gatsbyjwilson

[gatsbyjwilson]

The Highlight Reel (A Cautionary Tale)

“Uh huh. And you say you went to Parnidge University and studied film?”

“P-Partridge, Sir.”

“Huh.”

Two gleaming black eyes stared back across the cluttered, coffee-stained desk to examine the short, spindly, and overdressed specimen opposite them. 

“T- Technically I studied accounting with a minor in film- my Mom told me to do that in case ‘The whole Hollywood Thing doesn’t work out.’”

It was remarkable how the beady little man sitting nervously in front of the heavy-set producer was able to keep his armpits dry. It was the hottest day in June, and the sun had only just begun to creep towards the West over the hills. Donny had already removed his jacket and loosened his tie, and even with the rickety old fan spinning precariously over the desk, Don was sweating up a storm. The pencil-neck opposite him, on the other hand, seemed acclimated to the hotter-than normal weather. “Kid’s so thin, maybe they can’t wring no sweat outta him no more.”

The fat man allowed himself the shadow of a chuckle at the thought.

“So uh, why aren’t you applying to be an accountant?”

“That’s not what I want to be, Sir.”

“So why the hell’ve you majored in accounting?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself.”

Those beady, tight-knit eyes wandered across the room. Maybe they were searching for a way out, maybe they were just admiring the torn and faded posters on the wall of an ancient age forgotten long ago- the early eighties.

“So-”, The past-his-prime producer started, wiping his brow with a stained Roy Rogers napkin, “You wanna be a comedian.”

“Well, I’m already a comedian, I want to host my own late night show.” Cracking his first non-forced smile, the eager young man continued- “It’s been my dream since I was a little boy watching Letterman on my little rinky-dink TV.”

At this, Donny was now thoroughly amused.

“Heh. You wanna know what my dream was as a kid?” He said, as his fat lips curved into a long, unnerving grin, “A Janitor. Always had my eyes set on a spiffy blue uniform- cleaning up, lending a helping hand- then I realized how much of a shit job that is.” His coffee-stained teeth once again receded past his swollen jowls, resuming his exhausted, resting face. Dropping the paper clearly in the already resume-stuffed wastebasket, he once again drew his discouraging grin and spat- “I’ll think about it.”

***

Leaning back into the well-worn seats of his Camaro, the previously well-postured man dropped any hint of optimism and sank into the seat, loosening a cheap coffee labelled ‘BENJAMEN’ from its holder. The sun was well-set by now, and pounding rain had settled nicely into the area, draining remorselessly over the Hollywood Hills. A hole in the roof above the passenger seat had begun to drip into the car, but at this point Ben didn’t care. Wrenching himself into an upright posture, he drew a small notebook from his pinstriped breast-pocket. He crossed out Happy Times Studios from the list, marking the end of the page. Two straight months of interviews and cheerful schmoozing had left him with nothing. No money, no job, and no prospects. The drive from Ohio was a long one, but the beat-up, sickly orange 90’ Camero had made it, with some minor repairs. Ben was preparing to make the drive back in the morning. After 30 minutes of traffic and unconsciously turning to the empty slot where a radio should be, he pulled up to a tan apartment complex and turned the car off. He turned melancholically to the window. Still rain. 

***

He unlocked the door to his apartment, soaking wet. At least he was home, he thought, stepping into a strategically placed land mine of cat dung. A long, drawn-out sigh emanated from his gaunt visage. Not bothering to wipe them, he kicked his shoes off and went instinctively towards the TV remote. He slumped into the leather couch, resting his feet on the broken ottoman he had propped up on a stack of books. He flipped the TV on just in time to see Tom Hanks laugh uproariously at a witticism Conan O'Brien had uttered. Ben leaned over to a half-empty Coors gathering dust on the floor by the couch. He picked it up, sniffed it, and began to sip. His eyes began to glaze over, resting unfocused on the technicolor tube TV. His cat walked steadily over to sip from the pool forming on the floor from the Coors that had leaned out of his hand as he fell asleep, drifting off into peaceful, dark, unconsciousness. 

“ARE YOU A SKILLED WRITER, DIRECTOR, OR COMEDIAN???? DO YOU WANT TO BE RICH, SUCCESSFUL, AND FAMOUS???? THEN COME VISIT HIM AT 304-”

Ben shot up, knocking the ottoman off of its improvised leg. He breathed heavily, drenched in sweat. He looked around for the source of the blaring job offer. The TV played only static. He looked over at his clock radio. 3:00 AM. Silent as a mouse. Was it possible he dreamed it? More than likely, he supposed. His fatigue, momentarily lost, returned to him. “3 AM,” he thought. “I haven’t had dinner.” Ben moseyed on over to the refrigerator, drenched in the harsh fluorescent glow of his nearby lamp. He opened the door and leaned down into it, taking a pause and closing his eyes to enjoy the stream of cold air that trickled from the machine. Ben looked down into the crisper drawer, pulling out the bottom ra-

“AVENUE!!! HE’S WAITING TO SEE YOU!!! AND HE KNOWS HOW SKILLED YOU ARE, BEN!!!”

