Apr 22
The Game Show Killer sketches
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The Game Show Killer sketches
S02E06: The Game Show Killer (Part 1)
1. Paulina Gets Fired
Paulina stood in the elevator, her hands fidgeting at her sides. She plucked at the fabric of her well-kept slacks, needled at the strings inside her pockets, and tried not to chew a hole through her own cheek. He’s gonna let me off easy, I know it, she tried to convince herself. He likes me. We’ve known each other a long time… Has this elevator always been this slow?
The doors opened into a massive room. It was nearly as large as a tennis court, and the entire back wall was made of glass. Through it she could see alien shapes moving in the thick, dark water, cast in an eerie blue light by lamps from beneath the aquarium. The fish swam round and round, some looking at her with eyes as big as saucers. Others had no discernable eyes at all. And one of them had a tiny light of its own on a long, thin tendril, dangling right above its hideous maw.
“Paulina,” came a cold, clear voice. She snapped to attention. At the end of a long carpet, a pale and sickly-looking man—his hair and skin a gauzy white, his form beautiful even in his gauntness—laced his fingers together. “Why did I receive a call from the head of Top Tier this morning?”
“I-I dunno, boss,” Paulina stammered. “Why?”
“This isn’t a riddle, you goon!” President Amar roared, bringing his hand down onto the desk with a sound like a gunshot. Paulina jumped. “I had to spend thirty minutes convincing Percy King that I wasn’t responsible for his dim-bulb host coming home with bruises. Would you care to explain why you moved without my explicit authorization?”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I thought…I thought it was the right time. I mean, you always said Sparker was the weak link in TT, so I thought I could help you.” The excuses tumbled out of her as she gesticulated. “I know you’ve always wanted him out of the picture! I just jumped the gun a little, that’s all!”
“That’s all? Do you realize the nightmare you’ve put me through?” Amar spun around in his chair to face the aquarium, sighing irritably. “I've already had my hands full with that idiot nephew of mine terrorizing Sparker and his friends on the road! Don't tell me you two came up with this on your own."
“I don't know anything about that, boss,” Paulina groveled. “I swear! I can talk to him, if you want," she stammered. "He and I get along real well, but--"
Amar spun back around, his gaze cold. “No, I think you’ve done quite enough for one day,” he declared. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing any more work upon you. Collect your things from the hotel, Paulina. I’m terminating your employment, effective as of…” He glanced at his watch. “Now.”
Paulina froze.
“Did you hear me? Get out of here,” her boss ordered. He pointed towards the door with an immaculately manicured white finger. In the lamplight, it sparkled like snow. “Go back to the underground, where I plucked you out of the dirt and dust. I’m sure those rats in the tunnels will be more than willing to welcome you again.”
Paulina had made the trip to the tunnels hundreds, if not thousands, of times, but it was one she was hoping she’d never have to make again. To get to the town’s generators, the workers had to take buses to the lowest residential tier, 1-1, and then board the massive freight elevators that carried people and equipment down, down, down towards the very bottom of the city. Past the isolated farms, the crowded factories, and the prisons was the heart of Electricopolis itself: the power plants.
“Please, no,” she begged, quavering. “Please, Mr. Amar, I can make it up to you!” From out of the shadows, two figures approached, winding their arms around hers, dragging her towards the exit. “I swear,” she cried out, “I’ll make it up to you!”
---
Past the prisons, she thought to herself. Even lower than the convicts.
The power plant was ring-shaped, like the rest of Electricopolis' layers, and large enough to be a town in its own right. The electricity transfer lines criss-crossed each other and sprawled outwards in a jumble of wire and metal. Radio towers for worker use jutted upwards, blinking red and yellow, and the fluorescent lights flickered weakly.
Distantly, the wind whistled through the vents in the walls, but it wasn't enough to dislodge the dust and grime that settled on every surface. Paulina pulled her face mask up over her nose and mouth.
"D24," came a short, clipped voice from a man with a notepad. "D24."
She checked her work ticket, then looked up. “Here.”
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” the foreman remarked. “You’ll be on Team F, laying cable from points 28 to 32.” He reached down, grabbed a spool of heavy-duty cable, and shoved it at her. “Get going, don’t slack off, and don’t cause any trouble.”
As she walked past him, she heard him let out a knowing, smarmy chuckle. A wave of revulsion rose in her. “And welcome back,” he added.
---
At the end of the day, Paulina dragged herself into the bar. It was the only one in the maintenance tunnels, and it was crowded at all hours of the day and night with workers nursing their drinks and swapping stories. As she collapsed into an empty seat near the back of the room, she felt herself start to unwind and relax. This was where she felt most comfortable--in the din and dimness of a crowd of people. After the harrowing experience of being pinned under the eyes of Mr. Amar and the foreman, she relished the chance to do the pinning instead.
Her eyes wandered around the room, pulling from one end of the bar to the other. Some of the women were playing cards, some of the men were arguing over who owed money to whom, and some of the others were watching the television. It was a dingy, black-and-white little thing, looking about twenty years past its prime. It was playing Shock 'Til You Drop, one of the ones Paulina recognized as a rerun, and most of the folks at the bar were whooping and hollering whenever the contestant managed to weather another of Sparker's electric shocks.
Only one man at the bar was silent. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth pulled tight into a barely restrained grimace. Oh, now this was a kindred spirit.
Paulina grabbed her glass of water and shoved herself into a gap between the barstools. "That show's on almost every night," she said. "You like it?"
"Not…" the man cast his gaze from the television down into his glass. "Not very much."
"Me neither," Paulina said, nudging him with her elbow. "Somethin' about that guy just rubs me the wrong way."
