Prologue: The Pre-Competition (Final) Media Interview

 

He glances about, obviously avoiding the camera eye with each turn of the head or shift of the eyes. Outside the cordoned-off, well-guarded lobby sways a raucous crowd of perhaps two-hundred fans of the rabid variety. Another six to seven-hundred cheer and clap outside the thick glass walls, the sub-freezing temperatures doing little to damper their wild enthusiasm.

Eventually, as the gleaming, silver-tipped microphone is thrust just inches from his chin, he focuses on the unseen individual at the device's other end. His smile is painfully forced; more grimace than grin. He inhales deeply as the initial query is tossed his way.

"So, man from Lexington, how are we feeling less than sixteen hours from day one of the ultimate gauntlet?" spouts the interviewer in a tone that reeks of faux dramatics in true pay-per-view, second-rate pro wrestling style.

"Ready as I'll ever be," he responds with a playful wink towards the camera, though his lips appear to have freeze-dried-severely chapped-in a matter of seconds, "it's a great relief to finally have all the preparatory jazz out of the way. "

"Final physical exam a success? I didn't notice any undue limping..."

"Fit as the proverbial fiddle, or so the staff sawbones said. I guess if he's lyin', I'll be dyin'. "

Standing before a fluorescent green backdrop of the hotel lobby's far wall, the man's red and white striped, sleeveless tee appears practically blood-spattered.

"Clever! I like it. On a more serious note, I would imagine the pressure of representing one of the lowest ranked states in terms of overall economics is enormous. Does the recent unemployment numbers released just yesterday by the State Department add a layer of apprehension in what your Kentucky brethren might expect from you?"

His response is without hesitation, spewing forth with a sudden surge of confidence fueled by what he rates purely a soft-toss question when a blazing heater had been expected.

"Not at all, since the same exact stats weren't much better a month ago. Sad fact is, we've been scraping the bottom for the past several years. Rest assured I'd be in there swinging with all I've got even if we were on the other end of the spectrum. "

"Fine then, understood," the interviewer replies while shifting the microphone away from the interviewee's squared chin. Pursing his lips as to drop the frozen grin, Kentucky steps back, places both hands on his hips and peers at the shiny waxed floors below. Once his audio-video sparring partner resumes, it is with a tone so dramatically altered, so darkly shifted, it is as if another personality entirely has gained possession of the mike.

"So I take it getting your rear-end waxed by the representative of say...New Hampshire or New York State, two of the more fortunate republics, would bother you no more than say, the rep from Arkansas, Tennessee, or poor old Mississippi passing you by? Come on now, you old log-splitter, talk to me...no deep-seeded grudge from an old southern boy towards the rich yanks sharing the trail? Better yet, how about this scenario to smoke your down-home sausage? Let's say the rep from the recently added state of Puerto Rico whizzes by wearing a big ol' sarcastic grin?"

Unable to completely disguise his comic dismay, Kentucky reaches up and runs curled fingers through his graying coif. Though his words are relayed calmly enough, there is no denying the tensing of his upper body and the gleam shining from both ocean-blue eyes, each birthed from an underlying layer of barely-submerged anger.

"Log-split...? Brother, I'd as soon kick the ass of an Alabama corn farmer than that of a New York cabbie. Once the game starts, all fifty are my enemy, just a mass of bodies in the way of my claiming the prize. I didn't come here to lose, geography be damned. I'm sure my esteemed opposition feels the exact same way. Otherwise, they're fools. In other words, check your cliques at the door. The only loyalty one has to him or herself is to the state they were so proudly chosen to rep. Besides, if you don't mind my saying, your questionnaire guru desperately needs some updated material. The North versus South thing was played out...oh...about a dozen or more decades back. Pretty much the whole of the nation is sharing the same leaky boat these days and damned if any of 'em can locate the crack to properly seal it up. "

The interviewer pauses yet again, clearing his throat in the background while possibly scrambling to reset his bearings. In the interim, Kentucky crosses his arms, blows out a labored breath and grins, only this time with unmistakable sincerity.