He shot back, slamming his head against the roof of the refrigerator. He fell backwards, landing hard on the linoleum floor of his kitchen. He heard it- that time he really heard it. And it said his name. His eyes darted back to the TV, which continued its inhuman lullaby of crackling sound. Nothing. Absolutely Nothing. Ben would have thought it was a friend playing a trick on him, if Ben had any friends to play tricks on him. He had left that all back in Ohio. No, this was something different. He looked to his cat, who, obviously startled by his fall, stared intently at him. He got up, ambled over to the couch once again, and lay down. He reached over and turned on the remote. The TV shut off with a fizzle of static electricity. 

After 10 minutes of trying, the same warmth of sleep eluded him. He lazily opened his eyes again, peering across the room to the short hallway that led to his real bedroom and the bathroom. The cat, seemingly curious, meandered into the darkened hall. He came back a few moments later and came close to Ben’s face, and licked his nose. At this point, he was too tired to care, and continued to sluggishly watch his companion walk back to the hall and stop at the mouth. The cat remained at the entrance of the hall and meowed. A beckoning, perhaps, to another cat that had gotten into the building somehow. Ben remained on the couch, until the cat turned back to him, meowed again, and turned back to the hall. It was a quick movement, like a deer turned to a hunter in the forest, piercing black eyes shooting back at the predator. 

The cat stared for what seemed like hours, unblinking. Then, in a moment of eerie stillness, the cat walked forward, being swallowed up by the darkness. With his only entertainment having left him, Ben turned to face the ceiling. “I think I’ve finally lost it,” Ben thought to himself. There was no real explanation for what he heard, besides maybe his mind thinking it heard certain words in a mix of wordless sound, the same way his eyes tricked him by making him see moving shapes in the darkness. He sat upright, gazing out at the city below. “Three in the morning and still buzzing,” he thought. The rain had ended, so Ben had put his shoes back on and donned an inconspicuous, faded, bomber jacket. Being an insomniac, he had gotten used to taking nighttime walks to clear his head and spur him into sleeping. He took his keys off the counter and walked out, prepared to take his last looks at the city he had dreamed about.

He resolved not to take the Camaro, lest he fall asleep at the wheel and never see the light of day. Instead, he began to walk into the heart of the city. The opioid epidemic had stuck this part of town hard, and it was hard to find a street corner without some junkie muttering to himself or dancing off to wonderland thanks to the needle in his arm. Tonight was different, though. Perhaps some good samaritan had opened up a new homeless shelter, for tonight, the streets were clean of addicts and alcoholics. He walked through streetlight after streetlight, closed storefront after closed storefront, the scenery so decrepit and frequent it seemed the walls were simply repeating themselves every block. Coming to a four-way intersection, Ben looked up at the street signs to get his bearings and begin to head home. The chill of the night breeze had finally set into his bones.

When he looked up, the street names were unknown to him, so he had the option to either double back on Ciacco Street or turn onto Sordello. He attempted to look for the shining lights of the Sunset Strip to give him some sense of direction, but the boarded up shops and apartments stooped far too high for Ben to get a sense of his location. He turned onto Sordello, and passed by a fenced-off psychiatric hospital. What was left of the sign read ‘ST. BERN  RD A  YLUM’. A small pink sheet on the front of the wrought-iron gates read ‘CONDEMNED’. Mildly unnerved by the rotting exterior of the place, Ben pulled his jacket tighter to him and continued on. The chill still clung to him, no matter how close he pulled it.

Rounding another corner past the asylum, he walked onto a long, dark, and eerily quiet street. He stepped out onto the road and looked down. Cobblestone paving. He was in a far older part of town. He looked back to the corner he had just rounded and saw only darkness at the cutoff. The last streetlight he had passed had gone out. The new street was oddly clean. The chill had left his bones, he remarked. He still had no idea where he was. He decided to find some 24 hour bodega and borrow their phone. None of the lights in the shop were on, except for a small decorated lantern that hung over a wooden sign.

Ben walked closer to the sign, peering up at the faded paint. ‘FOUST’S APOTHECARY’, it read, and he pushed open the wooden door with the same name written on it in gold lettering. There was the brief chime of the door’s petite silver bell.  It was a small shop with a counter and hardwood flooring, all neatly polished. He looked beyond the counter and saw a shelf with columns and rows of bottles marked with tiny labels that were impossible to read without a magnifying glass. He sat down in a leather bar seat and ran his hands over the wooden counter. Was it open? Would he have to-

“I wasn’t under the impression that we would receive customers tonight,” Remarked a thin old man dressed in scarlet from the corner of the shop. “Not many people show up here at all, so I’d hardly expect someone, especially at this hour.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that- you see my car is at my apartment and I got lost while walking, and-” 

“Oh, slow down a bit, young man, I know exactly why you’re here.”

