Tales of Sin and Madness by McBean Brett

Author:McBean, Brett [McBean, Brett]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: LegumeMan Books
Published: 2011-01-10T05:00:00+00:00

Part 2: The Game

1: (from the house of George and Francis Murly)

It was just an ordinary Friday night for George and Francis Murly. They had cooked up some popcorn, the old fashioned way in a pan with insalubrious amounts of oil, and were sitting on their old, tattered synthetic fiber couch with the tall electric fan blowing much needed air onto their aged faces. The T.V. was locked onto an umpteenth re-run of The Sound of Music.

“I’ll tell ya. This heat’s gonna be the death of me.”

“Oh go on,” Francis laughed. “It’s not that bad. You’re just an old grouch.”

“Am not,” George huffed, stuffing a large mouthful of popcorn into his mouth.

“I’ll tell you what will do you in. Eating too much popcorn all at once. You’ll choke.”

George huffed one more time and snatched up the remote. “I’m sick of this damn movie. Seen it, well, at least fifty times.”

“Oh you have not,” Francis chuckled and scooped a small amount of popcorn into her mouth. “You’ve seen it the same number of times as I have. About four or five.”

“That’s enough. I’m seeing what else is on.”

Francis shrugged and continued munching on the popcorn. She didn’t care, just as long as they had something decent to watch.

George flicked though various programs: movies, sports events, documentaries, before he stopped on channel six.

On screen was a scrawny, unkempt looking man. He was behind a desk and smiling a toothy smile. He nodded to somebody off the screen.

“Who on earth is that?” Francis gasped. “He looks dirty.”

“Be quiet,” George snapped. “I wanna listen.”

The camera panned to the rather haggard looking band leader, Dave Morrison. He cut the band off with a limp wave then leaned into the microphone. “And now. Heeeeeere’s Sammy.”

As the camera panned across the stage, settling on the man behind the desk, there was only the smallest amount of clapping. It was faint and sounded strange, echoing through the theatre. The man behind the desk smiled and joined in on the clapping. “Thank you, Dave.” He pulled the desk microphone closer. “Welcome, viewers, to…‘Who wants to be a Survivor!’” He raised his arms in a flailing manner. The few claps and whistles again filled the air. The camera remained positioned on the man.

“My name is Sam. I’ll be your host for the night. The old host, Marty Laffin, is dead. I punctured his throat with this knife.” He brought up a large, grimy knife. “Like this,” he said. He then mimed the way he stabbed Marty, rolling his eyes and lolling out his tongue as he mimicked the way Marty had looked as he died. Then he placed the knife onto the desk. “Well, I suppose you viewers want to know what this new show is all about. You heathens!” he bellowed.

The microphones around the studio just managed to pick up the response of numerous people, who also shouted the word, heathen.

“Your religion is television! May you be scorned by our Lord and Saviour!”

Again, the mimicking from around the studio.

The man gestured with his hands for quiet.

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