"Point well taken, Kentucky," his interrogator politely retorts with the cheery tone of personality one securely back in tow, "and I have to say, I did feel a bit foolish attempting to bait a southerner who possesses nary a twinge of the resolute accent.

Now, bear with me as we cover the mandatory personals. You're listed as forty-seven years of age; recently divorced; six-feet-one, one-hundred and eighty pounds, and appear quite fit. In the six months since being chosen state rep, how did you prepare both physically and mentally for what's to come?"

Seemingly deep in reflection, Kentucky appears to stare over the camera, squinting mightily as if focusing on a faraway object.

"Well, first off, I took a slew of long, contemplative walks. "

Following a brief respite, and once it was apparent the man behind the mike wasn't the least bit amused, all further attempts at levity halted.

"Actually, the physical aspect was less daunting. In retrospect, the job I'd held for twenty-plus years was a godsend. In the aftermath, I tried to stay in shape via daily workouts, more so when I hit the big four-oh and the gut began to expand a bit. Once the word came down on the gauntlet, I increased said workouts two-fold. Added three-times-a-week jogging sessions to the list and dropped my body fat by an extra six percent. "

The interviewer could be heard frantically flipping papers.

"You were...let's see. . . my oh my...a mailman in your former life...daily snail-mail route delivery, no less. Wore out many a sneaker, I'd venture..."

"Easy bet. Probably covered five, six miles a day, five days a week, that is until paper delivery went the way of home telephones and wired cable; museum pieces...relics to be gawked at and snickered over by the generations to come. "

"And the mental preparation?"

Staring unblinking into the camera he'd so readily avoided just moments earlier, Kentucky juts out his jaw and frowns.

"Pardon the clichés to follow, but the way I look at it, you can't measure heart or determination, meaning there's no way to obtain either if you don't already possess 'em. Mental toughness can be developed to a degree, but in the end it's all about one's personal experiences. Besides, there really is no mental prep for the colossal challenge the fifty-one of us have coming. I figure all of us qualified for this competition with a butt-load of grit intact. Thing is, which one will prove to possess that little bit extra that it's gonna take to come out on top?"

"Butt-load of grit? Hey, I like it...now there's a little nugget you can only hear below the Mason-Dixon line, I'll wager. And, speaking of which...Vegas odds currently list you at twenty-two to one, Kentucky, a middle-of-the packer, one might say. Does this boost or hinder your confidence?"

"Neither. Nada. Means nothing. The odds-makers don't know me or what I've got in here," he says, lightly pounding a clenched fist against his chest, "in the end, it's all gonna come down to will power...Iron-Will power, pardon the play on words; the host with the most, you might say. No matter what we've went through as individuals throughout our lives, none of the fifty-one really know the limits of our inner competitor. "

"You truly believe you have what it takes to be last man. . . um, person standing, Kentucky?"

Again, the grin, this time stretched ever-wider, even boyish despite the grayish stubble lining his cheeks, "Well, by god, it seems we'll know soon enough now won't we?"

"Indeed we shall. Good luck, man from Lexington. Rest assured all residents of the blue grass state, be they of human or equestrian variety, are tucked securely in your corner. "

With that, Kentucky steps back as the interviewer practically leaps in front of the camera, flashing teeth so hideously white they threaten temporary snow-blindness.

"Next up after this short pause to pay the bills, we'll rap with the woman chosen to rep the Lone Star State. Remember gang, the one and only Iron-Will Gauntlet will be available in all its live streaming glory at gauntlet-thon. com. For the poor remaining souls on the planet, all eighteen of ya, still on a desert isle without internet access, there is the archaic yet still available pay-per-view option. Contact your local cable carrier. Back in moments with the beauteous belle that all of Texas will be hootin' and hollerin' for come tomorrow morning. Cue promo!"

Leaning against a nearby podium that has, strangely enough, gone unused in what the sponsors billed 'media day', Kentucky peers across the massive lobby to a nearby flat-screen dominating a far wall as one of many Gauntlet-eve promos flash flamboyantly to life.