Ben’s brow furrowed slightly, and the man in the corner put down his dense manuscript and stood up to shake his hand.

“Well you need medicine! Why else would you have wandered into an apothecary at this time of night. You’re in your hour of need, and no one else will help you. Well, as it so happens I am just the man you seek. Doctor Johann Faust- at your service.”

He walked around the counter with long strides, removing some bottles from the shelf and placing them on the counter with a swiftness Ben hadn’t expected from such an old man. 

“That’s very kind of you Sir, but really I just need to borrow your pho-”

The scarlet man cut him off- “Yes, yes, just a minute, I’ll get to that. You happen to have some more pressing matters, I believe.”

At this point Ben was too tired to interject, and elected to simply lean on the counter and let the scarlet-clad doctor rattle off his sales pitch.

“Benjamin, I am a man who solves problems. And many times they aren’t simply illnesses of the mind or of the body. They’re illnesses of the soul. Have you ever felt like you were simply meant to do something, but you are impaired somehow? This is an illness of the soul, you see. You were always meant for the silver screen, but the cruel and ignorant men above you simply wish to stop you from rising to the top.”

At this, Ben sat up. He had never told this man his name, much less his plight of reaching his dream as a host. He wanted to get up and leave, but everything around him told him to not move and stay exactly where he was. He could leave, but the back of his mind kept him in his chair. The impending, screaming sensation that if he left now, he would lose out on a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity. 

“H-How do you know that?” Ben sputtered out. “I never told you any of that.”

The old man stopped what he was doing and stood up straight. He turned around and peered into Ben’s eyes. It was only now that he realized that the Doctor was quite a bit taller than him. The velvety voice began again:

 “You didn’t need to. It was all written there on your face. You see, all throughout my life I have seen poor, innocent people suffer because of the actions of those above them. How is it that the people who should never lead become the mightiest of the mighty? It’s just so... unfair. So I make it my business to help those less fortunate people achieve their goals. All pro bono, of course.”

Ben looked back at the eyes of the frail man in front of him. He seemed so kind, so purely helpful, like an innocent child who simply wants to help another reclaim the swing set he was pushed from. But his eyes… They spoke of something deeper, something darker and more purely maleficent than anything Ben had seen before. The Doctor turned and returned to his task. The pillowy baritone of the pharmacist resumed:

“I can help you, Ben. You and I both simply want the same thing. To bring joy to everyone. To dethrone the ignorant simpletons who have made themselves the kings of kings.”

The man turned to face him once again, and placed a small vial of a dark, glittering liquid before him. “Fallacem Argentum- a very rare and specialty concoction. It has the rather helpful  effect of making anyone seem hilarious and confident- the two most important qualities of a show host, don’t you agree?” Ben instinctively reached for it, but his hands were guided away from the vial by the Doctor. “I’m afraid, Benjamin, that you need a prescription for this, and that’s something you simply don't have. However,” The Doctor started, holding the bottle up to the light, “I can write you one- in exchange for a small favor.” Ben was fixed on the vial. Everything was leading up to this. This is what he needed. This is who he was. Ben had already disturbed the pharmacist by intruding at this late hour, so if he could repay him with whatever favor he needed, it would be only fair.

“Anything.”

A thin smile crept up the sides of Foust’s face, contorting his features to reveal a deep eagerness at Ben’s agreement.

“There will come a time when I require your service. At a time least expected, I will be there to claim what is rightfully mine. That’s all there is- I’ve already collected the down payment before you left.”

With this, the Doctor placed the bottle in front of him once more, and Ben grabbed it unimpeded.

“How does it work?” He asked, eyes still locked intently on the bottle. 

“Simply take one drop for confidence and humor, two drops for fame and fortune, and three drops…” The Doctor’s face fell a bit. He looked from the bottle to Ben’s eyes, which had momentarily broken their gaze from the bottle. 

“Three drops for what?”

“Three drops, my boy, will lead you down a path you may never want to walk. Three drops and your fame and fortune will be… eternal. But all who have tried have regretted it. They were simply too weak-willed for it, I suppose. They just didn’t have the Passion. Best to just stick with two, then.”

The pharmacist produced a small red-leather ledger and placed it in front of Ben.

“Simply sign here, a good hearty handshake, and then you’re off.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The eager smile returned to the Doctor’s gaunt face. Ben suddenly found himself holding an ornate fountain pen. The handle was made of what seemed to be polished obsidian, and the deeper Ben peered into the side of it, the more he wondered if he would lose his mind in the endless, spiraling darkness. Ben was so tired. If he just signed, he could go back to sleep and be left alone. All he needed to do was-

A short, clear tap on the ledger indicating where he was to write his name brought him back to reality. He paused, reading over the names. So many people… Who was this guy? Wait a second- what was he doing here? He needed to get home, to feed his cat, to-

Before he knew it, Ben had signed the paper quickly, and the pen, suddenly wielding an immense weight, dropped from his hand. The scarlet man closed the book and placed both it and the pen in his breast pocket. He offered a bony hand.

