located, and arrive there within thirty seconds of his appointment with Williamson.

The secretary that he had nearly sparred with earlier was on duty. She didn't even look up at Todd, just waved him right through. Todd stepped through the office door into the “meeting,” which was a scene that he was not prepared for.

Williamson, as before, had his wraparound windows set to full transparency, allowing the same panoramic view of the sea. Only now, instead of a simple furnished platform in the sky, the office was a crowded bazaar of executives, craftspeople, writers, actors and other assorted network employees milling about the room, chatting with one another, taking notes, or eating from the long table of catered food against the wall.

In a corner of the office, a small group stood around an easel with a large board on it, talking and gesturing at the board. Another small group had spread a sheet of butcher paper on the floor and were crouched around the paper pointing at different areas and making marks. No one seemed to notice that Todd had entered. While he stood at the door, getting his bearings, two women talking quietly to one another brushed past him and exited the room.

There must have been six dozen people in that room, each one a monochrome shadow moving against the glittering light reflected off the waves. Todd squinted.

“Mr. Hubert!” said a voice in the distance. It was Williamson. Todd looked in the direction of the voice calling him and saw that Williamson was seated at his desk, framed by the majesty of the unending ocean, and waving his hand casually to catch Todd's eye. Todd walked over to Williamson and the two men greeted one another.

“Glad you could make it, Hubert. I've been looking forward to this. Paul, Linda, Mr. Hubert is here,” Williamson said. He stood up while he spoke. A man and woman appeared at Williamson's side.

“Todd, this is Paul Phling and Linda Townwright. They're going to be executive producers on Celebrity Russian Roulette. You're liaisons to headquarters, as it were. Paul, Linda... Todd,” Williamson said.

Todd reached across the desk and shook hands with his new bosses. It was essentially impossible for him to see the details of their faces, as they were silhouetted against the sea. Todd could only hope that Paul and Linda were similarly crippled by the untoward lighting of the room.

“Have a seat, Todd,” Williamson said. Todd pulled up a nearby lightweight chair, as did Linda and Paul. Once seated, Linda produced a manila folder and handed it across the desk to Todd.

“This is your contract and some other things. I want you to take a look at the list of celebrities that we've already secured. We've got more coming in all the time. Paul, did you send him that other list?” she said.

“Yes, I sent a list of tentative celebrities by encrypted email,” Paul said.

Todd opened the folder and flipped through it. He had to hold it up and at an angle to read the pages within the folder. After flipping through for a moment he found the list of celebrites.

“That list is in alphabetical order, but we've underlined the celebrities that we think ought to be used for the next few episodes,” Williamson said.

“That's right, but as you see there's more than a few underlined, and you'll have a lot of leeway within the group of suggested celebrities,” Paul said.

Todd ran his eyes down the list. He recognized nearly every name on the list. Many of the celebrities were very big names.

“You've actually secured every one of these people?” Todd asked.

“Yes, indeed. Each one of those hundred and thirty names represents an international celebrity that is in the custody of Watson Co. at this very moment. Of the names that are underlined, I'd guess that about eighty percent of them are actually on this ship right now,” Linda said.

“Impressive...” Todd said. He continued to read the list. He was excited to see that Barleychilde West was on the list but then disappointed to see that Mr. West was not among the underlined names. Barleychilde West had been one of Todd's favorite jazz drummers from the day he bought his very first Bop Disciples recordings. Todd also noticed that Lance Green, the adventure journalist was on the list, and underlined as well. Green's flare for colorful behavior would make for a great Roulette episode.

“We also want to talk to you about the pacing of the show,” Paul said. Todd looked up at him. Paul's face was still dark and inscrutable.

“What do you mean, 'the pacing'?” Todd asked.

“Well, the pilot was very well done. We loved it. But there were a few editorial choices that we thought we could do away with,” Linda said.

“I'm listening,” Todd said.

Then there was a sudden noise that sounded like the combination of a thunderclap and the screech of sheet metal being torn. The room shuddered. Everyone in the crowded office stopped talking. The noise diminished, and in the relative silence that followed, a shout could be heard and the ringing of a distant alarm bell.

Williamson opened a drawer in his desk and casually pulled out a pair of binoculars. He swiveled his chair around, scooted over to the window behind him and peered out with his binoculars to the ocean below. Everyone else in the room remained calm, certain that if anything extraordinary was occurring, competent members of the ships crew would be attending to it.

“Oh, christ,” said Williamson, still looking through the binoculars. “It's the Americans.”