The man looked up at her for the first time. His eyes had deep hollows under them, as if he hadn't slept a wink, and his voice was hoarse. But his fingers tightened around the glass with a strong grip, and his features hardened, even as his voice betrayed his curiosity.
"You mean Bob Sparker?" he asked.
Paulina nodded. She watched him, and he watched her. For a moment, they traded stares. And then the man gave way once more, looking down again. And he admitted: "I don't like him much either."
Jackpot. Paulina leaned over, curious. "You know him?" she asked.
"Do you?"
"I met him once or twice, back when I worked up top." On the television screen, Bob Sparker cavorted around the stage, cackling with laughter as he threw the switches to the electric chair. "I tried to give him some…career advice, but he just blew me off. Ungrateful, if you ask me."
The man blinked. "Hey, the same thing happened to me. Well…sort of. He was ungrateful, that's for sure."
"You wanna talk about it?"
"Well…" He fingered his glass, drained it, and then confessed: "I used to know him growing up. We used to be…best friends. But now that he's a big star, he completely blew me off. Acted like he didn't owe me anything. Like I was just some big burden to him." The words came out quickly, in a rush. "It makes me so mad, when folks go up top and then suddenly they're too good for--"
He heaved a sigh, shuddering, and put his hand over his eyes. "For the rest of us," he finished. "Sorry. I guess I got worked up."
"Hey, don't apologize." She leaned over and patted the man on the shoulder. "I feel the exact same way. Those assholes like to just use people and throw them away," she lamented. "Just like me."
"Exactly." The man nodded. "You get it. You're the only person who does." He looked around, then leaned in. "Everyone else acts like they're gonna make it big someday. Like they're going to go to an audition once they get the time and the money, and then they'll be stars too. Can you believe that?"
Paulina laughed. "Delusional."
"Yeah," he said, echoing her. "Delusional."
Their laughter faded out, covered by the chatter of the bar. Paulina and the man looked at each other. She smiled. He smiled back. Slowly, he reached out a calloused hand.
"It's nice to meet you," he said. "I'm Sam Gale."
"Nice to meet you too," Paulina replied, grabbing his hand and shaking it heartily. "Name's Paulina Sweet. You know," she added slyly, "I think we might just get to be friends."
He invited her back to his dormitory, a small one-room apartment where some of the workers lived. He told her the whole sordid story there, and what a story it was--full of resentment, bitterness, despair, near-traffic collisions and even a fist fight, to boot. By coincidence, Samuel Gale's run-in with Bob Sparker had occurred only a few months before Paulina's, and they bonded over their shared hatred of the man. Paulina's hatred, however, was mostly a result of her professional rivalry; it was obvious that Gale's dark feelings came from a much deeper place in his psyche. The poor guy truly felt that he was owed Sparker's adoration, his attention, some small part of his golden shine, as payment for having once been his friend.
Paulina had absolutely no sympathy for him. But she did recognize an opportunity when she saw one.
"I used to live near him," Sam Gale said, his eyes dewy and dark. "But I can't go back up there anymore. The idea that I might see him again--it's been killing me."
"You been to a therapist?"
"No."
Good, she thought. She moved closer to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Can you tell me something?" she asked. "If you did end up seeing him again, what would you want to…do to him?"
He buried his head in his hands, groaning. "I don't know. I don't want to fight him, not physically. I just…" He let out a deep sob. "My head and my chest keep pounding. I just want him to know how it feels. I just want him to understand how much it hurts."
"I know, pal. I know." Paulina patted his shoulder and pulled him close. "What if I told you I could get you on his show?"
Sam laughed and wiped at his face with his sleeve. "Don't bother," he said. "He already said I wouldn't be any good."
She leaned in, whispering. "I'll make you good," she said. "I'll make you a shockproof, voltproof machine."
"How? Cheating or something?"
"No, no cheating. That's the beauty of it," she explained. Slowly, a spark of life began to shine in Samuel Gale's eyes, and he looked up at her, blinking tears away. "We'll do it fair and square, so he can't ignore you anymore. You'll beat him on his terms, and then he'll have to give you your due. Would you like that?" she asked sweetly. "Does that sound good?"
His gaze lifted away, and he stared into the distance. Somewhere inside him, Paulina knew he was there on the stage, triumphant. "What would I have to do?" he asked.
"I tell you what." Paulina turned towards him and clasped his hands in her own, like a child sharing a secret. "I have some money saved up from…some side jobs I've been doing. What about you?"
"I think I might have some, too."
"Good, good." She patted his hands. "See, I'm a game show junkie. I have tapes of almost every program on TV, and the ones I don't have, I can get. We're gonna need to know everything about everything. Quiz shows, endurance shows, obstacle courses, guessing games. And I know a great gym we can train you at."
"Training? Quiz shows? But I thought we were just going to--"
"One step at a time, pal," Paulina snickered. "Consider me your game show coach. By the time you make it to Shock 'Til You Drop, you'll be more god than man. If you're prepared to give me a year of your life…"
She grinned terribly.
"I promise you that you'll bring Bob Sparker to his knees."
S02E06: The Game Show Killer (Part 4)
4. Breaking Point
The third shock ripped through the Game Show Killer's body. His hands tightened up on the ends of the electric chair's arms, his knuckles paling, his teeth gritted behind his hood--but with no other response.
“Well, well, well,” Bob drawled. “Looks like our mystery man’s weathered the first three shocks without breaking a sweat.” He leaned over and rubbed at the man’s hood with his thumb. “Well, a little bit of a sweat,” he added, and then, with a flick of his wrist, fanned out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. “So, will you stop now and take the cash?”