Ben shook it.

The face of the pharmacist was whipped into utter delight. He let loose a deep, hearty chuckle. All previous refinement lost, he said-

“You can go.”

***

Ben started up in his bed. It was dawn, and the rays of the California sun had finally broken through the blinds to wake him. Everything that had happened the night before seemed fuzzy. Ethereal. Unreal. He walked over to the large bag of cat food and filled a bowl marked ‘EMBERS’. He looked around for the cat, who usually came running at the slightest hint of food. The soft pitter-patter of his feet never came.

Ben didn’t think much of it. After all, cats were lazier than most humans. He rose from the food bowl and suddenly stopped. His eyes were locked with an inky black vial on the counter.

He paused for a while, the memories of the previous night flooding back to him. The Asylum, the empty streets, the unnatural chill of the nocturnal air settling into his bones- it all came back. The eyes of the Doctor. Even now, he felt the endless abyss behind them boring holes into the most secluded parts of his being.

He put one hand on the bottle, and sloshed the liquid inside around. It was dense, like mercury. He debated simply tossing it out and considering the events of the past night a ‘stress-induced psychotic break’. “I would, but I paid for this-” He paused for a moment to briefly recall the events of the previous night once more. How much did he pay for this? Faust had said he wrote the prescription as a favor, but he had no memory of what he had given him in return.

He momentarily shook himself back to reality and looked around for Embers. He walked toward the hall where he had watched the cat slowly enter the previous night, but stopped at the entrance. 

“I’ve already collected the down payment.”

The Doctor’s words echoed back to him now. He stared into the hall, which even now in pure daylight was held in a subtle darkness, with the door to the bathroom being closed and the windows in the bedroom covered by the curtains, which had been drawn shut. He lingered for a moment, and turned to face the bottle once again. 

It felt like days, staring into the inky liquid in the bottle. Considering what he would do with it now that he had it. “How bad could it be? Two drops of anything can’t kill me,” He thought to himself. He went to the cupboard above the counter and removed a small coffee cup, placing it down next to the bottle. He put it under the faucet and filled it. Then, carefully unscrewing the lid of the bottle, he drew some of the liquid into the dropper and held it for a moment, careful not to release any of the pressure from his fingertips.

He kept the dropper suspended above the water.

“One drop for confidence and humor, two drops for fame and fortune, and three drops-”

Two drops of the onyx liquid fell into the cup. Ben’s hand held still over the cup for a moment, as if to tempt fate for another drop to fall from it. None did. He downed the cup. The liquid was bitter at first, but his tongue quickly acclimated to the taste. He recognised it from somewhere, but couldn’t put his finger on it. It was like a childhood dish with a main element removed- enough to offer the memory, but merely a shadow of what it truly was.

He stepped out into the air, which had changed rapidly from a blazing heat yesterday to a room-temperature atmosphere. Perhaps it was a few degrees too cold. The sudden focus on the sensation of the air on his skin reminded him of how fervently his sneakers chafed. It seemed completely normal, and yet, a creeping uneasiness stayed with Ben no matter where he went.

He began to walk toward his favorite cafe, a small, unambitious little shop owned by an immigrant family from Japan. Nice folk, yet the mother had the unappealing tendency to stare with intense scrutiny at anyone who entered. As a consequence, it was always empty. This was a bonus to Ben. 

He walked in, and offered a slight wave to the mother’s 10-year-old boy, who sat in the back corner of the sun-bleached shop playing something on his GameBoy. The wave, to Ben’s dismay, went unnoticed. The mother, Pauline, emerged from the backroom and gave a warm smile, which was quickly snuffed at the sight of Ben’s wrinkled flannel. 

“The usual?”

Actually, I was thinking a rum and coke this morning.

“Actually, I was thinking a rum and coke this morning.”

A brief, yet hearty chuckle emanated from Pauline. Where had that come from? He didn’t know, but he was proud of it. “A nice way to start my last day here.” Ben thought to himself.

“If you find one, get one for me too.” 

Pauline began making a double-shot espresso, Ben’s favorite, and he left the cash on the counter and sat down. He looked out the large glass windows to gaze lazily across the street. The sun was in the first third of the sky, and the smell of the coffee had brightened his mood. Today was going to be a good day.

He went up to the counter and took the espresso. He resumed sitting, and took a long sigh. In that moment, Ben seemed to be held in a peculiar stillness, as if his entire life had been slightly blurred, and only now came into focus. He noticed every little thing. The pallid creak of the plastic chair he was sitting in that accompanied every slight movement. The furious, yet practiced clicking of the GameBoy. The dull hiss of steam from the coffee makers. It all seemed so real, so present, and yet- so disconnected. Despite the lucidity in which he viewed his surroundings, Ben couldn’t find himself immersed in it. He felt held within his own interior stillness, quiet and unnoticed by the outside world.

