The Most Dangerous Game Show

Major Kendal sat on the edge of a musty old mattress, jacked up by fear and anticipation. It’d been nearly a month since his capture on a routine counterinsurgency mission in the South Caribbean, when someone or something ambushed his patrol and spirited him off to this godknowswhere cloister where he’d festered ever since. For nearly a month, he’d waited – in dread of not knowing what nefarious things his captor was planning, wondering what they had done with his men, and ever uncertain if he’d leave this prison alive. It’d been a long, tiring month.

At least he thought it’d been nearly a month. Locked in his sparse windowless cell, Kendal had lost all sense of time. In an effort to upset his circadian rhythms and wear down his psychological resistance, his captor sent food sporadically, piped in the sound of a bugle in the middle of the day, and left the room bathed in perpetually bright florescent lighting.

Yep; Kendal knew he wasn’t dealing with the usual run of hostage taker, the kind who truck in ransom notes clipped from magazine text, suitcases of cash exchanged under bridges, and predictable, pedestrian motives. No, he was facing someone of bona fide genius, who knew the limits of human endurance and the weaknesses of the mind under pressure. He ran through the possibilities. An international syndicate? Canadians? Or was he just another random victim of the Smart Guns, the militant wing of Mensa, dreaded for packing heat and bad puns?

Kendal caught himself, only moments before he would’ve implicated the PTA. There is no militant wing of Mensa. Was he going a little batty?

At that instant, the door to the cell flew open, and two guards entered the room. They boasted swarthy complexions and sported the sanitized garb of deck hands on a passenger ship. The men threw a pillowcase over Kendal’s head, and stiff-armed the Major out of the cell.

As he was dragged through places unseen by his escorts, Kendal noticed occasional splashing and the clinking of glasses nearby, and the unmistakable sound of shuffleboard further away. These sounds gradually receded, and Kendal discerned the rapid whir of rudders. And, finally, the crack of a door.

The escort detail ramrodded Kendal’s stiff, ever-defiant form into a chair and whisked away the pillowcase. As his eyes accustomed to the light in the cabin, he glimpsed a shape lurking in the darkness on the other side of the room. A narrow table bridged the gulf between him and the figure. The person he faced was familiarly jowly, with leathery skin and an earth tone complexion. He was dressed fashionably, in a tailor made suit with moire suspenders, and flashed an overly friendly, lubricious smile. Overall, there was a Pecksniffian look to this guy.

Kendal looked closer, checking his disbelief. He actually recognized the man who was seated before him. It was none other than America’s favorite TV morning-show personality cum game show host.

“Regis,” Kendal stated simply, without even a twinge of astonishment, “have you come to negotiate my release?”

“Um, I think we need to have a little chat,” the celebrated baron of family entertainment, replied.

At that moment, reality bowled over Kendal like a steamroller. He realized that one of the most beloved celebrities on television was not the chipper nice guy everyone knew from prime time. He was not the same eager mensch glad-handing guests on ABC; who radiated warmth like the afterglow of a television screen. No. He was the maniacal genius behind his own kidnapping, and the baleful architect of his endless psychological torment.

“By now,” Regis began, “you’ve probably figured that I was the one who orchestrated your abduction. But before we get down to business, we should probably get to know each other a little better.”

Kendal stared at his captor. With his eyes, he bored imaginary holes in Regis’ temples.

“So, Mr. Kendal,” Regis said, eagering for conversation, “you’re a Major in the US Army?”

Kendal snapped back with mere silence.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the escort party gathering behind him. One of the guards was clenching a cattle prod; the other held a metal strop.

“You must’ve seen some crazy things on your tours of duty. I’m sure you have plenty of great stories to tell.”

Still, only piercing contempt met the captor.

“So, where you from, Major Kendal?” Regis was grasping at conversational kindling, which was only met with more of the same.

“Answer the question,” bellowed one of the guards.

All of a sudden, Kendal felt a king-hell jolt of electricity coursing his right arm. He screamed and went limp.

“Answer the question,” the voice commanded again.

“Texas. I’m originally from Texas.”

“Texas, eh,” Regis said in a balmy, warmed over tone, “I guess if you move up the ranks, you’ll make Lone Star General, right?” He chortled at his own not-so-bon mot.

On Kendal’s end, the joke was met only with the dim canceled eyes of a grouper in a Japanese fish market.

The guard lifted the prod threateningly. “We have ways of making you chuckle,” he said.

“Enough,” Regis intervened, “I can see our Major Kendal is not in the mood for small talk. Let’s go ahead and get started, then.” The familiarly jowly game show host folded his hands and leaned into Kendal’s personal space.

“Major Kendal,” he prorated, “you’re here because I want you to provide me with some information; to answer a question, if you will. But first, my fatigue-wearing friend, I should probably fill you in on the details of my diabolical, yet ingenious plan - a masterful plot to take over the airwaves.”

Kendal shrunk back in his chair.

