Andy Blue was going to die, live on the air, before fifty million viewers.
He was afraid, so afraid his hands trembled and his heart pounded, so afraid great globs of sweat rolled down his forehead. If he got this one wrong, his life would end--slowly, painfully--broadcast from coast to coast.
“Ready, Andy?” asked the host, a grinning man in an orange striped suit and bow tie.
Blue nodded, his throat tight. “Yes, Mr. TV host man,” he said, his voice cracking only slightly. “Ready, Mr. TV host man.”
The host turned toward the crowd. “ARE YOU READY?” he shouted, hopping around madly, white teeth flashing.
“YES!” the crowd roared, cheering as dramatic music blared.
Blue felt like he was going to faint.
America’s most popular quiz show, Sacrifice gave contestants ten questions. The first question was worth a thousand dollars; it was also worth a toe. The second question was harder. It was worth five thousand dollars; it was also worth a thumb. Question three was ten thousand dollars or a foot. By question six you could be rich, or you could go home in an iron lung.
Blue had reached question ten.
The host was pausing dramatically, pacing across the stage. Blue’s knees shook. He could not bare the pressure, the
wait. He had answered nine questions correctly, risking limbs and organs and sanity, had accumulated millions of dollars. They had been difficult, so difficult they had almost broken him. But no. He had answered.
Answered and asked for more.
“Andy Blue!” the host said, pacing toward him, staring with wild, piercing eyes. “You can still quit with your fortune. Are you sure you want to hear question number ten?”
Question ten. It could make him the world’s richest man. It could also kill him so grotesquely, so queerly, that Blue dared not think about it.
He swallowed and licked his dry lips. “Yes, Mr. TV host man. Quite sure, Mr. TV host man.”
The music died. Silence fell. With a final look at the audience, a final look at the millions who watched behind the camera, the grinning man in the orange suit spun toward Blue, drove his head close, and whispered.
“Mr. Blue, why are you playing this game?”
Blue stared back, blinking. For a moment he could not believe his fortune. That was it? That was question ten? Blue laughed in relief. That was it, he had won! He had survived! The first nine had demanded everything from him, but the last was so easy, he did not even have to think.
“Why,” he said, “I play because...”
He paused.
Silence.
“Because...”
The audience stared at him, silent, transfixed. The host leaned close, eyes staring, not blinking, face absolutely still save for a twitch at the mouth.
“Because...”
Because of the money. Because of the divorce. Because of the abuse, the ambition, the depression and the ego. Because... What? Fame? That desperate need for Pop, validation from others, his golden wings and escape from lackluster misery? He had his mind; the only thing he had ever had. What was it he still lacked, and could his mind ever give him that?
“Because...” he said.
And he could say no more.
The host in the orange suit nodded sadly, understanding.
“Because,” the host agreed quietly. “They always fail at the end.”
When the ridiculously creative machine lifted Blue from the stage, began taking his life in the most ridiculously creative ways, Andy Blue, looking into the cameras, could finally understand.
It did not make things better.