Todd rose from his seat and moved quickly around the desk. “Let me see that,” he said. He was more or less conscious that his behavior might appear childlike, but the notion did not bother him at all.

Williamson turned and handed the binoculars to Todd. Todd brought them to his eyes and looked downward. Williamson instructed him a bit where to aim. Todd saw a fishing boat at the waterline of the ship, but quite a distance toward the stern from Williamson's office. The boat appeared tiny, even in through the binoculars. Todd could barely make out the shapes of people firing some sort of weapons at the ship. The American flag painted on the side of the boat was easy to identify, however.

“Hey, it's on the in-house,” Williamson said. Todd turned and faced the room again. Someone had turned up the volume on a box monitor in the corner of the room, and most everyone in the office had gathered around it. The on-ship television station, “the in-house,” or “in-house channel,” was what the residents of the ocean liner called it, showed the fishing boat from directly above and the word “LIVE” in the lower-right-hand corner of the screen. The image on the screen wasn't much better than the view through the binoculars. There was a narrator, though.

“Again, our sources are telling us that the vessel has fired upon the ship using some sort of rocket or mortar weapon, but has not breached the exterior of the ship in any way. Security forces have engaged the attacking vessel, and are even now being joined by security reinforcements. Our management sources say that there has been no injury to any person or property, and that there is absolutely no need for alarm...” said the narrator. Williamson watched the screen with his head tilted back so the he could see the screen through his glasses. He held a remote control in one hand, near his body at about waste height, with a slightly effeminate overhand grip that allowed him to press the keys with his index finger.

Everyone was watching the skirmish on the television monitor. It was only a minute or so before the little boat bounced unnaturally in the water. “That's it,” someone said. People were jumping overboard from the fishing vessel now. Little splashes popped on the surface of the water, indicating some sort of small-arms fire from off screen.

“Security spokespeople are telling us that the attacking vessel has been hit with some sort of explosive device and is now in the process of sinking,” said the narrator on the monitor. A round of applause went up in Williamson's office.

“Well, that was exciting,” said Williamson.

“Sir, remember that thing I told you I had scheduled...” Linda said.

“Right, sure. Why don't we break this up? I'm sure we all have plenty to do,” Williamson said.

“I'm actually supposed to be meeting with legal right now,” Paul said.

“Wait, what about the editorial choices, that pacing and all that?” Todd asked.

“It's all in the file. Catch you tomorrow Mr. Williamson. Two thirty,” Paul said. And he walked away, disappearing through the crowd and off across the ocean. Linda had already made her escape.

Todd looked at Mr. Williamson, who tossed his remote control on the desk.

“Well, don't look at me. I haven't read the file,” Williamson said.

There was nothing left to do except for Todd to excuse himself and return to his office. He was annoyed. He'd been woken from the first decent sleep he'd had in weeks for a half-assed ten-minute meeting. There was no point in sharing his annoyance with anyone, though. All he could do was hone bitter one-liners all the way back to his office.

Once he returned to his office, which seemed small and dingy compared to Williamson's simulated heaven, Todd dropped into his desk chair and slipped on his telephone headset. He opened the folder and smeared the pages around the top of his desk, which gave him a minor feeling of control. He punched some numbers on his desk phone and started calling his writers to arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning.

He was just hanging up after chatting with Dale when he something popped out at him from the papers on his desk. He pulled the page toward him and read it carefully.

“Possible Titles: Chambers of Glory; Celebrity Six-Gun; Who Wants to Murder a Millionaire?; Spin on It!; Blow Your Mind; Total Victory; Celebrity Showdown; Grand Finale; Career Moves; Bite the Bullet; Click, Click, Bang!; Nine To Tha Dome; Headshots...”

Todd groaned just a little reading this. It was, after all, inevitable that the bosses would want to change the title of the program. Never mind that “Celebrity Russian Roulette” was simple and clear. But, then, Todd thought, titles are ultimately unimportant. He dialed the phone again. Ulivia was next on his list.

“Ulivia Broadus speaking,” said a voice in Todd's ear.

“You're working?” Todd said.

Ulivia laughed. “No. I just came in here to see if I could find a file on my computer. I thought I'd emailed it to myself. What's going on?” she said.

“I'm just setting up a meeting for tomorrow,” Todd said.

“Time?” Ulivia asked.

“Early. Eight thirty. Williamson and some busybody's from programming want changes,” Todd said.

“Of course they do,” Ulivia said. “See you at eight thirty.”

