“Hard to believe you’ve lasted this long!” one of the camera operators jokes.
I gulp. The previous host lasted three episodes. Then, POOF. Now, here I am, shaking in my shoes, scared as a child on the first day of school, about to go live for the Season Three Premiere.
“Ready Bruce?” the producers shouts. He doesn’t wait for a response.
The lights dim, the audience shuffles in their seats.
My worried face appears on my monitor.
Smoke fills the studio.
(Enter Music)
We’re live.
“Howdy doody hobgoblins and hooligans!” I wipe my forehead, “Phew! What a long strange trip it’s been!”
The audience remains silent.
“My name’s Bruce Davies, the longest-lasting host of…”
(Cue the audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”
(Overhead camera)
It’s Devil’s Night. The audience consists of ghosts and goblins and creepy-looking creatures. The clarity of their costumes troubles me. Then again, they’re probably not costumes.
(Camera one)
“Alrighty then. What do you say? Should we bring out tonight’s contestant?”
The audience shrugs.
I yank my collar, while delivering my best Bob Barker impression.
“Lemme repeat the question, for those of you at the back: Should we bring out tonight’s contestant?”
(Cue audience)
Audience applauds.
“Now, that’s more like it.”
(Cue creepy music)
(Camera four)
A great hulk of a man clad in a bazaar superhero costume runs across the stage, flapping his arms in the air. His muscles ripple as he moves.
The audience roars.
The contestant, who’s covered head-to-toe in tight-fitting spandex, is showcasing a pallet of perfect teeth. His cape is yellow, the rest of him is orange. There’s a sinister-looking logo on his chest, V-shaped, with a bloodied eyeball in the middle.
(Camera two)
I point.
“Yikes. Wouldn’t wanna meet this fella in a back alley, if ya know what I mean?”
The audience boos.
“Alright, alright. Knock it off!”
(Split screen)
I turn to the contestant. “Tell us about yourself. Starting with that strange costume you’re wearing.”
(Camera five)
The contestant, standing at the podium, leans down to reach the microphone.
“Well, Bruce, my name’s Tyrone Jackson. I’m from Jersey City. And I’m here to kick some ass!”
The audience jumps to their feet. There’s a ruckus in the back. Someone is ejected. I sigh. Already, things are falling apart, on live television, no less. Good thing no one on Earth watches this show, aside from hapless few who sign up to die.
“W-well then,” I stutter. “We’ll see about that.”
(Camera one)
I straighten my tie. “Alrighty. I do believe it’s time to…”
(Cue audience)
“BRING OUT THE DEVIL.”
(Cue creepy music)
Flames flash across the ominous stage. The audience ahhs as Damion appears, wearing his classic red leather devil suit, and impossibly dark sunglasses.
(Split screen)
Damion regards the large specimen standing before him with contempt. He removes his sunglasses and tosses them to the man, who fumbles them in surprise.
“Whoops,” Damion snickers. “A wee bit jumpy, eh?”
The contestant growls. “No sir.” His voice is as thick as an elephant’s truck. He grunts, then to my surprise, he crushes the sunglasses with one hand, and tosses them aside.
The audience gasps.
(Camera one)
Words cannot describe my fear. The previous host disrespected Damion; look what happened to him. Cautiously, I face the contestant.
“Um, now that we know each other a little bit better, why don’t you tell the Devil what your heart desires?”
(Camera four)
The broad-shouldered contestant licks his face, then leans into the mic. “Bruce,” he says with a simper, “I’m here to steal your job.”
The audience jumps to their feet, chanting. “STEAL YOUR JOB…. STEAL YOUR JOB….”
(Split screen)
Unknowingly, I clutch my chest. My heart is thumping irregularly again. Meanwhile, the audience continues chanting: “STEAL YOUR JOB…. STEAL YOUR JOB….”
Damion is enraged, eyes like fireballs.
“SILENCE!”
The audience obeys.
(Close up of the Devil)
Damion smirks, fingers fidgeting. “Now, that’s more like it.”
His voice slithers down my spine like warm soup.
(Split screen)
Damion, looking sharply at the contestant, snaps his fingers. A contract appears. He hands it to Tyrone, who’s shaking his head.
The audience leans in.
“Damion,” the contestant says, as if talking to a child, “We don’t need no contract.”
He tears it into tiny pieces.
The audience gasps.
“Holy hell!” I blurt.
Damion grimaces. His pitchforked tail is flapping furiously behind him.
“Well then,” Damion’s voice drops an octave, which I believe to be his true voice. “What do you have in mind?”
The audience is dead silent.
(Camera three)
The contestant rubs his hands. “A contest, plain and simple.”
(Camera two).
“A contest?” my voice squeaks. I regard the audience, “Whatcha think? Should Tyrone get his contest?”
“CONTEST…. CONTEST…. CONTEST….”
(Overhead camera)
Damion is seething.
“Well then,” I say shakily, “The audience has spoken.”
The audience cheers.
(Camera two)
“But,” I interrupt, “You know the rules, right?”
(Cue the audience)
“THE DEVIL’S IN THE DETAILS.”
(Camera three)
Damion crosses his arms. “Yes. Yes. There shall be a contest.” He shoots me a troubling glance. I’m the sacrificial lamb, his eyes tell me. Then Damion spanks the contestant with his tail. To my amazement, the contestant shoves the devil, who flies across the stage.
Eggs splatter across the stage, as the audience grows increasingly unruly.
The stage hand cleans up the mess.
(Camera two)
My pale face reappears on the monitors.
“Well, ain’t that the Devil incarnate?”
“Shut up, Bruce.” Damion snaps. Suddenly, he’s eight feet tall, and towering over the contestant. “You…ever…touch…me…again…” He digs his bony finger deep into the contestant’s well-chiselled chest.