The man stared at him unblinkingly, and then shook his head. Bob whooped and threw his hand up, sending the money cascading over the stage. “He’s going for it, folks!” he exclaimed. “The Game Show Killer’s giving it his all! That means I can take off the kid gloves,” he said slyly. “Shock number four, coming right up!”
The jolt of electricity ripped through the man’s body as Bob Sparker watched, grinning. The fifth sent him doubling over, his eyes losing focus, hearing nothing but a ringing in his ears. Slowly, and as if through water, the sound of Bob Sparker’s endless patter reached his brain.
“Now, this is the part of the show where we talk a little bit about you,” said the host. “So, how about it? Anything about yourself you wanna share? Any formative experiences that led you to become the masked man you are today?”
He held out the microphone, jiggling it up and down impatiently. He leaned in to whisper: “The silent treatment is good, but we’ve got time to fill. Give me something to work with, will ya?”
The man breathed heavily, and stared at Bob Sparker through piercing eyes partially hidden by his hood. Still, he said nothing.
Bob let out a laugh of barely disguised annoyance. “Looks like someone needs a lesson in good TV,” he declared. “Fire 'em up, boys! Shock number six!”
This time, the man sat up ramrod-straight, his fingernails digging into the arms of the electric chair. The air seemed to crackle and burn as a buzzer sounded over the roars of the audience.
“He's into the Big Three now, folks!” Bob grabbed the top of the Game Show Killer's head through his hood, lifting him up in his seat like a marionette on a string. The man's defiant eyes now looked glassy. “You still with us, big guy?”
The G.S.K. shook Sparker off, breaking his grip. The audience let out a low ooooh, and Bob, grinning, looked back and forth between his contestant and the crowd.
The man chuckled darkly under his breath. And then, in a low whisper that only the host could hear, he muttered: “And you said I couldn't take a little shock.”
Bob stopped, facing the crowd, frozen in place. The color drained from his face, and he whipped around to face the man. “What did you say?” he hissed.
No response.
“Say that again!” Sparker shrieked, leaning in towards his face. “You say that one more time!”
Again, nothing. Bob Sparker's face darkened to a deep red, and with one clawlike hand he grabbed the man's hood and jerked it up roughly over his head. There, in the chair, his brow slick with sweat and his eyes sunken in, was a man that Sparker, and only Sparker, knew.
The two stared at each other tensely. There wasn't a peep from the audience, and even the technicians glanced among each other in confusion. And then, suddenly, the host laughed brightly, whirling back to face his adoring crowd.
“What a surprise, folks!” he announced. “It's my great pleasure to introduce to you the true identity of the Game Show Killer...an old friend of mine, Mr. Samuel Gale!”
The audience erupted into cheers. Sparker grinned, stepping backwards so he was standing near Sam Gale, looping an arm around his shoulders in mock affection. Gale looked bewildered, clearly not having expected this reaction. “A reunion like this,” Bob explained, “calls for something special!”
He moved a foot backwards and to the side. He pressed down. In an instant, the lights onstage changed from a brilliant lime to a lurid purple. The wings began to rotate and fold outwards, revealing enormous painted lightning bolts that directed the audience's eyes to the center of the stage. A sign descended from the ceiling: DANGER! HIGH VOLTAGE!
“Time to make this a night to remember, folks! It's time for our very first High Voltage Mode!” Sparker moved back, placing his hand on the lever near the electric chair. “From now on, these next shocks are as strong as we can legally allow! If you’re still conscious after three of these suckers, I’ll give you anything you want!”
He threw his head back and started to laugh, a crazed, high-pitched cackle that seemed to rip through the air like a knife. “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen!” he whooped, much to the delight of the crowd. “A new washer-dryer! A hi-fi stereo system! An all-expenses-paid vacation! But why stop there?” he asked. He leered at his contestant, and Sam Gale, looking terrified, leaned away. “Want my apartment, Sammy? Take it! My car keys? They’re yours! Like I said, pal--a-ny-thing you want!”
Offstage, one of the production assistants waved their hands in agitation, trying to catch Sparker's attention. This wasn't planned, they tried to communicate. Cut to commercial. But Sparker ignored them, jabbing a finger directly into the nearest camera. “Keep that thing on!” he barked. “From now on, there are no more commercial breaks! You're going to catch every second of this, you got it?”
Baffled, the cameramen acquiesced, swinging their equipment around to focus on the green-suited man and his contestant in the middle of the spotlights.
"That's better!" Sparker snapped. "I want every eye in the city on you, Gale! I want everyone to see the moment when I kill the Game Show Killer!"
S02E06: The Game Show Killer (Part 7)
7. Goodbye
This is where it all started, Bob thought to himself. I always end up here...in the hospital.
“He wants to see you,” said Dr. Flask, opening the door to the hospital room. “I told him it was a terrible idea, but would he listen? No.” He paused, expecting Sparker to make some kind of remark, but he said nothing. “In any case...don’t hurt him.”
“I won’t,” Bob said quietly. “I promise.”
He passed through the doorway and stripped off his overcoat, then sat down on a stool placed next to the patient’s bed. Sam Gale laid there, his eyes closed, his chest moving up and down with slow, even movements.
After a moment, he opened his eyes slowly and gave the doctor a weak wave of his hand. “Thanks, Dr. Flask.”
“I’ll be back in ten,” said the doctor, checking his watch. “Try not to kill each other.”
The door closed with a click and left the two sitting there in silence. They stared at each other for a long moment, the quiet of the room settling between them. One of his arms laid motionless on the bed, fixed with an IV. Bob’s eyes traced the line back to the bag of solution.
“You look like hell,” Sam said, breaking the silence. “I heard that lady did a number on you.”
