The Game Show

Chapter 1

"...that's it for old business. Let's see if you morons can pull any new, original ideas for new programming out of your sorry asses. Go!"

G.R. Armbruster looked around the room, sizing up his minion one by one as they pretended to be anywhere but under his menacing gaze. He was a heartbeat away from firing every one of them when he saw a single hand go up. It belonged to the new guy. What was his name?"

"You! What was your name again?!" G.R. growled, snapping his fat, freshly manicured fingers impatiently.

"Uh, Thacker. Aaron Thacker, Sir."

"Ok Thacker, Aaron Thacker. Wow me. And it better be good!"

Armbruster had a disbelieving sneer on his surgically-enhanced face as he loomed over the petrified Aaron Thacker. He had a feeling, not completely unpleasant, that he'd be sending Thacker, Aaron Thacker, packing directly after he finished stuttering out his lame idea.

Just seeing the rest of the team giving the new guy that sorrowful stare, as if they were watching someone about to be tossed into the lion's den, made G.R. smile his usual, dastardly snarl. They all knew G.R. Armbruster didn't suffer fools well.

"Well, Sir, given the current addiction to reality shows and, I hate to say this, the warped and twisted human lust to watch other humans performing the most ridiculous, debasing acts just to win money, my thinking is that a reality show, pitting divorced couples against each other in some sort of competition where they both consider themselves to be smarter or stronger than the other, would be very well received."

"I'm thinking that seeing divorcees airing their dirty laundry on national TV will definitely appeal to the haters who are literally addicted to those debasing reality shows."

"For instance; for a more cerebral ex-couple, something like a quiz show. Or, for the more physical, an endurance competition of some sort."

"Just my humble opinion, Sir, but I think the public would eat it up."

Seeing that he hadn't yet been forcefully ejected from the meeting, Aaron Thacker trudged on.

"Statistically, roughly fifty-one percent of marriages end up in divorce. Actually, the statistics are probably much higher than that. And most of those divorcees still bear some degree of animosity toward their former spouse. That's just the way things are these days."

A collective gasp echoed amid the harsh whispers as the rest of the meeting attendees watched with bated breath. Most of them were anxiously anticipating the mighty axe of G.R. Armbruster falling; and for poor, naive, Aaron Thacker to be unceremoniously ejected from the room and the building. Each and every one of them secretly hoped for it; praying that maybe once G.R. sunk his teeth into another fresh kill, his blood lust would be appeased for a while and he'd cut the rest of them a short reprieve.

"Harrumph!" G.R. grumbled, rubbing his double chin briskly. "Hmm. I can see where that may have some appeal," he grudgingly admitted. "Work up a rough presentation, Thacker. Have it on my desk the first thing in the morning."

All heads snapped back and forth from G.R. to Thacker, waiting for the other shoe to drop. In truth, they were all shocked into a nervous silence. The idea sounded foolish to the rest of the seasoned writers in the room. But if G.R. liked it, the new guy, Aaron Thacker, was about to show the rest of them up for the slackers they were.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you."

Aaron should have been gloating, but he reined himself in. Given the hungry look on the faces of the wolf pack surrounding him, he knew they'd all do everything in their power to derail his idea before it ever saw the light of day.

But he'd been recognized, somewhat favorably, by G.R. If nothing else, it meant his job was secure for at least the next twenty-four hours.

Whatever possessed Aaron to seek out a job in television after he'd received his journalism degree still eluded him. He had all intentions of becoming a reclusive novelist. Much to his dismay, after six months of bupkis staring back at him from his mocking laptop screen, he decided he needed to find a job that paid the rent and put food on the table. Otherwise, he'd wind up writing his first novel with a pencil stub on paper scraps salvaged from dumpsters about his starving, homeless adventures.

Chapter 2

Much to the utter shock and surprise of the pack of jackals Aaron Thacker worked with, the show made its' premier as a summer fill in three months later to rave reviews. The Nielson Ratings were through the roof, and social media was all abuzz with millions of conversations about the show's debut.

Not surprisingly, the naysayers he shared a writing room with were all sucking up to Aaron for a piece of his newly acquired spotlight. Anything to hide the fact that none of them had an original idea in forever, and all their cushy jobs were hanging on by a thread. Aaron Thacker was obviously a new breed of idea men with fresh ideas and a clever mind; far more imaginative than his seasoned, burned-out peers.