He stepped out of the shop and began to walk back to his apartment. Just then, a neon-swept teenager on a skateboard shoved a flyer into his hands. The teen sped past and absentmindedly shouted “Come to open mike night at The Hooligan House!” Ben looked down at the dry pink paper in his hands. “Why not?” He postulated, “What the Hell?”

***

The atmosphere of the comedy club was tipsy and jovial, with silver-tongued crooners smooth-talking to well-dressed ladies scattered throughout the club. People of all sorts were here, and the only one who felt out of place was Ben. He slipped into one of the front-row booths and sat down. A waitress came up to him and he asked for a beer. He sipped the foamy liquid courage and turned towards the stage.

“Uh, welcome to open mike night here at California’s own HH.”

The dull announcement was met with thunderous applause and cheers from across the club. The obviously stoned, flannel-clad man continued.

“Basically the rules are you have a max of five minutes, no racist or sexist shit, y’all know the drill.”

A man dressed in a loose polo went up. He flashed a cheesy smile, grabbed the mike with familiar confidence, and began:

“You know, I recently had to put my mom in a nursing home.”

The audience met this with sympathetic sighs.

“Yeah, her house parties were loud as hell- I couldn’t get any sleep. This bitch had to go.”

Uproarious laughter showered the comedian. His routine consisted of the same type of jokes. He presented his eighty-year old mother as a virile teen going through the angst that puberty brings on. A couple other people went up, and something deep inside Ben said:

Get up there. Show em’ what you’ve got.

Ben scooted out of his seat and briskly walked up to the microphone. There were scattered claps throughout the establishment. In an effort to hide his shaky hands he gripped it with both hands and began. He peered into the black faceless mass that was the crowd. He paused for a moment, trying to remember his jokes. He cursed under his breath. He’d left his book at home. I suppose he’d have to improvise. His mind was blank- he frantically racked his brain for anything resembling a joke when he heard a voice, perhaps his own, begin to speak.

“So the other day I was walking home, and I saw this homeless guy sweeping the streets with a branch.”

Small chuckles came from the crowd. The voice continued, and Ben was in a trance- was the voice his own? He’d never know. All he knew was that he was talking and it was working.

“First of all- good for him for keeping his community clean.”

A hearty laugh came from the crowd. Ben relaxed his grip.

“It’s not every day you see someone like that. I was honestly so surprised I just kinda watched him do it. At least he’s trying, right? Just look at him go- sweeping in two directions so the dirt stays in the same place. By far the most responsible crackhead I’ve seen in a while. He compares only to good ol’ Stabby Power-washes-the-street. Both upstanding men in the community.”

Ben continued on, caught in a stupor of the limelight- The words flowed effortlessly out of him- he didn’t need to think and they were already there, sent out to the crowd for them to devour. He finished his set and sat down. The audience cheered. The stoned manager from before came out and wished everyone a good night. People got up to leave, and as Ben was putting on his coat, a hand gripped his shoulder. Ben spun around and was face to face with a well-dressed little man in his forties, who stood a good foot shorter than him.

“Rick Barnaby- Talent Agent.”

He flicked a sleek black business card out to him and thrust it into his hands.

“And you got talent, kid. Real talent. The way you had that crowd busting their guts? Beautiful. Listen, gimme a call if you’re interested in working as a writer or something. There are tons of small studios in the hills that would love a guy like you!”

The balding man clapped him on the shoulder and walked away. Ben couldn’t help a smile from flooding over his face. He turned to the bar and asked to settle his tab.

The cheeky comedian from earlier sat at the bar, staring at him.

“You know, you’ve got chops, I’ll give you that. Guys like Barnaby are small fry- He goes after every wide-eyed comedian who can get a chuckle out of these idiots.”

Any previous levity was gone from the comedian’s face. He emptied his glass and got up.

“You want my advice? Wait until the big names go for you- but for that you need a club a lot bigger than this one.” He turned to the barkeep and gestured to his empty glass. “That one’s on him.” The now-sullen comedian quickly departed.

Ben begrudgingly paid his tab, along the extra charge for the other comedian’s drink. He stepped out into the sweet Hollywood air. The city glistened across the darkness. It was like the whole place was stuck in a haze of limelight. Before, He was nothing. Now, the city was his. He stepped off into the darkness.

***

  Ben awoke yet again into a day he thought wouldn’t happen. He once again stared into the inky black liquid. He strode past the untouched food bowl, eyes locked in place with the vial. He outstretched his hand to it, but quickly withdrew it. He got another mug and placed it near the coffee maker.

All who have tried it have regretted it. They just didn’t have the Passion.

He picked the mug up again and filled it with water. He placed the mug on the counter next to the vial. What was he doing? The Doctor had said that all who have done it have regretted it.

Because they didn’t have the Passion.

Ben looked at the vial again.

“I have passion.”

Yes, Benjamin, you do. The people who regretted it didn’t have the same fire you possess.

