There are no more Worlds to Conquer
There are no more Worlds to Conquer
Another Short Story by Mark Oglesby
The Sith killed each other, victims of their own greed. But from the ashes of their destruction, I was the last survivor…
-Darth Bane
I never expected this to happen when I signed the consent forms allowing the Network News Agency (NNA) to remain blameless should things escalate out of control. And as you read my story, unfortunately written from a microscopic cell here on block nine; I do believe you’ll understand why I, even though convicted of manslaughter; am innocent on all counts! Nineteen to be exact: Where shall I begin?
Oh yes, Reality TV or RTV: it’s the bomb! You see, I wanted to be part of it; no matter the cost. And yes, being set adrift in a lifeboat with limited supplies of food and water not to mention actual survival gear and instructed to row west by southwest might seem difficult given the nature of modern, technological life; I mean to say: Who would have the stamina to endure the journey and actually reach the island?
In truth, all but two of us made it. Their deaths? Severe dehydration. As stated, supplies were limited as the network felt safe in their evaluation that there would be enough water for all but not too much whereas survival tensions would be heighten wherein advertising contracts expanded, and dollar amounts gained, when up for renewal. Besides, as stated, nineteen counts of Involuntary Manslaughter? How could all nineteen be my fault especially those two who died of thirst? But I digress as usual.
Okay than, and so there were eighteen willing participants eager to cash in on the $1 million dollar winner’s prize; salvation for any and all workers trapped in crippling low wages and the enslaving debt which follows. But here was a chance to be someone: You don’t understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender, I could’ve been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am! So you tell me, who amongst the hive-mind working class hasn’t shouted this at one time or another?
And here I am: Sitting in a Texas privatized state prison for the rest of my life. And why? Because I won. Because no one else survived. God dammit it was brutal from the start and it never let up as everyone there was out for the win, no holds barred; no prisoners taken as the network once again guaranteed all involved: “It will never come to that be assured.” The Network News Agency PR Amdroid (NNAPRA) reassuring everyone concerned with a gleeful smile: “No harm. No foul.” I took it to heart and proceeded along those lines.
Deaths three through six were from simple exhaustion what with the constant exposure to the elements of a deserted island in the middle of nowhere, and indeed; everybody knows this’ nowhere. No matter where you go there you are. For me? I’ve gone to this hellhole known as privatization where human flesh is bought and sold for next to nothing. But once again, I digress.
To be honest, the names and faces of deaths seven through twelve remain nothing but a blur, and I suppose; because I wish not to remember their death-mask features rotting in the pacific heat which all of us endured for that once again, $1 million dollar winner’s prize: I couldn’t smell anything cooking as there wasn’t anything to eat anyways; oh but could I smell the flavor of one million smackers in my federally insured bank accounts. But again: You don’t understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender, I could’ve been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am!
Deaths nine through sixteen had been the results of basic malnutrition seeing that we had run out of food supplies a couple of weeks into the production. What the hell were the network wonks thinking? I mean to say, twenty people on the freakin’ island? Although I will categorically state that the network execs must have calculated the amount of eatable plants, fish and animals on and around the island would have been sufficient for twenty adult persons given the time-frame of the weekly programmed show.
But this wasn’t the case as when we arrived on the island there was nothing but sand and surf within our, and I’m guesstimating; atoll habitat. It was as if we’d gotten lost on the way and ended up on the “wrong” island. But again, the network wonks and their PR Amdroids (PRA) assured everyone concerned: “We provided instruments to ensure that navigation to the island’s a certainty.” And so the press conference after I returned tended to be a huge Network News Agency (NNA) success.
“Timothy? How do you feel?” Paige Pixy, who I swear looks exactly like Kelly Ripa from the Kelly and Ryan Show from the rival ABC television network, shrieked in all-out excitement; this was indeed her time to shine. “Sole Survivor!”
“Just call me Tim, please.”
“Okay, Tim? Whatever?” Paige Pixy as effervescent as ever acquiesced to my request. “How do you feel?” not even realizing how trite she had become.
