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 how many had been killed in The Arena, how many had been injured to incapacity, how many had withdrawn -- either due to injury or, simply, fear of a brutal death -- how many had been raped ...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...
Last edited by AnotherOldGuy : 02-29-2012 at 09:37 PM.
Owen dropped into his old recliner, turned on the ePad, slid his finger up and down, left and right, tapped a few times, and smiled as he found the internet advertisement he was looking for.
The camera shot traveled slowly above a long dining table filled with a banquet fit for a king. Down each side of the table, talking and laughing and toasting one another with flutes full of champagne, were two dozen men and women in tuxes and elegant dresses. And at the end of the table looking between his guests with appreciation, was Marcus Bennett, host of Breakfast at the Whitney.
When the camera shot closed on him, a butler stepped up beside him with a shiny, stainless steel platter, topped by a domed lid. As he lifted the lid, revealing a Mac 10 with a barrel extension, he looked directly into the camera and smiled, saying, "You never know what you might find just laying around The Whitney on a Friday night."
Suddenly, one of the male guests leaped across the screen, directly in front of Marcus to snatch up the machine pistol. As the camera pulled back, mayhem exploded in the dining hall. The guests were suddenly leaping across the table to attack those opposite them. Fists flew, champagne bottles crashed upon skulls, a steak knife jabbed downward to pin a hand to the fine linen covered table top, and chairs flew in every direction. One of the male guests did his Hulk impression, ripping his shirt to shreds, exposing a perfectly sculpted body, while another man slammed a woman to the table and, with a single movement, stripped her dress cleanly away, leaving her naked as yet another woman grasped her face and kissed her passionately.
And all the while, as screams of anger and pain filled the room, as the Mac 10 riddled the wall behind him with bullet holes, and -- following an explosion that was undoubtedly a shotgun blast -- as a body sailed across the table just inches before him, Marcus simply sat at his end of the table, sipping at his flute of bubbly, watching the melee with muted delight.
Marcus was again highlighted in a close up and, lifting his flute of champagne as if toasting, smiled and said, "Breakfast ... is served."
The screen suddenly went black, followed immediately by a list of phone numbers and web addresses; a dramatic voice over instructed viewers on how to buy the Pay-Per-View and Arena tickets.
The information page was replaced by a highlight reel from the previous episode of Breakfast as the voice over announced, "Breakfast at the Whitney is proud to announce the return of Richard "Big Dick" Manchester--"
Owen sat up taller, staring into the little screen with anticipation, knowing what was coming.
The view cut away to an upper body shot of a well muscled, shirtless man who appeared to be exerting himself in some fashion. When the camera pulled back to reveal his moniker in big, dramatic letters across the bottom of the screen, strategically concealed between the letters was a woman splayed out over the hood of a car, face down, as Big Dick pounded his groin against her naked buttocks. Then, not just unashamed but proud of the way he was raping the woman, he pointed a finger directly ahead -- the 3D technology seeming to put the digit right in Owen's face.
"Get your ticket now!" he commanded. He grabbed a handful of the woman's hair and jerked her head upwards; through tear filled eyes and horrific sobbing, she pleaded for help. As Big Dick lowered his face close to the woman's, he finished, "Or ... I'll come pay you a little visit."
The image was quickly replaced by one of a scantily clad, well endowed woman whipping a man lashed to the wall of a dark, decrepit building. The announcer's voice returned, "And making her third appearance ... Marilyn Scary Mary Grimes!"
The image changed quickly to a close up view of Marilyn's face and chest -- easily measuring 40DD -- as the announcer continued, "And don't forget to register for your chance to--"
Marilyn reached up and pulled one side of her leather bikini top away, causing a breast -- with its hardened, pierced nipple in full, un-pixelated view -- to pop out like a released tiger fleeing a cage. She finished the announcer's line, growling, "Suck this!"
The view changed quickly to one of Marilyn sitting back in a recliner with a bound man between her legs, head between her parted thighs; her head rolled as if she was enjoying what the man's mouth was doing to her pussy. The announcer returned, "Millions will enter ... only one will win."
The camera closed on Marilyn's face as she looked down and commanded, "Tell'em!"
And then the camera quickly dropped to her groin, barely avoiding showing anything too personal, as she wrenched the man's head back and, with a mouth glistening from her juices, he pleaded, "Buy your tickets ... please!"
Owen smiled broadly. He looked to the coffee table, to the receipt he'd printed after ordering the Pay-Per-View on his computer. He'd wanted to go see Breakfast in person; he had a friend who'd bought Nose Bleed tickets for the Peanut Gallery Grand Stands, but Owen couldn't get the time off from work to make the trip. Next month, he thought to himself.
He looked around his home and realized he had a lot of work ahead of him. He had fourteen people coming over Friday night and twice that on Saturday; Sunday was still up in the air because, if this month's episode was anything like last months, it would be over before the competition's second sunrise.
His party was, of course, Potluck and BYOB. Owen was, after all, paying the $595 for the Interactive Package, so the least his guests could do was supply the chips, dips, and drinks.
Then most important contribution his guests were making, of course, were in screens! Owen only owned the one flat screen television, an 84" diagonal, 3D high def' unit, and the Interactive Package Control Unit that FedEx had delivered the day before had the capability of showing different camera view on 46 different screens! So, for more than a week, this weekend's guests had been dropping off flat screen TVs, computers, wall projectors, and anything else they had that could take a wire or a wifi signal.