“W-what if I don’t? What if it’s really not in me?”

There are always a million reasons not to do something. All this worry is so… negative. Let go of your inhibitions.

 Ben unscrewed the cap and dropped the third drop in. He downed the cup. The taste was the same alluding flavor- but he was more passive to the subtle bitterness now. He knew that this was truly him.

He stepped out into the daylight- ready to make his way in the world. He was gripped by the strong sensation that the world was his. He had the fire. He had fought for this. Now it was time. Time to become the man he always wanted to be.

He stepped onto the crosswalk, not noticing the flatbed truck hurtling out of his peripheral vision. Ben took his last step with profound purpose. And all the world was gone.

***

“AHAHA, HOLY SHIT!”

Ben was in a leather armchair, face to face with a slender, neatly dressed man sitting across a dark mahogany desk. He was cackling and slamming the desk with laughter. Every beat against the hard wood was deafening. The true sadistic nature of the laugh made Ben fall sick to his stomach.

The fireplace burned brightly behind the still-laughing man. The eager flares mimicked the chaotic swelling of the laughter. All around the office was dark wood. He wanted to turn around, but fear kept him in his place.

“Ohh, ohh, oh my goodness-”

The man’s face rose from his desk and he wiped a tear from his eye. His skin color was an aggressive crimson. A horrible realization dawned on Ben. The truck- wait- How did he survive? Unless… The realization shot into him brutally.

“That is, without a doubt- one of the best ones I’ve seen. I mean, you took the third drop and, like, immediately get hit by a truck. I mean, hot damn. Wow. Really, really, great stuff. Okay- let’s take a little look-see at your file here.”

A bright red folder produced itself in a quick burst of flame. The man opened it and began to read, mouthing most of the words. Wild expressions darted across his face with every new sentence, most of them being jovial surprise.

“Excuse me but what am I-”

The man made a ‘Shut-your-mouth’ gesture with his hands and Ben fell silent. Ben put a hand to his mouth and felt around it. He gagged- It was sewn shut. He traced his fingers over the stitches and let loose a muffled scream. The scream was met with not even an apathetic glance from the man. He kicked his feet up onto the desk and sank back into his leather chair. He tossed the folder into the fireplace behind him. 

“So, uh, normally Paul, the demon in charge of your case, would be the one doing this, but he’s uhh, kind of busy right now, so here I am. You know, I almost turned down this overtime shift. But this… oh this is definitely worth it. Now, unless you’re a full-blown brickhead, you’ve probably figured out where you are by now.”

The demon let loose an excessive, toothy grin.

“You can talk, genius.”

Ben took in a sharp breath and felt around his lips. No stitches, no scars.

“W-wasn’t I h-h-hit by the t-t-”

“Ehh, wuh-wuh-wuh, buh-buh-buh, Speak up, moron. Yeah, you’re in the ol’ H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks all right. In here for a doozy of a sin, too. Deal with the Big Guy, huh? How’d you manage a score with the head honcho ‘round here? Ya sleep with him?”

The demon once again launched into cackling laughter.

“Naw, naw, I’m just giving you a hard time. Don’t take it personally.  I do this to everybody, it’s sort of my job. You get it.”

Ben looked around for cameras. Perhaps this was some sort of practical joke? He thought if perhaps he just waited a bit, a man with a clipboard would come out and tell him he made tonight’s news, and that California 48 would be televising his reaction to the prank.

No such relief came.

The... Demon? Man? Hapless actor? It didn’t matter. The beet-red, snappily dressed thing that sat across from him was nothing short of delighted to be looking over his file. Ben gathered the courage to look around. A ludicrous amount of mahogany. Behind him, at the back of the room, was a large aquarium with a beefy coconut crab. 

“You know, that’s the crab that ate Amelia Earhart..”

“What?”

Ben turned back around to face the demon, who was leaning far across the desk, studying every aspect of Ben’s terrified expression. The demon sank back and looked at his watch. 

“Oh, shit. We gotta get you out to hair and makeup right now.”

“W-what?”

The demon immediately grew a short beard that didn’t cover his chin, and a puffy afro.

“SAY ‘WHAT’ AGAIN! I DARE YOU, I DOUBLE-DARE YOU!”

Ben fell backwards, out of his chair. His head hit the hardwood with a bang. An intense, sharp sting immediately pulsed from the back of his head. The demon once again launched into violent laughter, and then pulled him upright in his chair again. 

“Oh, my bad, guy. I can’t have you all fuzzy for what’s about to happen. I was just kidding about hair and makeup, by the way. You go out just as ugly as you are now.”

Hair and makeup? What the hell was he on about? There wasn’t any-

A neatly dressed, presumably female, demon with her hair in a tight bun quickly opened the door and leaned in. 

“You’re on in five, Cal.”

“Thanks, Toots.”

She looked at Ben and squealed excitedly.

“Is that the guy?”

Cal responded cheerily, “Yep. In the… well, I guess you wouldn’t say flesh.”

