Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

“Well, what’s your name, big boy?”

The immense figure gazed at the bloody corpse of Doris. He closed his eyes, his face pale. “John,” he said.

“John! Welcome to my show. You know how the game works. I bet you have watched a lot of game shows in your time, being the mindless zombie that you are. You are programmed by the rich pigs on what to like, what to watch, and they send secret messages through the T.V shows that fuck with your brain. I know how they work, and so does my family!”

The man stood up and raised his arms as if joining in on a chorus of “Praise the Lord!” in his local church.

“This is the evil that must be destroyed! It was put on this earth as a test of our faith and conviction of our souls!”

The man closed his eyes and listened to his followers sing out his testimony. The camera remained on the sweating man. Finally he sat down and took a deep breath.

“We will convert you all and reveal the true evil.”

He opened his eyes and grinned at the large man. “Music please, Dave.”

Again the arpeggio piece was heard in the background.

“First question, Little John. What is the evil which we are trying to dispel?”

The large man looked to the audience, then back at the little bald madman.

“Ah, television,” he said.

“That is correct!” the man proclaimed. “There is hope for humanity yet!”

He wiped a stream of sweat from his brow and sighed. “Next question, Little John. Who won at the end of the first Rocky movie, and how?”

John frowned. It was a frown that could’ve suggested he was confused as to why this man had asked him a relatively simple question. He cleared his throat.

“Ah, Apollo Creed won. By, the, ah, he had the most points?”

“Very good.” The man clapped. “You must be a Rocky fan?”

“Yes.”

“Me too. Brilliantly made films. You’re doing very well, Little John. Isn’t he, Dave?”

The camera swung around.

“If you say so,” Dave said, his fingers moving rapidly up and down the keyboard.

Panning back to the man, he sat smirking, nodding his head. “That’s right, Dave. If I say so. Next question. How many people did Andrei Chikatilo kill?”

John gazed down at the lifeless body of Doris and began to sob.

“Do you know?” Luke asked his son.

“Fifty-three. I’m pretty sure he has the record.”

“I don’t think John knows,” Luke sighed.

“I can’t watch,” Pam McGregor cried and stood up. “This is horrible.”

She stormed out of the lounge. A moment later she popped her weeping head around the corner of the doorway. “But let me know if he gets the question right, okay?”

“Hurry up, Little John. Time’s running out. How many people did Andrei Chikatilo brutally murder?”

Lou Montgomery threw a handful of potato chips at the television screen. “Come on, John! Take a guess for Christ’s sake!”

“Do you know?” Phillip Adams said, kicking Lou in the back.

Lou turned his head and stuck up his finger. “No. Do you?”

The other guys in the room laughed.

“Face it, both of you are morons,” Jay Waterhouse said. “If either of you were up there, you would be killed. He killed fifty-three. You see, he was allowed to murder so many and remain undetected for so long because of the bullshit Russian totalitarian system…”

“Shut the fuck up,” James Gardiner said. “John’s time’s up.”

With the room falling to complete silence, all men gazed at the television screen.

“…but I’ll give you a guess,” the bald man said. “Because I’m such a nice guy.”

The blubbering man wiped his eyes. “Please don’t kill me,” he bawled. “Please!”

The man behind the desk sighed. “Take a guess.”

“Thirty-five,” John cried.

The man shook his head deliberately. “Uh-uh. Soooryyyy,” he sung. “Guess you should’ve been paying more attention to world issues instead of watching the evil brainwashing machine. Now, how will you like to die?” He turned and looked directly down the camera.

“Fucking creepy guy,” Phillip Adams muttered.

The men in the room murmured in agreement.

“I hope you are all enjoying my show at home. I bet most homes in the country are switched on to me tonight.”

He turned to the hysterical man. “John! Choose your fate!”

Into the frame walked the two bald henchmen. They grabbed John’s arms and pulled them away from his face.

“Answer our leader!” one of them cried. “Answer or we’ll choose it for you!”

The door of the dorm room opened and Mike Barry walked in. He glanced over at the group of friends sitting on the floor and on the bed, his bed, and closed the door.

“Hey, Mike,” Lou called over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe what the fuck is going on.”

“Yeah, I heard,” he said, throwing his bag onto the floor. “Some guy came rushing into the library and told us that some psycho cult had broken into the Marty Laffin show and was killing people. I though it was a joke at first, but…”

“Choose to be shot!” Phillip Adams yelled.

“Really,” Jay Waterhouse huffed. “I would choose to be stabbed in my groin until I died of blood loss.”

All but Mike laughed.

“You all are sick,” he said. “How can you get enjoyment from watching people get killed?”

An uncomfortable hush blanketed the room.

“We’re not enjoying it,” Lou finally said. “It is horrible. You’re right. But it’s real. This is really happening, right now.”

“Yeah, it’s reality,” Jay added. “Like watching the news, or one of them reality shows. Only this ain’t censored. Hey Lou, can you pass me the chips.”

A gunshot, loud and authentic, blasted through the small dorm room.

“Holy shit,” Phillip muttered.

“Damn, I missed it,” Jay sighed. “What happened?”

“John chose to be shot. In the back of the head.”

“Best way to go,” Jay said, nodding.

“This is fucking unbelievable,” Mike groaned.

“Take a seat,” Lou called. “Come on, Mikey. We’re not making fun of the situation. It’s all just so… unbelievably horrible.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna take a shower,” Mike said.

Phillip shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Mike glanced over at the screen. What he saw mortified him. The camera was lingering on the dead body of the man. The way he had fallen to the floor, right next to some woman, his face, or what was left of it, was staring straight at the camera.

“Disgusting,” James Gardiner said.

The camera panned back to the host. The bald man with the long beard was grinning. He looked across at Dave Morrison. “How do you think the show’s going so far?”

The camera swung to a very pale and puffy eyed Dave. “You’re sick,” he breathed. “Killing innocent people.”

The camera remained on a tearful but angry Dave. There was a murmur from off to the side, presumably where the bald man was.

“Why do you people listen to this psycho?” Dave cried, looking towards the audience. “He’s talking about television brainwashing people, but that’s what he’s doing to you! He’s using you people! He’s preying on your vulnerability and brainwashing you all!”

One of the man’s followers rushed across the stage, into the view of the camera.

Dave remained behind the large array of keyboards. “Fuck you! I’m not afraid of you sick people. You’re nobodies, insignificant los…”

The audience gasped with fright as the bald man rammed a large kitchen knife into the top of Dave Morrison’s head.

Gasps turned to screams and the clamorous stomping of feet swarmed the soundtrack. The camera suddenly pivoted upwards, showing the rafters of the ceiling, gunshots ringing out in droves, before the screen turned to static.