The comically overdone, borderline gaudy, production leaves Kentucky feeling less amused than woefully bemused. A nation on the verge of utter financial ruin forced to bank the foreseeable future on an event that, less than a decade previous, likely would never have made the cut in an endless sea of mostly pathetic reality-based TV programs.

As the promo kicks into full gear amid a jarring hip-hop beat and blinding flashes of pyrotechnics, he glances over to his left while being joined by a tall, lanky brunette wearing a white-tee adorned in yellow roses. Keeping her focus pointed directly at the screen, she skips over wearing a wry grin, never actually making eye contact.

"What marketing genius birthed this overcooked slice of ham, ya think?" she asks in a drawl so thick it sounds a tad manufactured.

"You got me, but somebody at the top had to green-light it," he replies with a solemn shake of the head.

"True enough, Sugar. Sad, sad, sad..." she concludes with a scowl, her overly thick eyelashes batting at warp speed and thus resembling a pair of fluttering moths attempting to take flight.

The promo concludes before inexplicably replaying in all its horrid tawdriness. Kentucky gives the swarming masses-standing both inside and outside the hotel lobby-a parting glance and begins to turn toward a nearby elevator, but soon enough finds himself hypnotized yet again by the spot's campy yet undeniably stout draw, the luridness of which he can only compare to a live auto crash.

"This isn't your mom and dad's Iron-Will Gauntlet, no sir!" shrieks the MC as a covey of lithe, scantily-dressed fem fatales dance a wild jig over what appears to be a faux nature-trail setting, the background of which appears a garish hybrid of CGI and ancient 'jungle-movie' footage from the mid-twentieth century.

"Fifty-one brave, life-tested, determined souls, one chosen from each state in our great nation, will challenge the limits of human will in order to bring home the federal bacon to those they so proudly represent. Unlike the previous Gauntlet, which was solely a test of endurance, this new and improved competition will provide potentially fatal dangers at every twist and turn; an obstacle course filled with chills and spills, with the biggest dangers being cooked up and served by none other than that sometimes ruthless, sometimes cunning, sometimes unforgiving goddess of the elements, Mother Nature herself!"

As the dancers continue to jiggle and gyrate in unrestrained glee, the background images shift and contort to showcase various calamities of nature to include raging floodwaters, multiple funnel clouds, black skies littered with lighting strikes, and ferocious snowstorms, all cheaply executed as to amuse rather than strike fear.

"It may take days, it may take weeks, but in the end, when the smoke clears and the fat lady has belted out that final, lingering note, only one will emerge victorious; victorious to bring home the spoils to those so badly in need in whatever state they so gloriously represent, while simultaneously cementing their place as a treasured icon for all times! A tried and true champion who's Iron-Will prevailed over not only fifty other similarly brave souls, but the considerable wrath of the four season's harshest elements as well!"

Just as a fresh hip-hop riff thumps forth, the screen temporarily fades to black only to flash back to life to display a gleaming gold trophy in the form of a man poised on his knees and reaching skyward with outstretched hands; the design and theme of which obviously falling under the heading of 'winner triumphs over insurmountable odds'. With that, Kentucky hears the interior crowd practically swoon in awestruck wonder, as if viewing the trophy for the first time, though its garish likeness has been showcased on both TV ads and the internet for several weeks as part of the public-appetite-wetting process.

"Make no mistake, America...the man or woman with the mental and physical stoutness to carry this solid-gold beauty home will have, no ifs, ands or buts, mother-(bleeped for content) earned it!"

Wearing a wry smile and with a final, bone-weary shake of the head, Kentucky whirls about and heads for the elevator. Keeping his back turned to the lobby even after entering the boxed space, he hears the crowd erupt yet again as no doubt the Lady with the butterfly lashes steps forward for a live grilling from Mister Ivory-Choppers with the silver mike. Allowing his shoulders to slump and his chin to rest atop his chest, the overwhelming sense of relief he feels while riding smoothly upwards towards his fourth-floor suite isn't merely palpable, but a full-blown cloak; a soothing message for a soul battered not merely by obvious outside pressures, but an inner self-expectation whose confidence grows weaker with every tick of the clock.