The assistant once again squealed excitedly, and then quickly left and shut the door.

Ben, collecting his bearings, sputtered out,

“Look, I think you have the wrong guy. I-I’m not a bad person, I j-just-”

Cal looked at his watch and smiled.

“Showtime!”

He snapped his fingers, and it felt for a brief moment that a fireball had covered Ben. Not enough to burn him, but enough to flash-heat him and startle him again. This time, he was behind a dark red curtain. The neatly-dressed demon from earlier was right next to him.

“I’m Prinne. I’m an Assistant Executive. I just wanted to say, on behalf of all of us, how much your sheer stupidity means to us. Really it's… inspiring. Oop- this is you. Bad luck!”

She scurried off somewhere, and the heavy curtains swept open before Ben, momentarily blinding him from the industrial lighting. He briefly heard,

“... Ben Harding!” 

A jazz orchestra flooded out an upbeat piece, as Cal walked over and moved him to a plush suede couch. He could barely hear anything of the swarm of cheers that washed over Ben. Cal sat down at a desk next to him.

“Isn’t he great, folks?! Look at that- two arms, two legs- the works!”

This was met with guffawing laughter. The crowd quieted down, and Ben’s focus turned towards Cal. Cal was beaming, and he took a sip from a cup that Ben was positive wasn’t coffee.

“So, Ben. I always start my guests with the same question-”

The crowd finished his sentence loudly.

“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!”

Ben stuttered, his mind blank.

“A-a TV show?” was all he managed to get out.

Cal turned to the crowd inquisitively.  “What do you think, people, did he get it?”

There was a loud mix of ‘Boos’ and cheers. It was impossible to hear what the majority thought. Cal started again- “I’ll give you a hint, pal. I told you earlier.”

Ben somehow turned paler than he was before.

“Oh, God…”

“NOPE! NOT FOR YOU!”

Deafening laughter resumed. Ben knew what it was. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t bring himself to admit the reality he was facing.

Cal answered for him:

“You know what, guy? I’m a kind fella, so I’ll take that pale, mortal face o’ yours as the correct answer! You’re in…”

Once again the crowd responded.

“HELL!”

A red, flashing marquis sign lowered, illuminating the word. The crowd burst out with laughter once more. As Ben stared directly up at it, he began to weep uncontrollably. This was simply too much to handle. He wanted to go home! He wanted to hug his mother! He wanted to see his cat again!

“What’s that? Your cat? Why would you want to see him again? HE’S THE ONE THAT BROUGHT YOU TO OUR ATTENTION!”, Cal shouted with sheer glee.

Ben was confused beyond words, beyond thought. Cal continued.

“That’s right! He did! If you still want to say ‘Hi’ to your little buddy, then good news! He’s here in the audience tonight!”

A spotlight wheeled around to shine on Embers in the front row, sitting upright, like a human, waving a paw at the cameras and smiling to the extent that a cat could smile.

Cal began again-

“You see, I don’t know if you realized this, but cats just tend to walk between Hell and the mortal plane all the time! It’s just kinda a thing they do. I think the real tug-at-your-heartstrings of it all was the fact that even though you loved him, even though you fed him, even though you cleaned up his stanley steamers all his life, he still couldn’t give a rat’s ass about YOU!”

The crowd busted a gut at this statement. Ben was speechless, staring at the dark, shapeless crowd. The spotlight returned to Cal.

“Alright, folks, It’s time for one of my favorite segments. You know the one-”

The crowd returned-

“GIVE! HIM! MORE! EYES!”

Ben, still weeping, let loose a scream of complete and utter fear  for his existence. He tried to get up, but his legs simply wouldn’t allow him to do so. He beat on his legs with his fists, seemingly endlessly, hoping to get them to work, so they could speed him out of this waking nightmare.

“Aww, I think he wants to go.” Cal made a harlequinesque frown at this comment.

The crowd boomed back more laughter. Cal continued,

“Don’t worry, stupid. This next segment isn’t about you. We just want you to watch.”

Cal gestured to a platform where a man strapped to a board rose out of the ground. His mouth was sewn shut, as Ben’s had been earlier. Cal walked over to the pot-bellied, balding man and began, placard in hand.

“Our next contestant on G.H.M.E. comes to us from Snerling, Indiana. Gabriel Mortson, welcome to Give Him More Eyes!”

He screamed a suppressed wail of terror.

“Now Gabey-boy, you sexually assaulted over fifteen minors in your time on the mortal plane! How do you plead, asswipe?!”

Gabe once again wailed a muffled cry. Cal resumed,

“Sounds like ‘guilty’ to me, folks.” The crowd cheered in agreement with the verdict.