Bob smiled, touching his jaw lightly. “You don’t look much better,” he replied. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I almost killed you,” Bob said. “I think that at least deserves an apology.”
“I owe you one, too,” Sam sighed. “For...for not getting the hint. For agreeing to such a stupid, harebrained scheme. If I’d known who that woman was, I never would have given her the time of day.”
Bob reached over and laid a hand gingerly on the man’s shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault, Sam. Anyway, she’s in jail and you’re not, so there’s that.”
“Yeah.” Gale gave Sparker a lopsided grin. “And you’re out of a job.”
Sparker shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “...For now.”
“For now? You mean they’re letting you back on after you tried to kill Percy King’s daughter?”
Bob shook his head. “That’s the crazy thing,” he admitted. “When Mr. King learned about it, he just laughed it off. He said the ratings were the highest they’ve ever been, and that was what…” His voice faltered. “That was what really mattered.”
The silence fell again, and it grew stifling. Sam opened his free hand, extending it a little. Bob took it. It felt strange, cold, almost like a statue.
“Tell me something,” Sam said slowly. “It wasn’t like this when we were young...was it?”
“No,” Bob replied. “Remember that time we went to the Summer Theater?”
“The abandoned one?”
“That’s the one.” Bob gave Sam’s hand a squeeze. “We found the costumes in the back and tried them on, and you found the microphones hidden in the boxes. I…” His mouth grew dry. “I told you I wanted to be a star, that day.”
Sam Gale smiled sadly. “It hurts, doesn’t it? All of this.”
“Yeah.” Bob’s voice cracked as he tried to hold back a sob. “It...it hurts a lot, Sam. It’s like we’ve been twisted and pulled so much that--that we don’t even resemble ourselves anymore. It’s okay if you can’t forgive me,” he added, sniffling. “I wouldn’t either, if I were you.”
“It’s not about forgiveness,” Gale said, his fingers tightening around Sparker’s. “And if it were, I’d be the one asking for it. I just…” He sighed. “I just want to be free. From you, from this. From everything.”
“That’s right,” Bob whispered quietly. “From everything.” He paused, then lifted his other hand. He clasped Sam Gale’s hand in both of his own, warming him. “I know you said it wasn’t about forgiveness, but…” He swallowed. “I forgive you, anyway.”
“Thank you.” A squeeze. “I forgive you, too.”
They were quiet for a moment, and then a polite knock came from the door.
Bob Sparker stood up, tucking his overcoat under his arm. “You gonna be okay?” he asked Sam.
“Yeah,” the patient replied. “I’m getting the best care in the city.” He grinned. “At least, according to my doctor.”
“Be careful with that one,” Bob joked, as Dr. Flask stepped back into the room. “Flask's got absolutely no bedside manner at all.”
Dr. Flask rolled his eyes. “That’s enough out of you,” he responded, waving Bob out the door. “He needs his rest. You’ve done enough damage for one lifetime.”
“I know, I know.” Bob stood in the doorway, hesitating. He turned away from the man in the hospital bed. “Hey, Sam...goodbye.”
“...Goodbye, Bob.”
The door closed behind him, leaving Bob Sparker alone in the empty hallway of the hospital.
The End
SO1E02: Bad Memories
The first time I caught him on TV, I thought I was seeing things.
I was back in my neighborhood for the first time in weeks, up on leave from a long stint down below working on the generators. My name's Samuel Gale, Sammy for short, Sam for even shorter. I'm a junior foreman for the electric company. It's easy to miss a lot of news down there, especially the premiere of another new game show.
I saw him on the black-and-white television at the bar, tucked up above the bottles and cutting in and out. Even through the snow I could catch a glimpse of his white hair and his gangly limbs and that nose, and if that didn't clinch it, his laugh sure did. I hadn't heard that laugh in years.
"Holy shit," I breathed, holding my glass to my lips. "Robbie?"
"Who, him?" said the bartender, jerking a thumb behind him at the screen. "Bob Sparker. Top Tier's newest acquisition. Throws people in the electric chair on his show and gives 'em money afterwards. Not worth it, if you ask me."
"Bob Sparker," I repeated. "You sure that's his name?"
"Well, it's a stage name, bet you dollars to donuts," he replied. "Why, you know him?"
"Yeah, I know him, I think," I said, putting my glass down with a clink. "Old classmate of mine. Robert something or other, Bee...Bianchi, yeah. Robbie for short. Maybe not, though," I mused. "Anyone called him Bobby, he'd blow his top. Absolutely hated it."
The bartender leaned over to get a better look at the screen. On TV, Bob Sparker laughed and threw an arm out to the audience, and whether it was sparks or static coming off his fingers I couldn't tell.
He was a cute kid, number one class clown no contest, but he was annoying as hell, too. Always sticking his long nose into places it didn't belong, always trying to know everything so he could repeat it later and get it wrong. He laughed a lot, and when he laughed hard his voice pitched up into a squeak. When he laughed really hard he hacked and wheezed, and we all had a scare he was gonna end up in the hospital at least once. I don't remember if he ever did.
I was a year above him, but we lived close together, and I used to see him practically every day. I never had a younger brother, and he was the kind of kid who seemed like he'd never grow up, so I guess it made sense I stuck with him a lot.
I liked him, for the most part.
"Hey, Donny," I said, tapping on his hard hat. He looked up at me, his goggles catching the light. "You remember Robbie, right?"
"Robbie? Kid with the nose? Sure," he said. "But you know he's Bob Sparker now."
"Wait, so it is him?"
"Couldn't you tell?" Don said, turning back to the generator. There were dozens of them in the underground, all connected to different parts of town, and some of them busted more often than others. "Hoppin' around the stage like that? Couldn't be anyone else."
