“Lynda, wait,” Ryan calls.
“Not tonight, Ryan.” She turns to him, her hand still on the doorknob of the bedroom. “You gotta sleep on the couch. Tomorrow is my big day.”
“I just wanted—”
“Then don’t just want to. Okay,” she snaps, almost shouting. “Just don’t. This is my life, my career, my decision. Just sleep on the couch for a few nights more and I’ll make it up to you later. Okay?”
Ryan gulps the pain that he cannot find the words to share with Lynda. It aches when one opens his chest, takes his heart out, and holds it in his hands, offering it as a sacrifice to prove his love, and in return, he gets a slap on the dick because apparently, it is blocking her route to higher ratings. He shows the heart, and she sees the dick. He wants to scream: look at my heart, beating only for you; I am not in this game for sex. But who would believe that from a young adult in his sexual prime? He might be a teen in his heart but still trapped in a young adult persona within the game.
Gulping the pain down is the only way forward for Ryan to play this game.
“Okay?” Lynda repeats the question.
“OK, love. Whatever you say, whatever you want. I just need to tell you something.”
“I’m listening,” she says, opening the door ajar.
“If you ever found faith,” Ryan says, holding her other hand and putting it on his chest, “if you ever believed in me, if you ever dreamed a life beyond this game, just remember the way out. You just wish to exit the game, and the next time you wake up, you’ll be in the real world.”
“Goodnight, Ryan,” she says, pulling her hand back.
“Just promise me you’ll think about it.”
“OK, promise. Happy? Now, leave me alone,” Lynda says and shuts the bedroom door on Ryan.
Michele’s eyes fall on the hologram of the ticking clock above Ryan’s bed. It is as if she gets stabbed in the heart with each tick of the clock’s second hand.
Senator seems to be equally distressed. Clasping the hand of his unconscious daughter, he leans down and gives her a fatherly kiss.
“All right. The shit is shat,” President says as he steps into the dome through the sliding door. He turns to Michele. “Now, let’s flush this tragedy.”
“They’re still in the game,” Michele says in a begging voice.
“Then it sucks to be them,” President responds and lets out a loud belch.
“This is their life you’re taking,” Senator objects from behind. “This is murder.”
Without turning to Senator, President dismisses the protest with an airy wave over his shoulder. “Call it whatever you call it. It’s not the first compromise we’ve made, and it won’t be our last.”
“This is my daughter’s life,” Senator shouts.
With a condescending look on his face, President slowly turns to Senator. “We all have to sacrifice for the greater good. Sorry, but not sorry. I don’t play games with the release of my game.” He turns back to Michele without giving Senator a chance to insist.
Biting his lips, Senator takes his raging eyes off President and walks toward Rajneesh.
Michele wonders why. Her gaze breaks from Senator when President orders, “Michele, do it.” As usual, his voice echoes in Michele’s head as if she receives divine inspiration. Thinking of Ryan’s sacrifice, nevertheless, she gathers all the courage that is still left in her. “No,” she says in a low voice that can hardly be heard. Facing President, she stands between him and the stand with the reset button on it.
“What do you mean No?”
The echoes gradually wearing off, Michele sees the man behind the voice—surprisingly for the first time. “This isn’t right,” she says, her voice trembling.
“Michele, push the damn button, now,” President commands, expressing his frustration on every single word.
He might look big but at the same time seems hollow to Michele, like an empty balloon. “No,” she insists, this time loud and firm.
“Never make a business depend on broads,” President mutters, letting out a sigh of disappointment. “If you wanna get it right, you gotta do it yourself,” he says, pushing Michele out of his way. He removes the plastic protection, raises his hand, makes a fist, and smashes it at the red reset button.
Sitting in front of the Lynda’s bedroom door, Ryan hugs his knees, his head resting on them. A blanket on his shoulders has helped him survive the night in the corridor. His gaze locked on the doorknob, he prays hard that Michele has implanted the dream on time. This miracle would be Ryan’s last shot to salvage Lynda’s soul from this game.