Cal bellowed another sadistic laugh and snapped his fingers. Immediately, a thousand cuts ripped across the man’s entire body. He tried his hardest to scream, but nothing came from his tightly-shut mouth. Blood oozed out of every cut, and one by one, human eyes that looked exactly like Gabriel’s own quickly festered from each cut. The muffled scream went on endlessly. Ben’s eyes were fixed, even through the tears. No desire had ever been as strong as Ben’s was for death then. What he believed was true death, an endless, peaceful sleep. Cal’s joyous expression reminded him that his belief was not the case. Gabriel, drenched in his own blood, receded down into the floor of the stage once more.

“Benny Hill! Back to you, buddy. You are an ‘especial’ case. For you, dear friend, we have a game we rarely get to play. This one is reserved specifically for people who make deals with the Big Fella!”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheered again. A small stream of urine trickled steadily down Ben’s pant leg. Cal continued.

“The rules are simple- walk down this hallway, don’t open any of the doors, and just leave!”

Ben was confused. There must be a catch. Ben was sure of it. Nothing Cal said would ever be trustworthy. Not after what he had seen.

“Alrighty then, Ben-to box! Best of luck!”

Ben saw Cal’s hand move to snap his fingers, but he was gone before he could have heard Cal’s snap. It was odd. He looked down an average hotel hallway. It looked exceedingly calm. The carpet was a stripe of red with beige on both sides. The walls were a neutral cream. Each of the doors had a small, excellently polished door knob on them. He took a step forward. There was no sound, no creak. Ben took another, and was startled by a loud crunching behind him. 

He swiftly turned around, and was put somewhat at ease at the realization that it was simply an ice machine. He resumed his path forward. That was when he heard the first voice.

“Benji?”

A soft, frail voice came from the first door on the left.

“M-mom?” 

Ben’s hand instinctively went towards the handle. He caught himself and whipped it back, holding both of his hands tightly in his armpits.

“Benji, please… please come in. I want to see you. Where did you go, Benji? Why did you leave me?”

Ben tried his hardest to shut out the voice by clamping his hands to his ears. It did nothing. The voice continued, as Benjamin picked up the pace moving forward. The voice grew louder and louder, coming from every door that he passed.

“Benji… Benji, please!... BENJI!... BENJI!”

The farther he got from the first door, the louder and more demonic the voice became, until it was an unholy shriek, cutting deeply into his ears, punishing him, until at once it stopped. Ben fell to his knees and assumed the fetal position, crying loudly and uncontrollably. He laid there, weeping, until he heard that voice in his head once more.

“Keep moving.”

He got up and wiped the tears out of his eyes. He turned around, and he had passed about a dozen doors by then. Only six remained before the slightly open door at the end of the hall. There was a soft golden light coming from the edge, but he couldn't see what was out there. He heard an old TV turn on inside one of the rooms.

“Now, It’s The Late Show- with Ben Harding!” 

Ben continued on, passing through the doors, each one playing a variation of a late-night talk show hosted by Ben. That was, until he came to the sixth door. It was the only door with a small brass door plate in the shape of a star with ‘Benjamin Harding’ inscribed on it. Behind it, he heard:

“Where is he? He needs to be on in two minutes! We can’t have this stupid show without this stupid host!” He then heard light, but stern footsteps pace around the room. Under the door, a shadow danced accordingly. The voice behind the sixth door was the softest. Still, Ben found it the most alluring. His hand slipped out of his armpit and gently onto the knob. The handle was nice and warm. Ben was cold. Perhaps someone has opened a window. There was the same chill in his bones as there was that night. That chill that inched him forward, towards the warm, convenient shop. He felt as he did when he held the drop of the liquid above his cup. 

No turning back now.

But there was. He turned to his left, and saw the final door. It’s light was warm, but not enough to warm him the way he felt the sixth door would. Ben took one final look at the sixth door, and slipped his hand off the knob. Somehow, he could feel the crowd’s disappointment, even without hearing them. That was his victory. For the first time all night, he cracked a smile. He had won. He would fix his mistake. He left the sixth door behind and exited through the final door at the hall. It was warm, just as he thought. He was standing in a field of wild wheat. He turned around and the door was gone. “Ohio.” He thought. He saw abandoned train tracks to the East, and started walking that way. It was a serene afternoon. Not humid, but breezy. A single cloud hung in the sky, moving across the horizon. He walked toward the tracks, and with a single, intense ‘thwack’, he was greeted with the loudest laughter that the crowd had let loose.

Searing, unbelievable pain shot through his leg. Ben dropped to his knee, and tried to pry off the bear trap he had stepped in. It wouldn’t budge. He looked up, and the kind, serene sun was gone. All there was was the harsh light and the crowd. Cal knelt down with him and put a hand on his shoulder. He was tearing up with laughter.

“YOU DON’T GET TO LEAVE, YOU IDIOT! I’M AFRAID THAT SHIP HAS SAILED!”

The crowd continued its tsunami of deafening laughter. Ben’s section of the stage was being lowered into the darkness, just as Gabriel had been. All Ben heard before the darkness was the crowd’s inhuman cackling, and Cal’s voice say:

“That one’s going on the Highlight Reel for sure!”