Well, bear with me, cause this one's. . . different. Give it a try, ey? You might like :)
Disclaimer: Well, I don't really need one of these- it all belongs to me.
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A cynic is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for the graveyard. ~ H.L. Mencken
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Article By Bertram Voyeur, journalist for the Human Interest Publishing Company:
The day Blue Woolf was plugged with a Colt automatic in the game room of X Manor, the ratings for Survival of the Fittest shot through the roof. Sales on Survival of the Fittest tee-shirts, lunchboxes and bumper stickers skyrocketed, and a booming business in Survival of the Fittest trading cards: 'meet the convicts' edition, was done in college common rooms and school cafeterias across the U.S. and fifteen European nations. Every Toys R Us, from Hollywood to the Big Apple, sold out of Survival of the Fittest plastic knives before they hit the shelves.
It was a publicity bonanza, a marketer's dream, and it happened over night- literally overnight. The morning after episode six of Survival of the Fittest aired, it was the topic of every cell phone conversation in the greater New York area, and the word on every pair of lips around the office water cooler. Folks just couldn't get enough.
This smash hit success was all due to two people; human beings who never would have crossed paths, save for the genius of one and the homicidal tendencies of the other.
The former is a short, stuffed and wide-eyed possum of a man in a burgundy Hugh Hefner-esque cardigan; one Mr. Josiah Alderman. As the producer of Survival of the Fittest, Mr. Alderman deserves nearly half of the credit for the show's record-breaking success. It was, after all, his brainchild, and a dream fulfilled; taking reality TV where it had never gone before, and all that. A brave new step for television producers everywhere., born in the seedy stomach of a fast-food café in Los Angeles' answer to Chinatown.
And what an idea it was- imagine, dragging ten real-live convicts from Murderer's Row, slapping them in a crumbling, medieval mansion in the chilly damp of northern Maine, and giving full pardon to the last one standing. What a stroke of brilliance!
The Wardens and the Chiefs of Police were doubtful at first; they thought a television show exclusively for murderers might raise the crime rate of ambitious folk and aspiring starlets everywhere. But once Mr. Alderman pointed out the money his stroke of genius would save their department on prisoner care, insurance for cell guards, and juice bills for the old electric chairs the city had yet to replace with the cheaper method of lethal injections, the defenders of justice were all for it.
Winning over critics and skeptics such as myself was a far greater task, as could be expected. Columnists howled at the mere proposal of Survival of the Fittest; they called it depraved; inhuman; downright evil. But after episode six: The First Murder, Mr. Alderman had them all singing a very different tune, myself included.
This was the first man behind the magic.
As I mentioned before, there is most certainty and obviously a second person to which credit is due: The man who is staring me down as we speak. The very man who plugged Blue Woolf in the game room of X manor.
He sits before me, shifting uncomfortably in a plush velvet armchair shoved to the side of the elaborate Drawing Room he's made use of for the past month, since Survival of the Fittest plucked him from the cold, concrete halls of the Attica Correctional facility and dropped him into the lap of luxury here in X Manor, where I'm both privileged and nervous to visit.
The contestant responsible for Mr. Alderman's reality show's instant success stares at me with shockingly, ultra magnetically, ocean blue eyes that flicker suspiciously from myself to the three hulking body guards at my side, generously and thankfully provided by the Human Interest Publishing Company. Funny how this restless fellow pulled a trigger from point-blank range not one week ago tonight.
It's not his eyes that make the story hard to believe, as bright as they are. It's not the lithe physique and pretty face, which make him a villain one loves to love, but aren't enough to make me doubt the facts as I saw them on Conan O'Brien. It's not the way his legs tap a nervous rhythm against the footrest as he glares at me, and lord knows it is NOT his criminal record that makes his latest shooting hard to believe.
It's the fact that Darwin Jones, contestant number six on Survival of the Fittest, and number one in this week's online favorites poll, is only sixteen year of age.
Who says the little guy comes in last?