"I thought he hated being called Bob, though."
"Hey," Don said, shrugging. "If Top Tier gave me a primetime slot they could call me anything they want. This thing needs a new set of cables, by the way," he added. "These are all frayed to shit."
I chewed on the eraser of my pencil a little, then looked back down and noted it on my form. "Wow," I murmured. "Didn't think he'd actually make it."
Usually, on leave, I go back to my home in 2-3. That's the stage right below the top tier: 0 is the maintenance level way on the bottom, 1-1 is the residential tier right above it, then there's 1-2 and 1-3 going up, then 2-1, 2-2 and 2-3, and then just the top. It's a little confusing, but you get used to it.
You'd expect 2-3 to have a bit of money in it, and it does, in some parts. Kelly Kim the radio star lives down here, has a decently-sized house to himself tucked on the perimeter of town. I never listened to his show, but Robbie loved it--"Cowboy Kim's Radio Rodeo," that was it. He never shut up about it. I think he was even in the fan club.
That was on the outskirts, though. South of center was our neighborhood, smack in the middle of everything, and it was crowded and worn around the edges like everything else underground. We walked through alleys to get to school and played chicken with the buses, and when we had a day to spare we'd take them up to the top tier and walk around.
I didn't like it that much, but Robbie loved it. He said he went every weekend, but I doubt it. What kid had that much money to blow on bus fare?
I went back up top for the first time since eighth grade. I crowded onto the bus (the same bus, decades later, still squeaking on the same turns) and rode it up to Diamond Plaza.
It was just like I remembered, unfortunately. The light hurt my eyes, the cold stung my ears and the wind kept howling, howling, howling. How could anyone stand it?
I wandered around the plaza for a little while, watching the street performers, ordering food from the carts, sitting by the railing and staring at the rusty-red mountains against the charcoal-grey sky. I'm not sure what I expected to find.
When I went back down below, I decided to actually turn on my TV for once and watch an episode of his show. My set was only slightly better than the bar's, but it had color. Turns out I'd missed a lot of the show without color.
I grabbed a microwave dinner and plopped down to watch. Everything was bright and super-saturated and noisy, but instead of alienating me like Diamond Plaza always did, it felt familiar and even comforting. Of course his show would be on the annoying side--everything he did had always been on the annoying side. He'd never had the money to get a bright green suit, but boy, if he had, he would have worn it day in and day out.
Robbie--Bob--ran onto the stage, waving to the audience like it was a miracle he was there at all, and he bowed so low that I thought his nose would brush the ground. "Gooood evening, Electricopolis!" he called out, and his voice was a little deeper and a little grander than I'd ever expected. "Beautiful night tonight, ain't it? For those of you just joining us, here's how the show works..."
I let out a little chuckle through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. He was practically dancing on the stage, he was so excited. "We strap in one of our contestants and fire her up," he explained. "The shocks start out low, and the higher the voltage, the higher you win!"
All of a sudden he sat down in the electric chair with a twirl, bringing his legs up to drape over the arm like he was sitting sideways on a throne. "And it's all real, too," he said. "I can prove it!"
Maybe everyone else in town already knew what was going to happen, but I sure as hell didn't, and when he went stock-stiff in the chair I jumped so hard my fork clattered to the floor. There was the bzzt bzzzzt of electricity, then he cackled and jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, sending a shower of sparks off his hair and hands.
"Just like a cup of coffee!" he laughed. "Don't try this at home, though, folks--I'm a professional!"
I groped around for my fork with my eyes glued to the screen. Part of it was kind of ghastly, but he was totally in love with what he was doing. There was so much enthusiasm and charm coming off of him in waves that it was hard not to get swept up in it, even when he introduced a construction worker as his contestant and strapped him down in the chair.
"Oh, see, you've got some meat on you," he laughed, patting the man's shoulder affectionately. "You'll be fine!"
He didn't make it to the end--apparently nobody did--but he did pretty well. He went home with a few thousand dollars in his pocket, and he didn't look any the worse for wear after he was done, except for stumbling a little as he made his way off the stage.
Hell, I thought, digging my fork into my food again, I could probably do that.
"Robbie!" I called out. I'd spotted him eating at a hot dog cart near the studio lot, and I waved to get his attention. "Hey, Rob!"
He'd been yammering to the vendor about something or other, but he froze, his mouth open, and then he whipped around. He looked nervous, maybe even a little suspicious, but I guess I would be too if that happened out of nowhere.
"Hey, it's just me," I laughed, strolling up to him. "Long time no see, huh? How've you been, buddy?"
He swallowed, looked me over, and then it clicked. "Sam!" he exclaimed. "Oh, uh, hey there! Yeah, it's been years!"
"Buddy of yours?" said the vendor, glancing from him to me. "'Robbie?'"
Bob waved a hand. Maybe it was the cold white lights of the streetlamps, but he looked even paler than I remembered. "An old classmate. And just Bob is fine, really..."
I chuckled. "Really? I thought you hated being called Bob. You used to throw a fit over it in school."
"It's Bobby that I hate, not Bob," he replied.
"Oh, sorry. Who knew?." I shrugged. "Hey, are you busy right now?"
He glanced from me to the hot dog vendor, and they shrugged at each other. "Sort of," he said. "We've wrapped up filming, but I gotta head out soon. Is there, uh..."
He took a bite of his hot dog and chewed on it for a bit. His eyes flitted up to my own, held them for a second, then settled somewhere around my shoes. "Is there something you need?" he asked.
"Something I need?" I repeated. "Just to catch up with an old friend, you know how it is. Hey, gimme one of those too, will ya?" I said, turning to the vendor. "One with everything, thanks..."