So clearly he recalls the very moment he was chosen to represent; the inhalation of pride that ensued, soon followed by a triple-dose of self-important cockiness that seemed so easily justified upon beating out an estimated fourteen-thousand fellow state applicants, at least a few thousand of which he figured were equally qualified, if not more so.

Fast-forward, seemingly at the speed of light, six months later to the very eve of the competition. The aforementioned pride had long-since dissipated, just as all signs of brash arrogance had gradually metamorphosed into mind-crippling, gut-curdling fear. In retrospect, perhaps he should've heeded the governor's advice and taken on a trainer, while also allowing an entourage of loyal followers to bow to his every want and wish, to pamper his ego and continually recharge his sense of self-worth. As it was, he stuck stubbornly to the belief that going the lone-wolf route was for the best. It would allow for freer thought for the necessary meditation. Unfortunately, it had also allowed for creeping pessimism, not just as to why he'd volunteered for this lengthy torture session, but also for the sad, pathetic answer to said query. Simply put, he'd had nothing to lose and everything to prove. Surely not his sanity, the bulk of which he'd misplaced roughly a year to the day that he'd applied for the Gauntlet. As it was, the man earmarked to don Kentucky blue in less than fifteen hours in front of an estimated paying crowd of one-hundred forty million nationwide was just as apt to openly self-destruct as he was to emerge victorious in a manic free-for-all involving fifty other similarly deranged maniacs.

Hours later, as he rolled recklessly between tangled sheets and the much-anticipated dawn grew ever-nearer, the man from Lexington could only vaguely recall the life he'd previously known while giving great effort to embrace the one soon to be embarked upon as destiny fulfilled.

He would awaken safely cocooned in a state of emotional numbness, seemingly free of all apprehension and fear-an empty vessel with a cleanly wiped slate. Today, all baseless speculation from a vast army of media talking heads ceased. Starting today, the past, with all its weighty baggage, was just that. Starting today, the focus was crystal clear. Starting now, the future lay straight ahead.

The time to show that certain someone just how blatantly mistaken they were about him had finally arrived. The time for talk was finally over. The time to walk was here.

 

 

Prologue II: The Pre-Competition Briefing

 

Time: Oh-five-fifteen hours, day of competition

Place: Dome Auditorium

 

"Okay folks, listen up. I could use this time to spout the usual cliché-rich garbage about this being the moment of truth when the lot of you dig down deep to find the inner warrior, but for decency's sake I'll spare both you and me such drivel. You've all been briefed ad nauseam about the strict qualifications that landed you here, along with the stakes, rewards and potential dangers, so I won't bore you with further repeats of same. "

The tall, thin man paces the auditorium stage like a perturbed bandy rooster, keeping his rail-thin arms pinned at the pit of his back as if bound at the wrists. Sporting a pointy gray goatee but little hair atop his shiny dome, he speaks with a faint Brit accent and dons reading glasses that sit precariously from the edge of his bulbous nose as if artificially attached.

"Ah, but I jest, you see. Afraid to inform I've been paid quite handsomely to do just that, to repeat ad nauseam. That being so the lot of you may relax a bit as I cover the high points yet again, though not to shut me out, you understand, as I will assume no blame if a lack of understanding on your part comes to fruition at competition's end. "

Spaced with an empty seat on either side in an arena with a seating capacity of well over five-hundred, the fifty-one appear to sigh as one as their fast-talking, faster walking host resumes seemingly without the need to pause for breath.

"The qualifications were, as noted, fairly simple; each contestant chosen was to be over forty years of age. Unlike the previous Gauntlets, which allowed any qualifier over the age of twenty-one, it was decided that personal life experiences might well go a long way in dictating a victor in such a decidedly different contest as the Iron-Will. Thus, you were evaluated on such experiences that most below the age of forty could not possibly claim. Secondly, there were to be no former professional athletes of any ilk chosen, as this might provide a definite edge in the physicality aspect. High school and college participation was allowed, but no blue-chip type backgrounds. Along the same lines, no marathon lifers made the cut. Thirdly, the interview process-twelve per contestant and presided over by special panels consisting of high-ranking military and civil-servant personnel, were to be graded for the highest overall tally. These included numerous psych examinations, a few of which utilized hands-on scenarios to test the very limits of mental toughness under extreme duress, as well as an extensive polygraph that weeded out literally thousands of non-qualifiers.