His heart sinks into his stomach when the doorknob finally turns. Lynda pulls the door open.
He wakes up from the light nap when Lynda opens the door.
“Ryan!” she calls. “You scared me. You’re up early. What’re you doing here?”
“Did you have it?” he asks, his eyes yearning for a positive response.
“Have what?”
“The dream.”
“No. Thanks to you,” she says sarcastically, walking to the bathroom.
Ryan gets up off the floor and follows her.
“I could barely even sleep,” she continues. “Every time I was about to fall asleep, I saw your face and I woke up. Thanks a lot.” Lynda spits the last words beyond the bathroom door.
Leaning his forehead against the wall, Ryan punches it. That is the only way for him not to scream his pain and his fear of facing the unfaceable day.
“Sweetie, be a doll and make me a strong coffee… with lots of sugar. I don’t wanna fall asleep during the show.”
“Anything you say, love,” Ryan says, grinding his teeth, as he punches the wall again. “Anything you want, love.”
Ryan’s bleeding knuckles leave red stains on the wall. Only if it was the last drop of blood that will be shed today.
The handwritten banner on the wall of the abandoned building says ‘Hector’s Studio’. The line starts from a bed at the center of the parking lot, makes multiple turns within the lot, and continues to the sidewalk. The end of the line is not clear as it turns to the sidewalk of the crossing street. There must be two or three thousand men in line, waiting for their turn with Lynda.
Near the front of the line is Zippy, the bum, picking his nose. The people around him do not look much different that him; mostly hobos and layabouts gathered from all the four corners of LA. Zippy is glad he has come early, saving a good spot near the front.
“One, two, three,” the voice over the speaker says. “One, two, three.”
“Who’s that douchebag?” Zippy asks another bum, both wearing sagging pants. The dirty pants seem to have been light blue one day.
“I’m Hector,” the man behind the mic says, “or you must know me as the King of Porn.” He stands on a podium at the center of the parking lot, overlooking the bed.
“OK. OK,” he says, disappointed. “I was expecting a round of applause there, but whatever. Welcome to Lynda Show, where not only will you be the audience but also the star of the show; any single one of you. You’ll be both the entertainer and the entertained. That’s the kind of brilliance that only Hector’s Studio has the audacity to… do. The talent, Lynda, will arrive in half an hour. Before the show starts, let’s go over the rules.”
“This is all bullshit man,” Zippy says. “All the rules and regulations. Even for fucking, they don’t let you be the fuck alone.”
His eyes on Hector, the other bum has no reaction but scratching his untrimmed beard.
“Rule Number 1. We have to break the record of 919 intercourses per day. Each of you has only 40 seconds with the talent. If you come early, good for you. If not, that’s your problem. So, I want you to pull it out right when I tell you, and I want you to move aside quickly so the next star meets the talent. I want you to be fast and I want you to be accurate. Any violation of this rule, and these two little boys here,” Hector says, pointing to huge guys in tank tops, standing next to the podium, “will take your balls off. And, I don’t mean figuratively. So, no horsing around.”
“Not a problem for me,” Zippy says. “I’ll probably come in the first 10 seconds.”
“Good for you, bro,” the other bum responds, tapping him on the shoulder. No hand left to hold his sagging pants up, they fall down. He does not seem to care.
“Rule Number 2,” Hector continues. “There is no time for foreplay. So, I want you to do whatever you need to do to get yourself hard before your turn starts. I would start now if I was you.”
“Hey. Move your fucking penis over, man,” Zippy yells, flinching.
“Sorry, bro,” the other bum apologizes, his indifferent face showing no sign of shame. “I gotta get hard.”
“Rule Number 3,” Hector carries on. “I want you all to be wearing a condom. And do not share them. That’s not cool. At Hector’s Studio, we take sexual health absolutely seriously. Anyone who puts his dick in the talent without a new condom, their name will be registered, and they will be banned from appearing in porno movies made by Hector’s Production Company for the next 10 years.”