Bob was still regarding me with a little bit of a cagey look. "Hey, relax," I said. "I'm not trying to borrow money or anything, if that's what you're thinking. I was just walking around, figured I'd ask how your show was doing..."
He brightened up at that. Probably he'd gotten a lot of old acquaintances trying to wheedle money or favors out of him now that he hit the big time. It'd make sense he'd be suspicious. "Oh, it's going great," he said, smiling. "Have you seen it?"
"Oh, yeah," I replied, as I took my hot dog. "I caught it on TV the other night. You're a natural, Robbie, you really own that stage."
He grinned, and I could see some color in his cheeks, too. "Thanks. But, uh, just Bob is fine. So you like the show?"
"Oh, yeah," I mumbled, through a mouthful of food. "It's pretty good stuff. Some of those contestants really make it look easy!"
Bob laughed at that, a sharp loud laugh that echoed between the buildings. "You're telling me!" he said. "Well, I'd better get going, but maybe I'll save a spot in the hot seat for you, huh?"
"Well, not that I'm asking any favors," I chuckled. "But hey, if you're offering. Say, will you be free anytime soon? I think we're way overdue for a catch-up. Maybe over a sit-down meal."
Bob thought about this, hemming and hawing, and finally he responded. "Yeah, I think I can make some time," he said slowly. "Maybe Thursday night."
"Do you listen to Cowboy Kim?"
"No," I responded.
"How come?"
"It's kids' stuff."
"No it's not. He had a shootout with Bankroll Bill last week," Robbie replied, sulking. "That's not kids' stuff."
I rolled my eyes. "Everything's got guns in it now, Robbie. Lay off."
"He lives on our level, you know. On the outside, near the wall," he chattered. "I wanna go visit him sometime."
"Great," I said. "Maybe he'll put you on his show."
Robbie's face lit up, and he grinned at me from ear to ear. "You think so?" he asked.
"Yeah. You can be a radio star," I said. "I keep saying you've got the face for it."
We met up on Thursday night, like he said. We grabbed a meal at a sit-down diner in the tourist district, and little by little Bob started to open up again. I asked him a lot of questions about the show, which he loved--he talked all about the process of rehearsing, costuming, recording, and how fascinating everything was. I could really see the kid in him, explaining breathlessly what it was like to be a star.
He was in such a good mood when he left that he offered to drive me home.
"So how's Cowboy Kim doing?" I said, raising my voice above the wind. I'd never ridden in a car before, and his was a top-down convertible, bright green with yellow headlights. To be honest, I didn't like it, but Bob looked like he was having the time of his life.
"He's doing great!" he yelled back. "We're gonna get together for movies on Sunday!"
"Wait...you actually met him?"
"I did!" Bob said gleefully, grinning over at me. The car slowed as we pulled up to a red light, and he managed to explain without screaming at the top of his lungs. "Nicest guy in the world. I've actually gotten a part on his show!"
I stared at him. "Really? Playing who?"
"A low-down dandy who'll do anything for a buck," Bob explained in a low, gritty voice with a Western drawl. "That no-good, good-looking Cottonmouth."
I laughed at "good-looking," I have to admit. "Well, I'm not surprised," I said. "We were always into those kinds of games and stuff. Remember how I used to chase you around?"
Bob fell quiet as the light turned green. He drove down under the plaza, following the curving road that led to the tier below. "Yeah," he said. "I remember."
"Sammy and Robbie," I reminisced, leaning back in the passenger's seat. "Robbie the rabbit. You could really run like hell. Remember?"
"Yeah, Sam. I do."
"Hey, that reminds me," I said, turning towards him. He wasn't even giving me a glance--just staring intently into the dark. "You kept saying you went up to the top tier all the time. How'd you get the bus fare for that?"
"I didn't," he responded tersely. "I walked."
Why the cold shoulder? It was like all his goodwill had suddenly been sucked inside him again, leaving him even less friendly than when I first saw him. Frankly, it annoyed me. What's wrong with making a little conversation?
I looked back at him and tried to shrug it off. "Don't get so weird about it," I laughed. "I just have a bad memory, that's all."
"What, just one?"
"Huh?"
"Nothing, nothing," said Bob. "Hey, you're not still in your old house, are you?"
"No, I'm in an apartment on the west side of central. Pretty close, though. It's right near that blind road we used to play chicken on," I said, grinning. "You remember that too, right? That one time in eighth grade?"
I leaned back in my seat again, laughing as I thought back to that night. "That was really something," I marveled. "The way you jumped in front of that bus, man, I thought you were outta your mind!"
"Jumped, huh? That's funny," Bob said coldly. "I remember being pushed."
I blinked over at him. "Pushed?"
He didn't say anything, but his hands tightened on the wheel. Then he swerved the car hard to the left, off the main street and onto the road that led toward the bus terminal.
"It'll be fine," I insisted. "It's nothing to be afraid of."
What you did was you leaned into the street like a marathon runner, and when you heard the sound of a car coming around the curve, you got ready to dash across. Sometimes the cars would try to get out of the way if they were fast enough, but most of the time they just kept going.
I went first. I ran across the road in front of a four-door sedan that clattered so hard it sounded like it was gonna collapse.
"Now look," I said, waving to Rob as I waited on the other side. "I'll do it again. See?"
The second car was some big truck, and I must have gone a little early because it really laid into its horn as I passed by. I made it back to Robbie's side of the street, panting, catching my breath with my hands on my knees.
"Great," he mumbled. "Can we go home now?"
"What? You haven't even gone yet."
"I don't want to," he said. "This is boring."