“Yes, Major Kendal,” Regis continued, “Despite my near-ubiquity on television – my top-rated morning show, the helm of a game show sensation, numerous commercial spots, and emceeing gigs at countless awards ceremonies…well, it’s still not enough for someone with my obvious talent, elan, and charisma. I need to be wholly ubiquitous. I want my glorious mug to grace every channel, at all hours of the day. Darn it, I want the test patterns to spell out my name.” His pitched reached a keyed-up frenzy. “But in order to do this, Major Kendal, I need only one thing – and that’ s the largest satellite dish on the planet!”

“You mean SETI 1,” the Major’s attention was suddenly piqued.

“Yes, Major – SETI 1; The Search for Extraterrestrial Life. In order to broadcast radio signals into the outer reaches of space, the dish had to fill an entire Caribbean island. It’s the only one big enough for my purposes; not to mention, the only one grand enough to match my brimming personality.”

“But,” Kendal interrupted, “all I’d really like to know is – why? Why would you go through all this effort to make yourself ubiquitous, when you’re already a household name?”

“Why, you ask. Why?” Regis lowered his pitch to a dramatic effect, “Because I’m out of control.”

A frisson of terror took hold of the Major.

“But getting back to my point,” Regis went on, unaffected, “the only problem with SETI is that access is strictly regulated by the United States Army. That’s where you come in.” He glowered at Kendal with menacing eyes. “I want the access codes to the satellite dish, and I want them now.”

Kendal’s legs were shaking, but he managed to comport himself. “I think your stupid shows suck,” he said with all the penetration of a review in Entertainment Weekly, “And I think you suck, you chubby red-faced prick.”

“So, you’re not going to play along?” Regis asked.

“Never.”

“Well, so be it.” Regis rose from his chair and loomed over the terrified Major. “But I must warn you Major Kendal, I’m not one to give up so easy.” He gestured to one of the guards, who left the room and returned, trundling a massive machine that looked like a wet-dry vac lined with teeth.

“Behold, Major Kendal,” Regis blared, jabbing his finger at the machine, “It’s called the Cerebralizer.”

Another shiver gripped Kendal.

“Yes, Major, this machine will gradually suck out your brains, leaving you a helpless, floundering urchin.” He paused and quickly added “even more than before.” He cackled spastically, before straightening his coat and continuing speaking, deadpan. “And, we’re not going to start with those trivial parts of the brain like the control of your throwing arm or your judgment center. No. We’re going straight for your fondest memories - starting with the puppy you got for Christmas when you were four.”

“Do your worst,” the Major remained intractable, even as his every recollection of Mr. Wags was at stake.

One of the guards flipping on the Cerebralizer, which emitted a strangely soothing drone that could put a baby to sleep in minutes.

“Are you confident,” Regis persisted.

The Major swallowed nervously.

“I’ll ask you again, Major; are you confident this is the right answer.”

“Yes,” he said feebly. The guard moved the nozzle toward the base of his skull.

“Major…”

“Yes?”

“Is that your final…”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing,” a woman’s voice suddenly cut through the hum of the brain vacuum.

“Kathie Lee?” Regis said, taken aback.

“Dammit, Rege; I told you never to use one of my cruise ships for the perpetuation of evil.” She stepped into the room, wearing a black cocktail sheath and fancy Italian heels.

“Well, isn’t somebody the big buttinsky, today,” Regis said, looking even more agitated than when he’s getting in the tobasco on a cooking segment. “Well no matter, it’s too late to stop me now!” He snapped a glance at the guard with the vacuum, “Go ahead; suck his brains out! I want this twit to get what coming to him!”

“Not if I can help it,” Kathie Lee said. “Charge!” She blared the command to someone outside the door.

All of a sudden, scores of emaciated children began to descend on the ship. Some parachuted in on tattered rags, while others squeezed in through the guardrails on the deck. All were wielding bulky sewing machines prone to all sorts of safety hazards.

“I’m getting out of here,” Regis exclaimed.

Before he could bolt the cabin, one of the children planted a Singer sewing machine in his lower back.

“Ahhh,” he railed, “You threw out my back, you underfed little twerp!” He fell to the floor and thrashed about in agony, as both of his faithful guards scampered away.

Kathie Lee scooted for Kendal, who still sat, petrified, by the table. Unplugging the Cerebralizer, she helped him out of the chair. “You okay,” she asked the Major, who looked more rattled than a con in a shakedown.

“Yeah,” his voice came out throttled.

“But, not for long,” a key-up voice shot back at them.

Kendal and Kathie Lee spun around to see Regis back on his feet, thrusting the cattle prod out like a foil.

“Who wants to be a million pieces?” he grinned.

In an instant, Regis was down once again; this time for good.

A little squalid child stood over his body, ungainly lifting a hatchet that she snagged from a fire safety kit on one of the lower decks. She turned to Kathie Lee with a glint in her eye. “You look like a princess, Ms. Gifford,” the little girl said.

“Alright, alright,” the first lady of sweatshops began, “You did a good job. Now, get the hell out of here, you dirty kid. You smell like a cowpie.”

As the little girl sulked away, Kathie Lee turned to the Major. “We make a pretty good team, Major Kendal.”

“Yeah,” Kendal said with a smile, “If they could see us now.”

“Oh, get your own catchphrase, you shit.”