The Must See Event of the Year

Arriving earlier, it had aroused little suspicion. A sealed case containing a DVD with a pleasant flower logo, addressed to the Head of the Network. En route, it passed through the token security device, before landing in its intended recipient's inbox.

Mildly intrigued, both by its anonymity and the archaic format on which it was presented, he wasted only a moderate amount of time before viewing it. Four minutes-thirty later, his gaping maw was joined in the office by the sealed and supercilious smiles of his compadres. They sat, cursive glances watch-ward briefly in check, and he replayed the video.

Neon, sweat and hamburgers. An overweight man, picking his nose. Children crying and asking for things they'd been taught to want. Their parent's, merely older credit-card- carrying caricatures. Each scene was punctuated by a chorus of canned laughter. The city portrayed was as faceless as any other; the same global-franchises with contemporary office-blocks doing their dance of efficiency upon the sepulchres of the resident architecture. The footage was carefully choreographed, so as to not have any readily identifiable signs or images A music store window, poster-tiled to infinity with the blonde embodiment of keen market research. Drivers swearing at drivers swearing. Liquid rainbows slipping down drains, to be of no thought or consequence again. A laden pram probing the traffic like some absent-minded insect. The images flashed by, quicker and quicker, to the point of subliminality. The laughter sped too, and became a howl.

A white screen, and silence.

A grassed field greened the screen, with the distant blurred silhouettes of trees. In the foreground, a single flower grooved to the slow beat of the breeze, on which the camera zoomed. It morphed, through some rather backyard visual effects, into a simple logo.

After panning out, it was clear the logo adorned a large canister of nerve-gas. Clear, in that it looked as a large nerve-gas canister perhaps should, also aided by the rather considerate label. "NERVE GAS CANISTER – Not to be taken."

Having never really considered where unwanted things small enough to be flushed wound up, they didn't immediately recognize the location as that of a large sewer system. A neutral voiceover stated thus, the stakes, and what they were to do.

"Exclusive footage?"

"Yep, ten mobile cameras at ground zero."

"Or we could turn it over to the feds."

Snorts adlib.

"Think of the lives…"

A measured pause.

"Think of the ratings."

They logged on, as instructed, to the encrypted and secure chat-room. There were two other users in the room; "joes_rib_palace", and the other, whom they rightly presumed to be the device-owner, under the nom de plume "hot_mustard". He welcomed them and set the reserve at one-hundred million dollars, with increments of fifty million. Communication, other than numerals, had been disabled for all but the auctioneer.

"Ah damn, must be another network, wanting a piece of the action…"

"Stick it to 'em."

The bidding began. As the chat-room timer ticked down to zero, it became a frenzy, and rose well above the auctioneers reserve.

"The bidding is over", he declared.

They had won. And though they had paid well over ten times what they had anticipated, they reasoned costs could be partially recouped by selling the footage to other networks.

The other user was booted from the room, and the details were laid down. Bank accounts, and most importantly, the time of the attack. The promotion machine set about its work, with phrases like "must see Event of the Year" and "life and death TV" being bandied about akin to a major sporting spectacle.

Of course, advertisers paid much more than they would for Super-bowl airtime. Multinationals know a money-spinner, and, after all, this package was to be beamed live to every country in the world.

It all went very well, bar a few minor satellite hiccups. A roving band of gas-suited camera-men exited a van, and the crowded morning streets yellowed with fog. Amidst the crush and confusion, those writhing were assaulted with "How-do-you-feel" type-questions, and the emotion of the event was captured by close-ups of those weeping blood. One could almost smell the faeces as bowels spasmed.

Within ten minutes, twitching ceased, and so did the filming. The roving reporters returned to then van via the corpse obstacle course, and the feed and feeding ended.

Ad's for rival cola companies ensued, followed by a solid twenty minutes of fast-food, furniture and barely-functional operating-system commercials.

"The President wants a spot."

"Well, he can pay, like everyone else…"

Governmental privatisation enured that this wasn't an issue, and his "Joes Rib Palace" be-hatted head was soon sombreing-up every TV screen in the world.

"People of the world, what we have witnessed today is truly a tragedy… We are following leads, but they are fairly lean at this present time… We did all we could to halt this attack, but, with funding cuts…" He trailed off.

"If anyone knows the whereabouts of an individual, nicknamed "Hot_mustard", please come forward… thank you… Ah yes…"

A pause, a cap re-adjust, and his solemn face grinned with eerie elasticity. "Eat at Joes, best ribs in all the world."