“Spiffy,” Todd said, and he disconnected. Before ringing up Michael, his last call, Todd grabbed another page at random and ran his eyes over it half-consciously. Two words on that page stopped him cold.

“Milan Bianne”

The name, buried in the list of celebrities who ready to appear on the program, was underlined lightly in red ink.

Todd removed his headset, stood up from his desk and wandered toward the couch. He picked up the bottle of scotch that was still on the end table there, and poured himself a glassful. He set the bottle down and stared at the glass on the table, filled to the brim with caramel colored whisky. What was the last Milan Bianne goggle-flick he had seen, he wondered. It was “Ceres Nights” of course, a raunchy murder mystery with intellectual pretenses. The brothel scene was carved into Todd's memory as if he had been there. Sharp memories of goggle-flicks were not uncommon, as the three-dimensional walk-around cinematography was frequently indistinguishable from real-life events. But this was stronger than mere reality distortion. Milan Bianne had something about her, Todd thought. He couldn't put words to it. She had a magical allure of some sort. What was it?

Whatever it was, Todd thought, he was going to find out. Milan Bianne was on this ship, and Todd Hubert was going to meet her.

He grabbed the glass of scotch from the end table and drank it down in greedy gulps.

--

“Where the hell is Michael?” Todd asked to the group in general. A steady cold pain behind his eye cut through his ability to concentrate.

“I'll try his cell again,” Ulivia said. She already had her phone to her ear.

Dale was reading through the folder with a concerned look on his face. The two new writers stared at Todd expectantly.

“Anyway, we may as well start. Programming wants a lot of changes. First among them is they want two rounds of roulette per episode. I've got no problem with that. They want to cut us to thirty-five minutes of actual program so that they can cram more ads into the hour. And here's the bitch of it all, they want more variety entertainment,” Todd said.

Dale looked up from the folder.

“Sounds like standard network shit, to me,” he said.

“Yeah, we've all done it before. So, let's do it,” Todd said. He looked at Ulivia, who had was no longer on the phone.

“No answer,” she said.

“Fine, here's your assignments,” Todd said. He tossed a packet of papers on the table in front of each writer as he spoke. “Dale and Ulivia, you've got the next two episodes. Bill, you've got episodes three and four with Michael. And Iva, you're with me on episode five. That's midseason, and we've got to make it huge. You into it?” Todd said.

Iva pulled the papers toward her and looked at them quietly. Dale smacked her in the back of the head with his own papers. Iva snapped her head around and looked at Dale with terrified bewilderment.

“Drop the little girl act, baby. That's a dream assignment. Show some appreciation,” he said.

“Okay, Dale. Take it easy,” Todd said. He silently agreed with Dale, though. Iva had shown an inconsistent tendency toward shyness since she'd come aboard, and it worried Todd somewhat. He didn't relish the possibility of having to break the shell on another college kid. But then, Todd knew he could count on Dale's inborn cruelty to shake the girl up somewhat.

“Dale, Ulivia, I want daily updates, as usual. Especially for episode one. Programming is going to have an air date for us this week, and I'm positive it'll be too damn soon,” Todd said. Ulivia and Dale nodded obediently.

“Now, let's talk about this title change. Any one have any opinions about these suggestions?” Todd asked.

“Um, impoverished?” Ulivia replied.

“Yeah, they all more or less suck,” Dale said.

“Bill, Iva?” Todd asked.

Bill looked at Todd over his pencil a moment, and then glanced at Dale. He looked back at Todd and spoke.

“What's wrong with the original title?” he asked.

“Nothing's wrong with the original title. It's perfect,” Todd said.

“Then why are we changing it?” Iva asked.

“Because the network bosses said so. They always fuck with the title. It's how they show us who's boss,” Todd answered.

“I like 'Total Victory',” said Ulivia.

“You do?” asked Dale.

“Really,” said Todd.

“Sure. I mean, of course, it says nothing about the show. It's stupid in its way. But it also has a sort of totemic value. 'Total Victory.' If we've got to use one of these ridiculous titles, we might as well opt for this inadvertent mantra,” she said.

Dale was staring at Ulivia very intently. It was clear that he was holding back a barbed comment.

“What are you working on, Dale?” Todd asked.

Dale turned his head slowly toward Todd. There was a reluctance in his voice when he replied.

“Total victory,” he said.

