AnotherOldGuy
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2012
- Posts
- 393
9 May 2028:
Marcus Bennett stood on the steps of The Whitney, listening to the bubbling fountain, breathing in the fragrance of rhododendrons and azaleas, and thinking to himself, Smells like Death, just around the corner.
It was a beautiful, pleasant night in May, a Wednesday night. More specifically, it was the second Wednesday in May, which meant that tomorrow was Second Thursday. He could still remember the first time the Second Thursday television advertisement was aired.
"Not just a Thursday, but Second Thursday ... and y'all know what that means! Tomorrow ... Breakfast is served!"
Tomorrow, Second Thursday, the two teams competing this weekend would meet for the first time over an elegant dinner, right here in the 19th century mansion-turned-restaurant. Although some of the Combatants from the Enforcement Team had been here before, this Thursday night the Combatants from the Convict Team would be here for the first time.
Of course, if things went well for them, it would only be the first of two visits to The Whitney for the Convicts. Returning was, of course, the goal of this weekend's competition. In the 6 years of Breakfast at the Whitney, 18 Convicts had reached The Whitney, earning a pardon, a million dollar cash prize, and -- if they chose it -- a new life under a new identity.
Eighteen... Marcus mused. Eighteen ... out of how many...? He didn't really have to wonder such a question; he knew exactly how many Convict Combatants had begun Breakfast ... how many had been killed in The Arena, how many had been injured to incapacity, how many had withdrawn -- either due to injury or, simply, fear of a brutal death -- how many had been raped ... all broadcasted live on Pay-Per-View via cable or the internet.
He drew a final, deep breath of the night air, and turned to his assistant, Margaret, asking, "Maggie, my dear. Will you be a peach and put a call to Peter. I have an idea I'd like to see them incorporate into the show."
Margaret raised an eye brow at Marcus as he passed. "I will, sir, but Mister Davisson has repeatedly voiced his ... reluctance, shall we call it? ... to your ideas. He is the Director, after all."
"Yes, I know," he said, smiling back to her, and allowing his eyes to fall for a moment on the impressive body that was, as she knew, the reason she had been hired. "But ... I am the Executive Producer ... and while he may run the show ... I pay his salary ... so..."
"Yes, sir, I'll take care of it," she said, knowing that when Marcus Bennett finished a sentence with So... he was actually saying Do it, or find a new job.
Marcus disappeared into the mansion, smiling as he contemplated his newest, ingenious innovation to improve the ratings. Rape, murder, pillage, he thought, recalling seeing his first real pirate movie as a kid, not one of that Disney pieces of comical crap. Rape, murder, pillage ... that's where the ratings come from ... only ... maybe we need a little more pillaging...?
He headed upstairs to prepare for a hot bath, an early night's sleep, and some deep thought about this weekend's episode. And as he laid back in the tub, being scrubbed by the strong hands of one naked servant while being pleasured by the gentle hands of a second, he thought, Maybe we need more of all three... hmm...
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