“You got a condom, bro?” Zippy asks.
“Who gives a shit,” the other bum spits, still trying to get hard.
Ryan is dressed, wearing his rust jeans and beige checkered shirt. Standing by the coffee machine, he stirs sugar in the coffee tumbler. The knife that Lynda stabbed on the counter a few days ago, has left a big crack in it. Ryan is pondering how Lynda has the guts to do what needs to be done, and how he does not, and how he must find some.
The doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it. I’ll get it. I’ll get it,” Lynda says, dashing to the door, her purse hanging on her shoulder. She opens the door ajar. Ryan cannot see who is behind it.
“The limousine is waiting outside,” the voice of an old woman says. It must be her evil agent, Ryan thinks.
Holding the coffee tumbler, Ryan approaches Lynda with trembling steps. The lid lying on the counter, the stirring spoon is still in the coffee.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Lynda says, extending her hand to take the tumbler.
“Are you sure you didn’t dream last night?” Ryan asks, grabbing her hand.
“Is there a problem?” a thick male voice says from behind the door. The door opens wide. The agent has come with two security guards, one larger than the other.
“No. No problem,” Lynda says, pulling her hand away.
“It’s not too late,” Ryan insists, holding his grip on her hand. His eyes are red as if blood is waving in them.
“It’s getting late, honey,” the agent says. “The red carpet ceremony starts at 8:30 sharp.”
“Sure, Maria,” Lynda says and looks Ryan in the eye. “I gotta go now.” His grip loosened, she yanks her hand free.
“Maria!” Ryan snaps before Lynda is out the door.
“Yeah.”
“Your name is Maria?” he sneers.
“You got a problem with that?” Maria says, pointing to the huge guards behind her.
“I knew an inspiration called Maria. She… she lived such a pure life that God cherry-picked her to bear his own son. Are you two related?” His face shrunk, Ryan shows his teeth.
Her eyes dilated with shock, Lynda stares at Ryan, mouth half-open. She seems to have stopped breathing.
“Ha ha, very funny,” Maria says and pulls Lynda by the arm.
Still haunted by Ryan’s odd remark, Lynda cannot care less about her coffee now.
While being pulled away, she looks back over her shoulder. The light pours out from the open door. Peering between the huge guards behind her, she kind of hopes to find Ryan there.
Feeling weak in his knees, Ryan leans against the door frame on his right hand, his left hand holding Lynda’s coffee.
Lynda sits by the window, in the back of the limo. Her head tilted down, she stares at her red-painted nails. She remembers Ryan’s bloody eyes, his last look, and his last words.
“Maria—,” she says before getting interrupted.
“Jesus,” Maria yells at the Asian security guard who is driving, “take your time. Let’s keep them waiting.” She turns to Lynda.
Mouth half-open, Lynda stares at her.
“What?” Maria asks.
“Ji-Zes?”
“What?”
“Did he come with a bible?”
“It’s just a name. Don’t look at me like that. You’re freaking me out.”
“Sorry, Maria,” Lynda says, hanging her head down again.
“Why don’t you just relax, honey, rest a bit. We have 20-25 minutes before we get there.”
Lynda opens the window to get some fresh air. She rests her head on the side, while the soft breeze caresses her face. Her eyes getting heavy, she shuts them for a second.
Ryan puts the coffee tumbler on the counter. Opening the drawer, he takes out a white towel. A black NAA Mini-Revolver shows when he unwraps the towel. The absorbent fabric quickly hides the tears that fall on it.
Not to overthink it, Ryan hastily loads the gun with the six bullets that are lying on the towel. He rushes for the door the moment the gun is loaded. It hits the tumbler, spilling the coffee all over the counter. Sucking in the spilled coffee, the white towel quickly turns brown.
The door left wide open, Ryan is no longer there in the apartment, nor is the loaded NAA Mini-Revolver.