All at once, the studio walls disappear. Suddenly, we’re hovering high above a volcano. The heat is face-melting. As I get a better view, my stomach sinks. That’s not a volcano down there. It’s Hell. The screams of the dead crowd my mind with terror.
Cameras mounted on drones whizz by in a blur. The Devil’s eyes are glowing red. “Well then,” he snarls. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” He snaps his finger. An old-fashioned school desk appears, with a chair on each end. Damion points to a chair. “Sit.”
I sit.
He regards the contestant with malice. “Go on, then.”
Reluctantly, the contestant sits, which isn’t easy. The chair barely contains his extraordinary girth.
Face to face, with only a small desk between us, Tyrone and I exchange looks. I’m scared stupid. He’s gonna make mincemeat out of me. Tyrone, on the other hand, is searing with adrenaline, and full of confidence.
“Your job is mine,” he mutters through clenched teeth.
I shudder.
Meanwhile, Damion is now dressed like a referee, wetting the whistle in his mouth. “The contest is simple. Arm wrestle. Best two out of three.”
The audience erupts.
Damion hovers over us. “Go on then, lock hands.”
We do. My hand disappears inside Tyrone’s. He squeezes. The pain is egregious.
“I’m left-handed,” he boasts, “but that shouldn’t be a problem.”
The devil shrugs.
The audience leans in.
“Who’s ready to rumble?” Damion asks the bloodthirsty audience.
The audience goes ballistic.
“Now wait one minute!” I try unsuccessfully to free my hand.
Damion places his cold, clammy hands over ours. “Aaaaad GO!”
He blows the whistle.
With one quick swoop Tyrone snaps my arm like a twig.
The audience boos.
I cry in agony. My shoulder is broken. My hand hurts like hell. Clearly, I need medical attention.
Damion grins. “The contestant is up by one.”
Tyrone flexes his muscles to the adoring audience. “You’re next, Damion.”
The audience gasps.
The devil sneers, places a hand on my shoulder. Immediately, a surge of supernatural strength arrives.
“You okay Bruce?” the Devil teases. “You’re not going to lose your job, on live television no less, to this despicable dingbat in tights, are you?”
I can’t tell if he’s being ironic, or just plain mean. Probably both.
Damion isn’t finished. “Not to sound offensive, but…” He flaps the contestant’s cape. “Whatcha supposed to be anyway? Captain Steroid?”
The audience chuckles.
Tyrone tries to crush my hand, but with my new-found strength, he cannot.
“Aaaaand GO!” Damion blows the whistle.
(Split screen)
The audience is chanting, but I don’t make out what they’re saying. I’m busy fighting for my job. And my life. Grunting and groaning, I edge the contestant’s arm toward the desk. He’s stubborn, and refuses to give up. Our arms are locked. Back and forth we go. Sweat stings my eyes. I panic. He’s overpowering me. The hairs on my hand brush the desk, my arm is bending in all the wrong places. My grip tightens. Muscles explode from my biceps. With every ounce of strength I have, I force his hand to the desk.
The audience boos.
(Camera three)
“Would ya look at that!” Damion gloats. “Didn’t see THAT coming!”
Tyrone is glaring at me. He knows I’m cheating. In a flash, he leaps to his feet, but Damion forces him to sit. “Going somewhere?”
Tyrone is about to speak, but thinks better of it.
“This is it,” Damion declares. “The final countdown.”
He snaps his fingers. From out of nowhere, the Final Countdown soars, catchy keyboard riffs and all, sending a surge of adrenaline my way. Then he forces my hand into the contestant’s.
“Now wait one minute!” the contestant cries, then offers his left hand. “Fare is fare.” He winks.
Damion shrugs. “Aaaaand go!”
The sound of the whistle sends us off.
(Split screen)
Tyrone’s grip tightens, as he forces my arm backwards. But I resist. Veins explode from my neck, as my left arm bends unnaturally. Back and forth we go. I’m about to give in, when another surge of strength arrives like cavalry.
I grit my teeth. “Oh no you don’t.”
All my knuckles crack at once.
Tyrone scoffs. “Give up, Bruce. Your days are numbered.”
He forces my arm dangerously close to the desk. I scramble, cursing and kicking and crying, trying every trick I know. But it’s no use. Nothing works. I’m losing.
My foot finds a latch. “What the?” Then it hits me, clear as a summer sky: This is all an illusion. Trickery coming from Damion’s sadistic and twisted mind. We’re still inside the cheap Hollywood studio! None of this is real.
Tyrone is growling like a frothing dog, foam fuming from his tightly-masked face. “You’re going down, Bruce!”
He applies more pressure.
My eyes are bulging from their sockets. I can’t take much more of this. Without hesitating, my foot finds the latch. I pull the lever.
“See you in Hell, Captain Steroid.”
All at once, the ground opens up, and the contestant disappears into the flames of Hell. A furious flash of lightning shoots across the sky. Then suddenly, we’re back inside the studio, and I’m on my feet, staring into the lens of a camera, clutching my chest.
(Split screen)
Damion sneaks me a sinister smirk. “Excellent work Bruce. Cunning and creative.”
I shrug, trying to catch my breath.
“There’s a lesson we’ve learned tonight.” Damion raises his arms to his adorning audience.
“THE DEVIL GETS HIS DUE.”
“Well that’s enough fun for one evening.” Damion tips his non-existent hat, then disappears under a cloud of thick smoke, leaving me to fend for myself.
(Camera one)
“That’s the last we’ll see of Tyrone. Unless of course he makes it into a Marvel movie.”
Rotten eggs pummel the stage.
“Well, I hope you had as much fun as I did.” I wipe egg from my face. “And I hope to see you next week for another exciting addition of…”
(Cue the audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”