Lastly, there were the two separate physical exams, one conducted before the barrage of interviews and the last after; extensive and extreme, these were used to ensure levels of endurance and perhaps highlight any red flags prior to the competition.

As for the stakes, simplicity in itself, folks; the winner bags a quite sizeable check for his or her home state. A check duly endorsed by Uncle Sam that will, at the least, double the federal aid currently earmarked for said stomping grounds. Needless to say, this fact alone is apt to make the champ quite a popular pin-up at the statehouse. The rewards that follow suit, though not guaranteed by any means, are quite ample.

Some of these will likely include numerous national endorsement deals; screen and internet exposure on both a local and national level, cable television offers for reality-based programming and of course the usual book-publishing deals.

A quick reminder on the cap-cams, remember your training, and also remember this; those golf-ball sized viewfinders may not mean beans to you once the trail gets treacherous, but to the paying masses they serve as a personal spy in the sky. We have techies monitoring all fifty one of those bad boys every second of the competition.

As for the dangers, well...you might say this new, updated version of the Gauntlet has seen a major upping of the ante. The first two competitions were merely endurance tests, plain and simple. As harsh and unrelenting as they appeared, they were merely marathons of a more perilous type. The Iron-Will Gauntlet, ladies and gentlemen, is a twenty-first century obstacle course that can and will claim your life in the blink of an eye. You all signed off that such risks were duly noted and understood. We stand now..."

He pauses briefly to check his wristwatch even as the insistent pacing continues unabated from one side of the wax-slick wooden stage to the other.

"...a mere forty-five minutes from the starting gun. Meaning, and I say this only once, that the time to default your participation is in the next fifteen minutes. After that, there will be no backing out. I repeat, no...backing... out. Once we reach a half-hour before show-time at the entry point of the Harlan Harrison monster dome, the time for cold feet will have ended. There will be no excuses, people. A migraine headache, no matter the level of discomfort, will be endured. A skin rash that threatens to cocoon your entire frame will be scratched, be treated and dealt with. Explosive diarrhea at the starting gate will not serve to delay. You will simply compete with foul-smelling, soiled under-shorts. "

There are a few muffled giggles, though accompanied by a tangible undercurrent of apprehension. Undeterred, the host temporarily halts in mid-stride and turns towards the audience with a raised forefinger.

"Fifteen minutes from now, folks, and then the window of opportunity slams tight and is subsequently double-padlocked. This will barely give us time to roll in your state's runner-up as a last-second replacement.

In closing..." he continues, clearing his throat and pacing yet again with arms pinned at the pit of his back, "...I am hereby required by my terms of employment to state the following: make no mistake, your government cheers each of you on with equal favoritism. Each of you was chosen following a grueling selection process, and your participation alone in this unprecedented test of wills marks you all as winners no matter the eventual outcome. Make no mistake, win or lose, both your home state and this great nation beam with pride at your bravery and selfless, can-do attitudes. At this perilous time for this great land, with unemployment at nearly forty percent, poverty levels at all-time highs and the potential for the next war to end all wars rumored almost daily, the populace needs heroes, roll models, such as you. Good luck to all and God speed..."

Turning his back to the masses, he first bows his head and then slowly shakes it from side to side.

"Now that the mandatory horse-hockey is out of the way, allow me a moment of truth, soldiers of the gauntlet..."

Wearing a wide, malicious grin, he whirls about in a wild frenzy, a skinny middle-aged man who suddenly resembles the stereotypical mad scientist with gleaming, bug eyes and ringing hands.