“Hungry and Thirsty.” as I fell on my face at her feet not being able to take another step. “Help me up, please.” And yes, I was immediately taken into police custody for questions concerning the fate of the other nineteen competitors. “Roll over so we can cuff you!” was shouted by the eight or ten men and women woven in blue.
“Sole Survivor taken into police custody!” had wiped that silly, smirkish facade off the network pixy’s face real quick-like. But not for long as Paige Pixy rebounded while regaining her equilibrium in a split-second while recovering with: “Further details shortly.” And my God, that freakin’ summersault once again.
Alright then, back to the island. Where was I? Awe yes: And here it gets tricky. Why? Deaths seventeen through nineteen had, how shall I say? Circumstances which seem to alert law enforcement personnel as to the reality that something sinister had taken place. “Sole Survivor,” that being myself, was the only one left to give testimony as to the likelihood that crimes could have been committed.
Here’s the thing though: We last four teamed up into pairs for the mêlées to come. And to my disbelief and future misfortune, my “partner” was, how shall I say? A psycho! Indeed, the network wonks missed that one in their pre-production grillings to be certain. Honestly, this barely legal teen, Nicole was her name; 19 going on destined to be hauled up on a RICO (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations) indictment. God help me, she surely got started in the “business” shaking down fellow kindergarten class mates for their milk money: Forget about it!
And yes, wish I could but I can’t as there’s this constant day to day reminder of my situation and how I got here: Sole Survivor? “Use to watch that show before my step-daddy disappeared of which I know nothing about.” Herbert “Herbie-the-hog” Williamson was a nearly 400 pound wooly mammoth of a young man given to bouts of outrageous laughter as well as extremely extended sessions of mournful cries. In short, “Herbie” was up or down and no in-betweens: “I find myself here due to my inability to out-run the police!” Damn, he’s so melancholy, and it’s so agonizing.
God help me: “Herbie” remains the flatulent prince of cell-block-nine: Master of his domain and that ever present case-in-point as to my constant day to day reminder of where I am and how long I will remain: Forever! But yes dear readers: I do digress yet once more.
Nicole wasn’t so bad all the time. That’s to suggest, if and when she was properly restrained physically or with mind-altering substances. Okay, I could tolerate her but here on the island none of us had any of these possible means of restraint. And it wasn’t the constant war-cries bellowed forth with a certain teenage bravado which made me shiver; hell no. It was the darkness in her eyes, shark-like, which gave me the willies.
And yes, I won the coin-toss allowing me first pick of a partner. Hands down: it was Nicole. But to this day I never imagined she’d turn on me before I was able to turn on her. And yes again, I escaped with my life by taking hers but listen; it was self-defense but no one seemed to believe me when I testified as to that “little bitch Nicole!” Both hands in the air and all that jazz: BAZINGA!
But back to the remaining four contestants looking to win that $1 million dollar winner’s prize and live the good life that all of us worker bees dream of receiving at some point-in-time in our futures. Going back to my opening statement: I never expected this to happen when I signed the consent forms allowing the Network News Agency (NNA) to remain blameless should things escalate out of control. Hey folks: It was going to be a fight to the finish; no holds barred.
Besides, we all knew that we’d have to turn on our partners sooner rather then later. Nicole had no problem with this as she was quick but I was quicker. And yes, that she’d already taken care of the “competition” for me, it must be said: “Only one death can be related to my actions and that was self-defense; hands down. As for the others?” No one was really interested in my story.
And so here I sit with Herbie and his heartrending, pathetic whines about the injustice of the so-called “justice” system. I am an innocent man, but then again; so’s my cellmate: Herbie the flatulent! In conclusion:
Look: Winning the lottery’s so outta your control, but this? I had an honest-to-God chance of being the winner and smacking that ultimate prize right on its ass! One in twenty! My odds were good as once again: You don’t understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender, I could’ve been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am! I took my shot and won. But I also lost as here I sit listening to “Herbie” cry throughout the night: My step-daddy disappeared of which I know nothing about! I grow weary by the day.