Owen had never been much of a computer nerd, so he'd paid the 12 year old neighbor kid a hundred bucks to set the system up for him. He'd originally offered the kid any seat in the house for the weekend long event. But, of course, the boy's mom had an issue with her son watching real torture, rape, and killing, despite the fact that the simulated violence in his 3D video games was nearly as real as real.
Owen tested the remote control again. Pointing it at the variety of screens filling nearly every inch of the living room's walls as well as nearly every horizontal surface, he switched from a camera that looked at The Whitney itself; to one that showed the DSA Hotel, once the Detroit School of Arts but now Four Star accommodations for Breakfast's upper crust viewers.
Staying at the DSA was, Owen imagined, like sitting front row at the finish line of Daytona. The hotel was connected to several of the other buildings inside the Arena via Sky Bridges, giving the hotel's guests the ability to move about the Arena and follow the action, as well as watch the action elsewhere on the hundreds of monitors placed throughout the Hotel and the Sky Bridges.
Owen was jealous of these people, but -- like with any concert or major league sporting event -- sometimes the best view was the one from one's own couch! He would be able to see the action from any of the 1,000+ cameras, and in high definition 3D. It wasn't like being there; it was better!
He tested several of the special functions, including Zoom. He wasn't actually zooming a camera, but was instead isolating and expanding a portion of the view provided by the selected camera. He zoomed in on what The Tweeters jokingly called Big Dick's First Ride. Just after 3am, Sunday morning, in his first appearance, Richard had brutally raped a Convict over the bonnet of the 2010 Jaguar. Half a dozen cameras with night vision or infrared had broadcasted the rape live, as well as Big Dick's turn toward the DSA's lobby -- just 20 feet away -- and subsequent cum shot into the night air. The footage set an all time hit record on the internet that still stood to this very day!
Owen turned on the Voice Control function and said, "Motion all screens."
Instantly, every screen in his home switched to cameras that were picking up motion. Most showed Workers checking cameras or rearranging the Arena; before each episode of Breakfast, many of the cars, trash bins, and other portable items inside the Arena were moved about, to create a new battle zone.
Owen caught sight of a Test Bots passing a perimeter camera and quickly said, "All cameras follow Test Bot."
Instantly, every camera not already following one of the Test bots -- automated man-sized machines on treads -- that were hurrying around the Arena panned to sync with the nearest one. This, Owen knew, would be how most of the action would be revealed to the audience, by motion detectors picking up the combatants -- both Enforcers and Convicts -- as they ran around in both the daylight and darkness over the 48 hours.
Owen watched with amazement as the cameras automatically followed the Test Bots, until suddenly, all of the screens before Owen went black. A message appeared:
STAND BY, PLEASE:
BATW will resume broadcast after work crews
have completed hiding the weapons cashes.
For a nominal fee, you may now view highlights
from previous episodes of BATW using your
Owen set the remote aside. There was too much work to do. The big night was tomorrow, and he was excited. He looked down to his lap and found his dick hard and thought, Excited ... in more ways than one. He looked to the remote again, snatched it up, and hurried through the selection of past shows and the Favorite Scenes menu until he found Big Dick's last conquest. He had to pay a Replay Fee, but it was only $4.95 and would be in his Saved Menu for 7 days. With no current girlfriend, he'd get a lot of use out of it, he knew.
Owen dropped his pants and pressed play. He beat off to the image of the big man raping the half-stripped convict who was tied -- in broad daylight -- to a chain link fence, almost directly below the Peanut Gallery Grand Stands. The incident had been expected; the woman had been captured the previous day, and Richard had put out a challenge to the last two surviving male Convicts to step up and prevent the rape.
They balked, and before a worldwide audience of more than 3 billion -- larger even than the previous record holding television event, the funeral for Princess Di -- Big Dick fucked, then strangled the woman and refused to let the Referees cut her down if the pussies didn't come out to face him. She hung there until the 8pm deadline, six hours later.
Ironically, the men who'd left her to Big Dick's terror were both killed as they headed across Canfield Street, thinking they were clear to reach the safety of The Whitney's front steps. And as punishment for their cowardice, Big Dick began to strip their bodies with the intent to fuck them up their asses, but before he could get his own pants down, the Referees brought him down with a stun gun and rushed him off -- in shackles -- to the Hospital to be checked out.
As he watched Big Dick pull out of the immobilized woman and, as always, spray his load toward the audience, Owen erupted as well, making a mess on the back of his couch. He dropped into his recliner, panting, and thinking, This is going to be the greatest night of my life.
He replayed the selection again, and then again for good measure, reminding himself to later clean up the mess he'd just made on the upholstery his friends would be sitting on tomorrow night.
Last edited by AnotherOldGuy : 03-01-2012 at 03:19 AM.
OOC -- The links below are to "Personal Threads", in this case Interviews between Marcus Bennett, the "Breakfast at the Whitney" Host, and perspective Convict Combatants. These need to be subscribed to and read for the readers/writers to fully follow the greater story.
As far as the time line goes, these Interview Threads are flashbacks; they occur in the weeks and days prior to the two posts you just read and each includes a date. (I should have put the link in here already, but it's no biggie.)