Blog Fiction

A short story updated at whim by 

Lex Friedman.

BlogFiction FAQ

Previous stories:

Class(room) Warfare

Other sites Lex writes content for:

The Lex Files

Leth & Sex

Who Knows

Lex Friedman


1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7


"I'm going to ask the audience for complete silence at this time."

Across the country, families gathered around their TV sets. Some spoke the line right along with the host; others watched in tense silence. Millions of viewers stared at their televisions.

Not one blinked.



Janice Boulding didn't feel their stares. She was nervous, but her focus was entirely on coming up with the right answer. She had long ago forgotten the audience's presence. The pretty 22-year-old shifted somewhat uncomfortably in her steel chair, part of an oversized metallic set of gray, black and silver.

Across from her metal chair sat Guy Macintosh. Guy was in his late 20s, and was a jovial host of the style that defines "smarmy." While Janice shifted again, he remained still and stoic. The two sat facing each other in the center of the elaborate set.

The studio audience, for their part, respected Guy's wishes and didn't make a sound.


As live editors put up various stats on the screen, Guy spoke up, softly but firmly. "Janice, I'm afraid I need your... definite response. This is question number eight, so if you get this one right there are only four more to go."

"I-- I know, Guy. This is an important question, and, well... I just don't know what the answer is.

"One last time, Janice, your question is: In the television series Seinfeld, what was the first name of Jerry's kooky neighbor 'Kramer'? Your answer please."


Intent watchers leaned forward in their Lay-Z-Boys. Kids on the floor scooted closer to their sets. Some held their breath, some bit their lips.

Across America, no one watching could focus on anything else.


"Well, Guy, it popped into my head as soon you asked the question, so I'm going to say... Cosmo. His name was Cosmo Kramer."

"And Janice you know I have to ask is "Cosmo" your definite response?"

She sighed. "Yes. It's my definite response, Guy."


One last, heart-pounding beat.


"Janice, you are... correct!"


The audience burst into enthusiastic applause as the winning music cue was played.


Guy continued, "Of course, 'Cosmo' was Kramer's first name. Now, Janice, we've entered the Ferocious Four, the last four questions that separate you from winning."

"The hardest ones, of course."

The studio audience laughed a bit at Janice's comment.

"Yes, Janice, the Ferocious Four are a bit more challenging than the other questions. And here is the first of the four: What is the seventy-third word of chapter fourteen of The Autobiography of Malcom X?"

He asked the question very matter-of-factly, neither thinking too much nor too little of it.

Janice repeated, "The seventy-third word of "

"...of chapter twelve of The Autobiography--"

"...of Malcom X. Hmm. Now that's a good question, Guy."

"Our question writers are the best, Janice. Word seventy-three of chapter fourteen."

"Well. Unfortunately, Guy, I think this one might have escaped my memory. I don't think I could come up with it in any amount of time." She spoke sincerely and calmly.

Guy turned to face the camera. "Many of you viewers at home are probably shouting the answer at your television screens right now, but I can assure you that these questions are a lot tougher when you're sitting here in... The Chair."

"Absolutely." She sighed again. After a moment, she spoke. "Guy, I'm going to have to take a complete stab-in-the-dark here. I really just can't remember the seventy-third word of the fourteenth chapter of The Autobiography of Malcom X right now. I mean, chapter six, that's easy word seventy-three is, uh, 'good,' I believe "

"Yes. Yes, indeed it is... But of course, that's not the question."

"Right. Chapter fourteen. I'm going to just take an educated guess, since giving up guarantees I lose."

"A familiar position here on our show, Janice. We've had many, many contestants need to guess just like you're about to do."

"Yeah." She swallowed hard, as did countless viewers sitting at home. "Okay, here goes... Let's go with... 'the.' That's my, uh, definite response."

A long, suspenseful moment passed. Guy kept his face stolid and the wait painful.


A small group of television watchers abruptly got up and shut off their sets -- they couldn't bear all the pressure.


"No, I'm sorry, Janice. The seventy-third word of chapter fourteen of The Autobiography of Malcom X is, in fact, 'to.' Word number seventy-four is indeed 'the,' but that's just not what we were looking for. I'm sorry Janice, but you know the rules."

Janice nodded her head. She was dejected, but not mortified by any means.

Guy continued.

"We're going to have to kill your mother."



Much of the TV audience joined in the studio audience's chorus of "Awwws."


Esther Boulding was in her fifties. The plump but soft woman sat nervously on a couch at home. A thin man in a black suit and sunglasses stood with his arms folded, watching her from a distance.