One thing Aaron learned in his short tenure with G.R. Armbruster Productions was that no one's job was safe in Hollywood. He'd seen six colleagues unceremoniously led to the door, escorted unceremoniously by some menacing looking security thugs, in the short time he'd been there. He knew with certainty that his name could come up on the lethal rejection list at any time.

Chapter 3

Carl Herman, a lackluster Army veteran, one of G.R.'s minion, scoured his mind, trying to think of one of his many divorced friends and acquaintances who might fit the bill as potential show participants when the perfect candidate suddenly came to mind.

Carl got an evil grin on his face, snapped his fingers, and called his old Army buddy, Mark Cleary.

Mark Cleary, a onetime Army nurse in Carl's unit, had just finished teaching the intermediate Taekwondo class in his dojo. His new dojo. The original dojo, the one that he'd poured his heart and soul into, now belonged to his ex-wife after what had to be the most heartless, unsavory divorce case ever to see the inside of a courtroom.

Mark was just about to step into his shower when one of his old Army buddies, Carl Herman, called. He hadn't spoken to Carl since their medical unit had their reunion the year before.

After some catching up, Carl got right to the point. "...Mark, I've got something that might just interest you."

"A check for a million dollars?" Mark laughed.

"Not quite a million, but a hundred grand. Pique your curiosity?"

"Sure. But I'm not into illegal acts these days, Carl," he chuckled.

"Nothing illegal, Buddy. Have you seen that new TV show, Divorce Settlement?"

"About five minutes of it," Mark groused. "Talk about mindless drivel."

"But it's number two in prime time right now, Buddy. How, I'll never know. Just goes to show you how pathetic the American thirst for mindless reality TV has gotten."

"Amen. But what's that got to do with me, Carl?"

"Just hear me out, Mark."

"Picture this: we're over there fighting for our country, dodging bullets and RPG's and patching up those who didn't dodge quick enough."

"All the while your ex was back here fucking anything with a dick, and draining you dry. She literally ass raped you, Buddy Boy. Wouldn't you like to humiliate her? Get a little revenge, maybe?"

Just the mention of Mark's ex, Cathy, soured Mark's stomach. "I'm listening, Carl," Mark replied apprehensively.

"Here's a rough scenario, Mark. A divorced couple, obviously with a whole lot of anger and animosity toward each other, being pitted against each other in a competition to avenge the wrongs they felt were done to them; and to get a little satisfaction in the process. Not to mention some cold hard cash to help quell some of that bitterness."

"Ha! Done to them?! If memory serves, I left a loving, caring wife, my best and closest friend since we were kids, no less, who I treated like it would hurt her delicate little feet to walk on the ground when we got shipped off to that hell on earth."

"I came home to a sleazy cunt who'd not only screwed half of the city, but she cleaned me out and had her ambulance chasing lawyer slash boyfriend send a rabid dog with divorce papers to greet me at the airport. That bitch stole every cent we had, including taking my dojo, and even sold my car. And all the while I had our jaded legal system telling me she had every right to do it because she had my power of attorney while I was over there. Fuck that bitch! How her attorney wasn't disbarred for screwing a client I'll never know."

Mark was getting mad all over again. Memories of coming home from a literal hell on earth to an empty apartment with an eviction notice nailed to the door for non-payment of rent; and nothing inside but his few paltry belongings; most of which she'd picked through and either sold or pawned, were flooding his head in a kaleidoscope of hurt and anger.

"See! Wouldn't you like some payback, Buddy?" Carl was smiling and feeling victorious as, feet up on his desk, he swiveled back and forth absently in his desk chair. He had a feeling he had a contestant for a future show. Now to finish reeling Mark in.

"Look at it this way, Mark; both contestants receive twenty-five grand just for participating. And to the winner go the spoils," he chuckled. "An additional check for a hundred grand. Not to mention bragging rights, and getting some sweet revenge."

"I don't know, Carl," Mark sighed, scratching his head. "I mean; I'd like nothing better than to see that bitch roasted on a spit with an apple stuffed in her big mouth, but what possible competition could we have? She'd definitely got me in the number of illicit sexual encounters category, but that's hardly fodder for prime-time TV."

"So, you give her a public fucking for half of the world to see," Carl chuckled.

