‘Juuuuuump!’ roared the gameshow host, and in front of a live television audience Jimmy Neville prepared to leap to either his death or a million dollar prize, depending on his luck.
The show was the brainchild of maverick mogul Sebastian Nash, who had made a fortune from similarly tasteless, but less extreme, franchises such as Snog, Marry, Assault and Pimp My Body. They turned out to be just the warm-ups. What if he gave people the chance to risk their lives in a game with only two possible outcomes: death or money? A million or oblivion? He’d pitched the idea to the networks unsuccessfully back in the ‘thirties, before the world was ready for it, but since the Virus Wars the
public’s stomach had hardened. Market researchers did their grisly digging and found that Nash’s hunch was right: some people would take the dive, and millions more would pay to watch. Still the network execs wouldn’t touch it. Lawyers dripped poison about public liability, assisted suicide and other technicalities but Nash ignored them, bought himself a slice of self-broadcasting bandwidth on Global SpaceX and wrote the script for his first trailer:
public’s stomach had hardened. Market researchers did their grisly digging and found that Nash’s hunch was right: some people would take the dive, and millions more would pay to watch. Still the network execs wouldn’t touch it. Lawyers dripped poison about public liability, assisted suicide and other technicalities but Nash ignored them, bought himself a slice of self-broadcasting bandwidth on Global SpaceX and wrote the script for his first trailer:
‘Honey, do you love me?’
‘With all my heart.’
‘Would you die for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you risk your life in a fifty-fifty gamble for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good, because I posted your application to A Million or Oblivion this morning.’
The game was simple. Contestants stood on a diving board high above a pool of water which was concealed below a thick layer of dry ice. They couldn’t see what they were jumping into. A large metal-topped raft in the shape of a boat drifted randomly around the surface of the pool. If you landed on the boat, you were dead. It was covered in steel spikes to guarantee an instant demise. If you hit the water, swam to the side and staggered out of the dry ice, Nash would Splash the Cash to an audience ovation. The odds were fifty-fifty.Each show ended with a freeze-frame of a contestant in mid-air. Would they miss the boat, or miss the water? Tune in next week, same time, same place, to find out.The ratings were astronomical. Who wouldn’t want to watch people risking their lives in a semi-suicidal bid to get rich?
Jimmy and Janey had watched the first episode through a haze of booze and drugs, and as the credits rolled she elbowed him in the ribs. ‘You’ve been missing the boat all your life,’ she slurred, ‘you’d be good at this.’ He would probably die of something else soon enough anyway. Something slower and more painful than landing on Nash’s contraption after fifteen minutes of fame.So with nothing to lose and a million dollars to gain, he found himself high as a kite above the dry ice that Saturday night, sweating, shaking and listening to the audience far below baying what could be the last words he would ever hear:
…..‘Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!’
…..‘Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!’
*
Tim Barlow Writes 
Leave a comment