He pulled over on the side of the road and we walked to the blind curve near the terminal.
"It was right here, wasn't it?" he said, glancing over to me. No doubt about it: same trashcan, same lamppost, same dusty stretch of road. "It was right here."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Remember? I was on this side of the street right next to you, and then I ran across, and then you complained about how boring it was..."
"And then you said I had to go or else we weren't heading home," Bob said.
"Yeah. And then you ran and it was fine. I don't get why you'd say something like I pushed you," I said, feeling prickles of frustration on the back of my neck. "Why would I do that? We were friends."
"Come on, just do it once," I whined. "It'll be fine. I'm here."
"Okay, okay," Robbie finally said. He leaned into the street, his shoes firmly set on the ground. He waited.
He waited.
"How am I supposed to know?" he exclaimed, turning towards me. "I don't know why you did it, I just know you did it! You pushed me into the street!"
"Oh, so you're calling me a liar, huh?" I shouted.
Bob started talking over me, looking away. "Listen, I'm not saying--"
"Well, one of us has to be wrong!" I yelled, jabbing a finger towards the street. "I can't believe this! I go through all the trouble of finding you, trying to be a nice guy, and you go and call me a god damned liar!"
"I never asked to be found!" Bob screamed. His voice was so sharp and piercing it stopped me right in my tracks. Had I actually ever seen him angry before? "You think you're doing me some kind of a favor by turning up? You think you can just walk up to me and tell me we used to be friends?"
It was a long moment before I could even say anything. I could hear the far-off rumbling of traffic, but that was all.
"Well...well..." I tried. "I'm just trying to..."
Bob fixed me with a look, then turned around and started to walk away.
"You can walk home," he said. "I don't have time for this anymore."
I should have just left it right there, I know, but I'd gone through all the trouble and it was just so infuriating, watching him walk away like I was nothing. I reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his coat and I spat something like "you think you can just walk away from me?"
"Let go of me," he said, trying to pull away. "I said let go!"
I yanked back on him and he leaned back harder, and I thought to myself, If I'm not careful, that sleeve's gonna rip right in half...
So I let go.
He tumbled backwards into the street at the same time as a bus rounded the curve. I remember he turned his head towards it, his wide eyes catching the headlights.
There was a big rumbling sound coming up the road. Maybe it was a truck. More likely it was a bus, but a really big one. One of the double-deckers, maybe.
Robbie leaned forward, glancing nervously down the road. I remember putting a hand on his back to steady him. "Remember, you've got to really haul it across," I said.
A bus rounded the curve and I saw his heel come up off the ground. I gave him some momentum. Maybe I shoved him.
Robbie lurched into the street.
The bus's horn rang out over and over as it swerved hard to the left, swiping the trashcan on the other side of the street and sending it crashing to the ground. The lid rolled away down the road, clattering.
The bus had kicked up so much exhaust that I couldn't see what had happened for a few seconds. I waved it away, and as it settled, I saw Bob curled toward the ground, covering his head with his hands.
Slowly Bob took his hands away from his head, blinking the dust away from his eyes. He turned and looked down the road, watching the bus as it roared off into the distance.
And then he looked at me.
I stood there, gaping, trying to croak something out. I don't know what I was going to say. I don't know what I could say to that look of horror and disbelief and anger.
But I tried.
"I..."
I didn't even get out an "I'm sorry" before he was up off the ground and at my throat. He hurled himself at me so hard it almost knocked the wind out of me, and I felt him pulling at my hair, grabbing my face, trying to dig his nails into my skin with a yowl.
It was like fighting a wildcat. He got some good scratches on me, but I'd always been bigger and stronger anyway. I grabbed him by the collar and shoved him away, pushing him up against the lamppost on the side of the street.
I was only holding him there for a second, but a second was all it took for him to grab my hands with his own. I saw him pull in a breath and close his eyes tight, and I had no idea what he was going to do--pray, maybe, or something like that.
But then something slammed into me so hard it felt like a sledgehammer in the back of my head. Then came the burning-tingling, and then the bulb in the streetlight burst high above us with a pop and crack, raining down sparks into the street.
I don't remember what happened for a minute after that. I must have fallen down, because I remember looking up to see him walk away from the lamppost. I was trying to breathe straight, but my heart was pounding like a jackrabbit and the air felt too cool and sharp on my skin.
I watched Bob take a couple steps towards his car. He swayed back and forth a little, and he was rubbing at his throat.
"If I ever see you again," he said hoarsely, "I'm calling the cops. And forget about the show," he added. "Can't even take a little shock."
The bus laid on its horn, honking and kicking up a cloud of dust as it passed. I couldn't see anything for a second or two, it was so thick.
When it cleared, I saw Robbie on the other side of the street, clinging to a lamppost like it'd saved his life. He turned back to look at me, his eyes wide.
I grinned at him from where I stood, and started to laugh.
The End
S02E06: The Game Show Killer (Part 5)
5. Crash
"Now, for those of you just tuning in, let me explain a couple things!" Bob Sparker wound a finger into the collar of his shirt, tugging it outwards. Sweat glistened on his flushed brow, and his lips were pulled back in an ever-present grin.
"We have here Mr. Game Show Killer himself…" He grabbed Samuel Gale's hair and forced his face up. His contestant squinted into the spotlight. "...or Samuel Gale, as I know him," Sparker explained. "An old buddy of mine...or he used to be, before he nearly killed me twice!" He let go of Gale's hair and wiped his hand on the breast of his jacket. “This one goes out to all you bullied kids out there!" Sparker cackled. "Revenge is a dish best served crispy, folks! Time for high voltage shock number one!"