“I created this world,” President thinks, “and I finish it myself.” Removing the plastic protection, he raises his hand, makes a fist, and smashes it at the reset button.
“You bastard,” Senator yells, jumping the President before his fist hits the red button.
His giant body slightly pushed off balance for a second, President angrily turns and, using only his left hand, chokes Senator.
His face flushed red, Senator’s eyes pop out.
“Well, well, well. Look who’s showing his true colors.” With his right hand, President takes the yellow pocket square out of Senator’s chest pocket and blows his nose in it. “You just got served.” He sneers at the traitor.
Clawing his fingers at President’s hand, Senator tries in vain to pry away the tight grip on his neck. A piece of gray duct tape is stuck to Senator’s wrist—the same that was used to tie up Rajneesh.
That makes President suspicious. He turns to Rajneesh but does not find him tied to his chair. Hearing the sound of fingers tapping on a wooden desk, he turns his gaze over Senator’s flushed face and onto the control board. “What the hell is that coder doing free?” he screams in fear.
“It’s software engineer, asshole,” Rajneesh says calmly, typing on the hologram of the virtual keyboard that has appeared on the desk by the monitoring board.
President throws Senator aside and sprints toward Rajneesh with clenched fists.
Ignoring the seven-foot, bulky man charging him, Rajneesh nonchalantly pretends to chew gum. “It’s software engineer, asshole,” he says calmly.
Maintaining the indifferent look, he slowly turns his face to attacking President. “And miracles are what we do,” he says while pressing the Enter key on the virtual keyboard.
Before President’s fist reaches over, a flying robot slaps a gaming helmet on his head, and with that, he collapses on the floor like 250 pounds of dead meat.
“What’s happening?” Senator asks with a hoarse voice while rubbing his throat.
“Let’s just say,” Rajneesh responds, still pretending to chew gum, “he’s taking his own game for a spin. Only this time, if the game dies, he’ll die with it.”
“I’ve already reduced the emulation speed,” Michele says, showing the hologram of the speed indicator, which is now back to its green color. “I’ve also injected the dream that Ryan requested. Hope it lands on time.”
“Look. He’s loading a gun!” Senator says fanatically, pointing to the hologram of Ryan at the center of the room.
“What the hell is he up to now?” Michele asks, stepping toward the hologram.
“I only can guess,” Rajneesh says, his finger drumming on the wooden desk. “And it ain’t pretty.”
Her eyes shut, Lynda’s eyeballs dart about.
“Lynda. Lynda. Lynda,” Maria calls multiple times. She eventually shakes her arm. “Lynda,” she calls again.
Lynda wakes up.
“It’s showtime, honey.”
Lynda takes a second to digest the dream she’s just had. The scenes are coming back to her, the images, and more importantly the feelings. The dream has drilled a tunnel in her heart and let the long-imprisoned, suppressed feelings fly free all over her mind.
“I want out,” she mutters.
“What?”
“I want out,” she says, firmly this time.
“Out of what?”
“Out of everything,” Lynda sobs. “Out of here. Out of this fucking game.”
“Hey, hey, hey. Relax, alright,” Maria says, wrapping her hand around Lynda’s neck. “You just had a bad dream, that’s all. Just ignore it, and it’ll be fine. Trust me. Been there, done that. Look. Look what you did to your make-up,” she says, reaching for her purse on the opposite seat.
“Jesus,” she whispers while leaning forward, “we might need a bit of encouragement here.”
“Yes, boss,” Jesus says, leaving the car.
“Now let’s get you nice and pretty,” Maria says, flashing a big smile while applying makeup on Lynda. “And if things get rough, just remember how high your rating will be when the day is over, and you’ll be able to pull through.”
Jesus opens the door and grabs Lynda’s arm.
“Hang on,” Maria says, applying a thick red lipstick on her lips. “Aa-a-a-and, ready.”
Jesus pulls Lynda out of the limo.