"Think about it, Mark. You're both martial arts instructors and amateur MMA enthusiasts. We could work up some sort of grudge match between you. Maybe even a cage match. You're both equally matched, right?"

"I think I'd have an edge over her there, Carl, but how would that look? I'm six-five and two hundred and twenty pounds. She's five-four and a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet."

"Not to mention that, regardless of our similar martial arts qualifications, if I beat her, I'd be hunted down by angry villagers with torches and pitchforks and run out of town on a rail for beating up on that poor little girl."

"To top it off, it would probably ruin my business. Most of my students are kids whose moms bring them to my dojo for lessons. I doubt they'd want to keep bringing those kids in to learn from a guy who beat up a woman half his size on national TV."

"Have you seen the show, Mark? The MC pretty much lays out the entire reason for the divorce before the competition starts. And he leaves no stone un-turned. The guy is brutal. Heartless. She'll look like the piece of shit she is right out of the box. The viewers will know before the match even starts how badly that bitch burned you."

"How do you think that will look to the public, Mark? A returning, combat hardened soldier; a capable, caring, decorated nurse soldier, who tended to the wounded on the front lines, coming home from the thick of it, only to find out that the wife he expected to find waiting for him with open arms had been getting her bread buttered in some other sleazebag's bed!"

Carl continued to pour it on, doing his best to win Mark over to the idea.

"She's been sleeping peacefully every night after literally ass raping her clueless husband, destroying him financially, and you can bet she's gloating over it! "

"And all the while you were over there wondering whether you'd ever see another sunrise, she was rolling around in a comfy bed with some shit-dick, sporting the afterglow from fucking her new boy-toys, instead of being at the airport with those open arms to greet you."

"She was even too head fucked to have the decency to meet you herself and tell you to your face that it was over, Mark. Instead, her fuck buddy sent some cold, detached process server in his stead to hit you with papers." Carl was really pouring it on.

"Listen, Mark," Carl mellowed. "People are finally starting to recognize the sacrifices we veterans made for them; and most of them don't take kindly to stories about a decorated combat veteran coming home to be screwed over the way you were. No one deserves that."

Carl knew he was hitting a nerve. Mark was one of the most laid-back, easy-going guys he'd ever met. Thanks to his extensive martial arts training, the man had a fuse a mile long; but when you got to the end of that fuse, there was a whole ammo dump at the end.

Mark was quiet on the other end of the line for what seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke. "Aw, Hell, Carl. Even if I did agree to do it, I doubt she would. She's been avoiding me like the plague. She even had her fuck buddy file a restraining order against me. She claimed I have PTSD and that I might go berserk and hurt her! Can you believe that shit! I never raised a hand to a woman in anger in my entire life! The one and only time I've seen her was for a few, short minutes in the court room, sneering at me like I was some sort of fungus, with her boy-toy lawyer gloating beside her, helping her twist the knife in my back."

"You leave that part up to me, Mark. The question right now is whether you'd be willing to do it? Once I have you on board, I can put the pressure on her to accept the challenge. You said yourself that her ego's bigger than her 34 C's," he chuckled.

"There is that," Mark groused. "Yeah. I guess so, Carl. Depending on the stipulations, I'd consider it. My Thai Chi relaxation exercises haven't been giving me the peace and serenity they used to since I came home to that nightmare."

"Great! Ok. Leave the rest up to me. I'll get back to you soon! Bye, Mark."

Carl sprang up from his chair, pumping his fists enthusiastically. Getting them both to agree would definitely put Carl in a good light with G.R., and make this show the best one yet. His performance of late hadn't exactly earned him any accolades. Since his semi-success with Wheel of Destiny before his unit was sent overseas, his supply of original ideas had faded considerably. He feared his extravagant, playboy lifestyle wouldn't fare well on an unemployment check.

Chapter 4

Three weeks later, Mark was saying goodbye to his women's self-defense class when he looked up and nearly had a stroke.

Standing at the door was none other than the one person in the world who Mark despised more than anyone, or anything, to ever cross his path.

He waited until he ushered the ladies out, ignoring her entirely while he said good night to the departing class, before he even acknowledged her presence.

"Well, well, well! I see the gates of Hell blew open and let the she-devil herself escape."

Cathy ignored his snide remark. "You're looking well, Mark," she smiled, daring to step a little closer. "And this dojo is beautiful. Much nicer than mine."