He turned, grabbed a lever on the wall, and pulled it down. There was a buzzing sound, and the very air itself seemed to crackle with electricity. Gale's fingernails dug into the arms of the electric chair as he sat straight up. It was a moment before he could hear Bob’s voice over the ringing in his ears, and feel the wiry grip of his hand on Gale’s shoulder.
“Sturdy fellow, isn’t he?” Bob snickered. “You know, Sammy, it’s a real shame. I kind of liked you, before you spent all your time bullying me and trying to get me killed!”
“I never meant to hurt you,” Gale wheezed, still bent over. “I didn’t…”
“You pushed me in front of a car!” Bob exclaimed, grabbing the arms of the electric chair and leaning over into his face. His eyes were wild, and his hair seemed to float, full with static electricity. “And then you tried to choke me! If I weren’t such a live-wire, it might have worked, too!”
“Because you wouldn’t listen!” Gale yelled back.
Bob wheeled away from him and slammed the lever down again. The second shock ripped through Gale’s body. “That’s right, I didn’t listen!” Sparker hissed. “Why would I listen? Why would I care about you? Always needling at me, insulting me, acting like you were my friend…”
“You...you did care,” Gale retorted weakly, bringing up his gaze to stare at the other man, his eyes sunken. “You always cared. You were always there.”
For just a moment Bob’s face became blank--his eyes wide in something like confusion or, perhaps, terror--but it quickly turned to rage as he lifted the lever up and slammed it down again, again, again. Gale’s limbs stiffened, his eyes fluttering wildly, as the world became white at the edges and his body sang with pain. At the end of it, his head lolled, his lips moving.
“What was that?” Bob asked, tilting his head and leaning over to listen.
Gale’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but the microphones picked it up. “Code red,” he breathed. “Code red.”
Bob pulled back, laughing. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “You want to call it quits now, huh? Too bad! You wanted to be on my show so bad, you’re gonna stay!”
“Code red!” Gale raised his voice as much as he could muster. He looked over one shoulder, then the other, searching for the presence of someone he couldn’t see. “Code--”
At that moment, the sound of ripping drywall and buckling metal rang through the air. Dust billowed into the studio. As it cleared, the silhouette of Speed Demon’s car could be seen, its fender looking worse for wear. An unsteady Margaret King stepped out of the passenger seat, coughing and waving away the dust as she covered her mouth. The cameras turned to focus on her, the car, and the giant hole that they’d made in the wall.
“That’s enough,” she finally announced, after catching her breath. She stepped forward, cracking her knuckles. “Speed Demon, go get that guy out of the chair! I’ll deal with Bob!”
Bob stared, and then burst into a cackle. “Well! How about this, folks? Miss Margaret King, the princess of Electricopolis, makes a mess of my studio and then tells me my game is up! Now, now,” he said condescendingly, waggling a finger at her. “I’m the star here, not you, and I say the show must go on!”
“You think I’m gonna just stand here and watch you kill a man?” Margaret responded. “I don’t want to have to fight you, but…”
“Fight me!” Bob laughed. “I’d love to see you try--and I bet the audience would, too! But first…”
Speed Demon was still struggling with the belts of the electric chair. Bob shoved him away, cleanly pulled the straps off in a few smooth motions, and hefted his contestant up out of the chair. “Sorry, Sammy,” he hissed. “I’ve gotta borrow this for a moment.”
He threw Sam Gale onto the ground nearby. Several technicians scurried forward to pull him offstage. Bob Sparker whirled around, sat in the chair, reached back a hand and gripped the lever. “Now remember,” he said, winking at the cameras. “Don’t try this at home, folks--I’m a professional!”
“Wait!” Margaret yelled, stepping forward. “What are you doing? You can’t--”
He yanked the lever down. There was a flash of light, the smell of smoke and, rising above the gasps of the crowd, the sound of crackling and Sparker’s high-pitched, maniacal laugh.
Margaret shielded her eyes, blinking away the brightness. But from within the cloud of smoke and dust, a hand darted out that raked sharp nails across her cheek. She yelped and stumbled backwards, and soon the rest of Bob Sparker lunged from the cloud, nearly knocking her down onto the floor.
Margaret caught herself on one of the painted lightning bolts. She steadied herself and forced her head upwards, taking in the form of the man she used to call her best friend.
He looked like a monster. His green suit was ragged and spiked at the shoulders, and his lips were pulled back in a grin so extreme she could hear his teeth grinding together. His eyes darted back and forth madly before landing on her, and his voice was strained, like his vocal chords were too tight. “Sorry about that pretty face of yours,” he remarked, flexing his hands, his fingers stiff and tense like the claws of an animal. “I was aiming for your throat!”
“Bob, stop this!” Margaret protested. She weaved back and away from another swing of his hand. As his nails passed close to her neck, she could feel a tingling, like static electricity jumping from his skin to hers. “Gahh!”
“Oh, you felt that, huh?” he taunted. “That’s just a little taste, sweetheart! Lay a hand on me and I’ll light you up like a Christmas tree!”
“Fine!” she said, exasperated. “Then I won’t lay a hand on you, that’s all!” She stepped backwards out of the range of his hands, once, twice--and then brought her foot up to slam the toe of her rubber-soled shoe up into his chin.
He went flying, hit the side of the set and crumpled to the ground in a groaning heap. For a moment there was silence in the studio, and then the audience burst into a flurry of cheers, whistles and applause.
Margaret stood there, panting, and then turned to the audience. She could barely be heard over the roar of the crowd. “You shut up!” she spat, waving a hand sharply. “I can’t believe you people! Not a single one of you did anything to stop him! And you,” she said, jabbing a finger towards the tech crew. “Turn off those cameras! This show is over!”