"Like always, we have an armed guard sitting with our contestant's mother, and here you see Janice's mom sitting at home. As you know, Janice, Mom is not allowed to watch our live broadcast -- you've got to make the call yourself and tell her that she's about to be killed."

Janice only kept nodding. She had nothing to say.

"It's time for your Deadline. Our friends at AT&T will connect you, Janice. Dial up your mom and deliver the news."

Finally, she spoke. "That was a tough one." She picked up the bright red phone and dialed the number.


"He-- Hello?"

"Mom? Hi! It's me... Janice."

"Yes, dear. Did you win sweetheart?"

"Actually, Mom, I, uh... lost."


The folks watching at home loved these conversations. It was almost better than when the contestants won.


"Oh," Esther Boulding said.


BOOM! A single shot was fired. The camera held close on Janice holding the phone -- the networks had standards, of course. America watched Janice close her eyes and shake her head. America watched as Guy, jovial and smarmy as ever, addressed his newly-orphaned guest again.


"I'm sorry, Janice, but your mom is dead. That'll just about do it for tonight's episode of Who Knows, folks. Till next time, I'll be recharging my batteries."


As the end credits began to scroll on Guy's familiar tag, a typical family at home got ready to move on with their lives till next time.

Said the son, "That is a damn good show."

His dad replied, "We oughtta get the CD-ROM version."

"You know, they haven't had anybody win in a while," the daughter mentioned.

Her mom answered, "Well, the questions are just so darn tough, sweetie. You've got to be a real genius to win."

"So what? It's still a good show" sneered the son. To which his father added:

"Besides, what do you want them to do? They can't just let somebody win."



"We want you to let somebody win."

Daylight streamed in through the windows of the modern meeting room. The tables were black and futuristic in design, with curves and angles. Harry Delfonte, a bald, black, 40ish network executive, sat at the table, flanked by his 20ish yes-man assistant Greg, and his 30ish secretary, whose name he'd never bothered to learn.

Guy sat at the other end of the table, with his own flankers: Sandra, the game show's production manager, and London, the game show's beret-wearing 30-year-old director.

"We've killed a lot of mothers these past few months," Harry continued. "The show's getting predictable."

His assistant Greg picked up from there. "Very predictable. Sipowicz is gonna beat up a criminal, Mulder's gonna find a new government conspiracy, and the next contest on Who Knows is gonna have their mom die over the phone."

"It's time for another winner," Harry concluded.

Sandra was incredulous. "You want us to let somebody win? To cheat, so the government can shut us down? Harry, we can't do that. Do you remember Twenty-One?

"Sandra, I'm not asking you to let the contestants cheat. I'm asking you to let them win."

London spoke quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "There's no drama in that, Harry. I can't... I can't force the powerful moments on the show. I must... wait for them."

Harry humored him. "London, I'm not out to limit your vision. Your direction of Who Knows continues to be superb."

Greg chimed in, "Very superb. That's why you got the Emmy."

"I didn't get the Emmy."

"I know, and it was an absolute crime, London," Greg said, not missing a beat.

"I don't get it, Harry," Sandra said. "How can we guarantee ourselves a winner without cheating?"

"It's simple, Sandra. It's wonderful," he replied.

"Absolutely wonderful," Greg agreed.

"We make the questions easy. Ridiculously easy. The government can't bust us for having an easy game show." Harry sat back in his chair, folding his thin fingers behind his head.

Now Guy entered the conversation again, momentarily interrupted from staring at Harry's secretary's chest. "So with easy questions, we're assured of having a winner. The only hard part is picking who we want to win."

"The only hard part is picking who we want to win," Greg echoed.

"Yes, Harry, yes," said London as he started to rock in his chair. "This is good. This... this could work."

"This will work," said Harry.

"This will work," said Greg.

London continued talking, ignoring the other two. "I can take our Everyman, our virtual anti-hero... and show his, his complete turnaround into a true winner!"

"A true winner," Greg agreed.

"I suppose if we have somebody finally win again, that'll only increase the viewership."

"Wait a second!" Guy suddenly shouted.

"What?" asked Harry.

"Yes, Guy: What?" repeated Greg.

"Do I still get to talk in my deep announcer voice?"

"Of course, Guy," Harry assured him.


"Okay," the host said, convinced. "Then I think it's a good idea."

"A great idea," Greg agreed.

"No, really, I pretty much just think it's a good idea."

"A good idea," Greg agreed.

London took off his beret and rubbed his hand through his hair. "This could get me a Tony."

"They don't give Tonys for TV shows," Sandra said.

"They will when they see this," he countered.