She stood there looking more gorgeous than ever, eyeing his impressive dojo in awe. Given that he started with absolutely nothing to his name but his reputation after she'd heartlessly destroyed him, she was extremely impressed.

"Speak your peace and get the hell out, Cathy. I'd like to lock up and go home. I've suddenly got an urge to drink heavily to get this sudden foul taste out of my mouth. Not to mention temper the nightmares I'm certain to have after seeing you darken my doorstep.

"Ok, Mark. Straight to the point. I'm assuming you got the call about the Divorce Settlement show?"

"Yeah, so what?" Mark could feel the bile rising up in his throat. All the while those feelings of love and loss fought to invade the carefully constructed force field he'd erected around his broken heart since he'd returned home to the nightmare she'd created.

"So? Are you game?"

"Ha! The whole idea of inflicting vast amounts of pain on you has been foremost on my mind from the moment I got off that plane, Cathy. However; the whole premise is folly. I have a reputation here in town; quite unlike your reputation for being the village bicycle," he growled. "I don't think my students will take kindly to seeing me in the cage with a woman half my size."

"Mark, can we pull in our claws for just a minute and have a calm, rational discussion? Please?"

"I kinda doubt that, Cathy. The time for a calm, rational conversation between us passed the minute I got home and found the scorched earth you left in your quest to sample every dick in the city."

"That's not true, Mark!" He could see the tears welling up in her gorgeous blue eyes. Those same beautiful blue eyes that used to mesmerize him and fill him with a burning, unquenchable love every time he looked into them. She knew her tears always broke his heart and, as much as he hated to admit it, seeing her cry still didn't sit well with him."

"I can't even begin to apologize, or make what I did up to you, Mark. I was a stupid, stupid idiot who was lonely and missing you. I fell for the smooth come on lines from a snake oil salesman who was preying on me incessantly. I never meant for it to happen. I swear I didn't." Her tears just flowed harder.

"Don't give me that shit, Cathy! Don't insult my intelligence! Had you come to me and told me you wanted to be with someone else, we could have gone through the divorce process like two rational adults, each of us with our fair share, and been done with it. I loved you with all my heart and soul, but I'd have never stood in your way if you told me, to my face, that you loved someone else."

"That's just it, Mark. I didn't love someone else. I never did. I never stopped loving you." Her tears turned into a full-blown meltdown.

"It was as if some evil entity forced its' way into my wheel house and took over the helm. Between the combination of worrying that every ringing doorbell was some Army chaplain there to tell me that you'd been killed, the devastating loneliness, and Bob constantly coming on to me, telling me you were probably tapping everything breathing over there, my brain just turned to oatmeal. I was in a constant state of panic and confusion and I was very, very vulnerable. I'd give my right arm to turn back time, knowing what I know now, but I can't."

"And, for the record, there was never any long line of men. That's a lie. A foul rumor started by one of our former employees who, among others, was disgusted with me for the sins I was committing. I was with Bob and only Bob."

"And given that you're darkening my doorstep after some come to Jesus moment, I'm assuming Bob gave you the bum's rush," he chuckled evilly.

"No. If you must know, I broke it off with him. A few days after our divorce was finalized, actually. Take this for what it's worth, but he couldn't hold a candle to you, Mark. In truth, I doubt any man could."

"So, what? You had to sample the forbidden fruit to come to that conclusion?"

"I can understand you being lonely, Cathy. I was gone for eighteen months. I missed you every minute of every day we were apart. And if I'd come home and found out that you had a brief affair that ended before I got home, I'd have been badly hurt and extremely pissed off, but we probably could have eventually gotten past that. I loved you that much."

"And for what it's worth, not that there were that many opportunities for me to, quote-unquote, tap everything breathing over there, but I never once broke my promise of fidelity to you. Our vows meant that much to me. Sadly, you didn't have the same respect for me, or our promises to each other."

"I'm not as strong willed as you are, Mark. I never was. And had I not had the devil constantly whispering in my ear about you over there screwing every female you came in contact with, I'd have never even dreamed that you'd cheat on me. Again, that's my cross to bear. I fell for the slick, slow conditioning that bastard was using on me with his practiced seduction and his convincing rhetoric. And because I was weak, I have to go through the rest of my life without my soulmate."