"...There is but one true victor sitting in this room. It may take weeks to properly crown this individual...it may take merely a matter of days. Obviously, the duration of said event is all up to you folks. There are no moral victories for finishing third or second runner up, as a woeful lack of notoriety and commercial endorsements will attest. There will be no Olympic-style bronze or silver medals awarded for coming in second or third best. Simply put, folks, there is one winner and fifty losers. The order of finish isn't the least bit relevant. No apologies to be found. Simply the world we presently reside in. "

Pausing to scan the motionless masses a final time, the man frowns deeply while crossing his arms across his narrow chest. Bowing his head, he squints over the black-rimmed glasses sitting at the outer edge of his nose as if staring into glaring sunlight.

"One of you will, very soon, be regarded as an immortal of sorts. The rest will return to their home state a failure. That is the uniqueness of this event that separates it from all others. It isn't merely about regional pride, folks. It's about your individual responsibilities to the states you represent, and if many of them will be furnished a better way of life because of what you accomplished. Many will eat meals they would have never been afforded otherwise. Many more will be given a place to live-a roof over their heads-a warm place to sleep. No doubt millions upon millions are laying down what little money they have to root for you; money they can ill afford to waste. Money better spent on food; clothing; unpaid bills. You see, people, it isn't about fame or individual riches as much as it's about sharing the wealth with those in desperate need. You folks, the fifty-one, are serving as guardians to the needy masses. You alone stand as their potential bread winners. Sadly, there is only one prize to give away, and the winner takes the entire loaf, leaving behind nary a crumb to the rest of the field and their many loyal constituents. So, I say all that to say this..."

Snapping to attention with no less than a Gestapo-like clicking of the heels, the skinny man with the wishbone build and grumpy-old professor demeanor extends his right arm and clenched fist in a comically stiff salute that is executed with the utmost of sincerity.

". . . You walk this gauntlet cloaked with the very souls of those depending on you. You will be tested like none before. You will face dangers like none before. You will experience fatigue like none before. One of you...will experience a level of ambrosia like none before. Good luck to one and all, and to that special one who is to be granted immortality, I will greet you at the finish with the many spoils in hand. "

The fifty-one applaud as he exits stage right in a jog, first politely and a bit subdued and then a bit more raucous, to include a spattering of whistles and assorted verbal volleys.

While being herded from the auditorium to a side door, where a warming bus awaits their arrival, the man from Lexington overhears the random whispers of several of his worthy opposition.

"You're sure? I thought the dude was just some inspirational speaker for hire," the first, a male, says with a slight drawl, perhaps of Midwestern origin.

"Not quite. Man is notorious for keeping the lowest of profiles," chimes in the second, a female possessing a distinctive northeast accent, "Harlan Harrison, architect to the stars and designer of the dome. I hear the dude has a net worth of six, seven billion. Speaker for hire my ass. "

"But...what's Mister Green Jeans doing here giving us the Knute Rockne routine?" Midwestern drawl responds sarcastically. Northeast's reply comes off as rudely indifferent, as if she were holding the conversation exclusively with herself.

"The one and only reason; he's running the whole shebang for the feds. Who better than the man with the Midas touch? I'd always heard HH was hands on. Built his empire from the ground up with very limited assistance. "

Midwestern grunts, his final words barely audible over the roar of the bus engine that grew louder with every step.

"No fooling. Dude appeared a few bricks shy of a load, ya ask me. Then again, the filthy rich usually are. "

Stepping outside as light flurries buzz about like swarming bees, a cool, stiff breeze slaps his exposed flesh like a wet glove. With a slight shiver, the man from Lexington ponders his peer's words with a heavy layer of skepticism. He'd heard similar speculation during the interview and exam phases, with literally dozens of the world's power brokers mentioned as the proverbial 'man behind the silk curtain' spearheading the government's prize project.

Peering out from the darkly tinted window of his assigned seat on the double-decker Pullman, the man from Lexington spots a sleek, pitch-black limo turn a nearby corner and speed from sight. A concerto of groans and grunts accompany similar sightings, no doubt fueled by the license plate so easily read from beneath the limo's glimmering chrome bumper: "$HH INC$" laid out in bright gold lettering. Well, so much for speculation, he mused. Not that it mattered a single iota in the grand scheme. Collusion and conspiracy angles aside, the ultimate race was soon afoot.