"I know you'll make me proud, London," Harry said, closing up his file folder. "And now, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going to go have sexual intercourse with my secretary."

Harry and his secretary exited together. The remaining occupants of the room sat and looked at each other across the table.

After a moment, Sandra cleared her throat. "So, now we have to decide... Who do want for our winner?"



"Ryan Henderson?"

The gruffy voice revealed years of smoking and booze. The speaker sat behind a paper-covered desk in an exceedingly cramped, crowded office. Seven people worked in this office that was no bigger than a college dorm room. A janitor swept incessantly at dirt that wasn't there. An obese man and women, both of whom look rather unkempt and unpleasant, worked noisily in one corner. A young mousy doorman stood inside the opaque door. And a fatigued woman sat buried at her desk, swamped with papers and documents and working at a very small computer.

They were the overworked and under-celebrated employees of Visa Credit Card Corporation's East Division.

The Ryan Henderson in question was the only other person in the office. He sat facing the gruffy-voiced boss. Ryan was an eager 24-year-old.

"Yes sir, that’s me. Ryan Henderson."

The boss looked over Ryan's resume. "Says here you have five years experience in the credit card business. Doing what?"

"Yeah. Actually, you, uh, caught me there. That’s a complete lie. Just made that one up to better my chances here. Sorry."

The boss thought that one over for a minute. "Okay, level with me, Ryan. Have you ever read the book Chicken Soup For the Soul?"

Ryan was a bit confused. "Um… Only the side flap, sir."

"Uh-huh. And tell me, Ryan Henderson, do you know how to play hopscotch?"

Ryan wasn't really "getting" these questions. But he answered anyway: "Yeah, sure. In my neighborhood growing up."

"Did you ever play hopscotch with a blond-haired boy named Stan O’Donnell, a small kid with big hands who liked to palm basketballs and loved to eat beef jerky?"

"Uh… No. Definitely not. I never heard of anyone like that at all. Should I have?"

"No, not really. Wouldn’t make much sense – I just made him up. Just wanted to make sure you didn't lie all the time."

"Oh. Okay."

The boss smiled. "Ryan Henderson? You’re hired. Let me show you around." He kicked his leg out and spun Ryan’s swivel chair around to face the rest of the office. The boss cleared his throat and the office froze, silent.

"That’s the janitor. The Asian kid’s Bill – he’s the doorman. Stephanie’s a mute and she doesn’t know how to read, so she never gets any work done. And those fat two are Tim and Doris."

Tim and Doris both said hello. Their voices were crisp and resonant, top-notch voices that didn’t quite mesh with their appearances.

"You know what you’re supposed to do, so get started," the boss continued. "If you need me, I’ll be here in my office."

Tim and Doris resumed their phone as the rest of the office got back to work. Ryan squeezed over to a cubicle with a single microphone and a digital display labeled “CALLERS WAITING.” The number “43” appeared in red on the display.

Ryan licked his lips and picked up the microphone. He took a deep breath, and then spoke: "Please continue to hold. Your call is important to us."

He looked at his watch. The second hand ticked five times.

"Please continue to hold. Your call is important to us."

He counted five more ticks, and spoke the sentence again. Then, covering the mike with his hand, he leaned over to Sue.

"Can’t we get a recording to do this?" he asked her. Sue shrugged. Ryan remembered that she couldn't speak.

"The boss thinks this gives us a more personal touch," Bill told him.

Ryan nodded. "Please continue to hold. Your call is important to us."






Ryan pulled up to his house in his old car, satisfied at how his first day of work had gone. Stopping along the sidewalk, he slid out a key from a trick rock on the ground. With that key, he opened up a box tucked away on the top of his porch light. In that box was another key. Ryan inserted that key into a small keyhole on his actual doormat, which then unlocked, giving him access to the front door key hidden beneath.

He went inside and immediately turned around and locked the door and the deadbolt and put the chain lock on. He turned to face his den and yelped as he noticed Sandra seated on the love seat.

"You don't look like what I was expecting," she said.

"How did you get in here?" he asked her, mildly alarmed.

"You left the side door unlocked."

"What do you mean I don't look like what you were expecting?"

"When you were on The Price Is Right. You looked... well, completely different."

"I have a side door?"

"Yes."

After a beat, Ryan and Sandra both made a dash for where a side door should be. It was, of course, there. They then were both standing, facing each other.

"You told me I should just go in the side door and wait for you if I beat you home," Sandra said.

"I was never on The Price Is Right. And when did I tell you to come in the side door?"

"On the phone earlier today."

"Did I tell you to keep holding?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Who are you?"