--

A few floors down, and somewhat toward the bow of the ship, Michael put his folding chair quietly against the bulkhead. Other anonymous attendees of the meeting gathered used paper coffee cups, pushed desks back into place and bid farewell to one another. Someone said goodbye to Michael.

“All right,” he answered. “Keep coming back.”

He checked his phone which had rung twice during the meeting. It had been Ulivia. Wonder what that's about, Michael thought. He slipped out into the hall and dialed Ulivia's number. She answered almost immediately.

“Michael, where are you,” she asked.

“I just finished my workout. What's going on?” he said.

“You're supposed to be here. We're halfway through a meeting,” Ulivia said.

“Nobody told me about no meeting,” Michael said.

“Whatever, Michael. Can you get here?” Ulivia asked.

“Of course. Give me twenty minutes,” he answered.

“Twenty minutes? The gym is right down the hall from here,” she said.

“The gym? Oh, I-- I have to take a shower,” Michael said.

“Move your ass, Michael,” Ulivia replied. Then she hung up.

Michael snapped his phone shut and sighed. He couldn't understand why Ulivia had to be such a jerk. She was almost as bad as Todd. But not nearly as bad as Dale. Michael put his phone in his pocket and casually made his way toward the elevator.

--

“That was him, he was working out. And he claims no one told him about the meeting,” Ulivia said when she'd put her phone back down.

“That's right,” Todd said. “I completely forgot to call him. Whatever. He was working out?”

“Maybe he ought to try just working,” Dale said.

Ulivia chuckled. Bill and Iva looked at one another.

“What's his e.t.a.?” Todd asked.

“Twenty minutes. He's got to shower. So, he'll probably be here in about an hour and a half,” Ulivia said.

“Fine,” said Todd. “Now about this list of celebs...”

--

“All right,” Michael answered. “Keep coming back.”

Dicky Jinn said goodbye to a couple more people and then he left the room. It had been a pretty good meeting. He'd gotten a lot off his chest. And he still had plenty of time to get to work.

He made it to his post with ten minutes to spare. He and Tony smoked cigarettes together while they waited for the top of the hour, when Tony would head back to his dorm and Dicky would take over.

“Slow today?” Dicky asked.

“Yeah, pretty slow. We spent a lot of time getting ready to move these prisoners,” Tony said.

“Shit. That's tonight?” Dicky said.

“You didn't know? They've got half the brig cleaned up for these VIP prisoners. Brock says Williamson wants them consolidated tonight,” Tony said.

“Guess it'll make the time go by faster,” Dicky said.

“Yeah,” said Tony, absentmindedly. He dropped his cigarette on the deck and snuffed it with a boot. Then abruptly he said, “Hey, did you see who's in there?”

“Alejandro Beaujmonde?” Dicky said.

“Who? No, man. Milan Bianne,” Tony replied.

“I don't know who that is,” Dicky said.

“Vampire Jesus? Just for Sex? Ceres Nights?” Tony said.

“No, man. I don't know what any of that is,” Dicky said.

“Oh,” said Tony. After another moment, he said, “Milan Bianne is all you want, man.”

Dicky didn't reply. Tony looked at his watch.

“You mind if I split now?” Tony asked.

Dicky looked at his own watch. Four minutes to the top of the hour. Tony had already picked his helmet up off the guard desk.

“Go on ahead,” Dicky said.

“Great,” said Tony. He got up from the desk and headed up the corridor.

--

“I thought you were going to take a shower,” said Todd.

“Oh, I decided not to. I didn't want to be late,” said Michael. His hair was clean and dry, and he was wearing a pair of dress slacks with a completely unwrinkled mylar shirt tucked into them.

“But you are late, Michael. The meeting's over,” Todd said. Everyone else had left the room.

“No one ever told me about a meeting today,” Michael said.

“You could have called me and asked,” Todd said. He handed a packet of papers to Michael. Michael took the papers but didn't look at them. He only looked emptily into Todd's eyes.

“That's your assignment. You're doing the third and fourth episodes with Bill,” Todd said.

“Third and fourth? You said I could work on the next one with Ulivia,” Michael protested.

“Don't you even want to know who Bill is?” Todd asked.

“Who's Bill?” Michael asked.

“He's the guy that's going to take your job if you don't learn how to hustle. You got me?” Todd asked.

“Yeah, I got you,” Michael said. His eyes wandered toward the silent television monitor behind Todd's head.

“Right. I'll bet you do,” Todd said, mostly to himself.

[this is a draft]
"Celebrity Russian Roulette" by Zeno Izen 2006
zenoizen@gmail.com

==

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