"I'm Sandra. Sandra Syakowski, from Who Knows. And you're Ryan Anderson."

"I'm who?"

"Ryan Anderson."

"No. I'm Ryan Henderson."

"Henderson?"

"Henderson."

"You were never on The Price Is Right?"

"Not once."

"You're sure."

"I think I would know."

"I'm beginning to wonder," Sandra said.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm sorry. Withdrawn."

Ryan was understandably a bit confused from this whole exchange. He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of chocolate milk. After he'd finished the glass, he asked, "Where did you say you were from again?"

"Who Knows"

"Well, I would assume you do."

Sandra smiled and almost laughed, but didn't.





"You're going with him anyway?" London was pacing along the set.

"He's quick. He's funny. He's likeable," Sandra said.

"You mean you liked his ass?"

"Yeah. He's nice to look at too, Lond."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Abbreviate my name. It's London. Call me London. Not Lond, not The Big L, not Sweet Cheeks. London.

"Listen, he's the guy. He's fun, funny, and good-looking."

"Like me, then. Only… fun." He stopped to face her.

"Sure," she said.

"Right. And just when is Ryan Not Quite Anderson But Close Enough And With A Nice Body supposed to come on the show and win fame and fortune?"




"Tonight."

Harry was on the phone at his tall, imposing desk. Emmys lined one wall, pictures lined another, and posters from his past successful shows lined the third. He had a bowl of quarters next to him that he kept drawing from, trying to catch one after the other by placing them on his elbow and shooting his arm forward… as he talked on the phone.

"Tonight? Harry, that's not enough time," London said.

Harry could picture the kid with his beret all twisted as he practically cried into the phone. "What do you mean it's not enough time, London? This is supposed to be a game show. Normally you wouldn't know that you're guaranteed a winner tonight. Just direct the show like you always would."

"Harry, we've had 226 episodes. Do you know how many contestants have won in those 226 episodes?"

"How many?"

"Three. And one of them was during my one week of vacation from this show."

"Yeah, what a bitch that was when you missed that. How'd you handle it?"

London inhaled sharply on his end. "I unsuccessfully tried to kill myself with a battery-powered blender in a public swimming pool."

"Oh. Right then. Uh, could you hold one moment?

Harry put London on hold and buzzed his secretary. Her voice came over the speaker: "Yes sir?"

He spoke into the speaker phone. "Could you come in here for a moment and stand for me in your underwear?"

A moment later, the door to his office opened. The secretary walked in and stripped down to her underwear and bra, standing in front of Harry's desk. He picked up the phone and continued talking.

"Listen, London, we do live TV and we're on in three hours. ABC's starting a new show next week where they kill both your parents and winners get their names tattooed on a famous actor's genitalia of their choice. We got Sweeps starting Monday and I want to crush them. Crush them. Mr. Anderson wins tonight."

"Henderson."

"Henderson?"


 

"Henderson."

Ryan was backstage at Who Knows. The studio was rushed and panicky, as it was before every live broadcast as the show's crew hustles to finish all the preparations.

"Henderson? It says here 'Anderson,' said the production assistant as he checked his clipboard.

"Yeah, apparently there was some kind of mix-up," Ryan said.

"Okay, Ryan Henderson. I'm Damien. All you need to know is, when the announcer says your name, you'll walk out through this doorway, and follow this gray line out to the podium. You'll shake hands with Guy right here and then...


Meanwhile, London was busy addressing two 20ish crew girls. "Why did they give new crew members today?!" he barked at them. When they didn't answer, he finally said, "Tell me your goddamn names."

"I'm Bridget," said one.

"And I'm Wendy," said the other.

The girls giggled, though nothing was funny.

"Of course you are," London said. "Bridget, you'll be sitting in that hot seat--" He gestured up to a large spotlight with a swiveling seat for the light controller to sit in. The light was above the two chairs for Guy and the contestant.

"And you, uh, Wilma was it?"

"Wend-- Close enough."

"Right. You'll be controlling the audience prompters. For a right answer, when we go to commercial, and when the show starts, hit the 'applause' button. If Guy says a joke, or attempts to say a joke...


"Now you’re gonna get 120 seconds to answer each question," Damien continued. He sat in Guy's chair across from Ryan. "There’s a digital clock right over there that’ll tick down the seconds. When the seconds tick down to zero, you still get 30 seconds to answer from when Guy asks you for your 'definite response.'"

"When will I meet Guy?"

"When the show starts. Now then, over here are the buttons for your two 'Helpful Hints.' The buttons themselves don’t do anything, but it looks good when you hit them as you say which Hint you want to use."