Directed by Matt Andersen
They should kill Warren, I tell the camera. What a metabolic overachiever he is. A total Dahmer wannabe.
I’m sitting in this long, dark room filming my post-challenge interview—what everyone else in the industry calls a “confessional.” Production lights burn into my face, and someone adjusts a boom mic overhead.
I tell the microphone that it was probably Warren who started the fire. The one in the last challenge. It took out that entire house.
He was probably just nervous I was going to win.
Another member of the production team moves one of the lights closer to me, and this chair I’m sitting won’t stop creaking. It’s all-over wood. Wire’s run up the sides. Straps hang off the arm rests. There’s even a head mount. But it’s all for show.
That’s what people like Warren understand all too well. Everything’s for show. It doesn’t matter whether you’re being filmed or not. You play the part other people want to see.
No one wears their own heart on their sleeve.
What ever happened to morals?
And that’s what I tell the camera. I say, I’m the best artist in this competition because I’m not like Warren. I’m not like Warren, or Bundy, or BTK, or even Gacy. Those “artists,” I say, it doesn’t matter how good their work was, they should be ashamed of themselves.
How do you explain that kind of behavior to your kids?
Warren doesn’t get it. That sanitation engineer. Just so ethically disoriented. How else do you think that fire got started if it wasn’t him?
The person adjusting the boom mic tells me to start from the beginning.
So I lean towards him. I lean towards the microphone and the camera, and I say, there we were, packed together like compost in the back of this surveillance van. Each of us had just been given our target, and as the van drove further into suburbia Warren was already kissing up to the host.
“You’re my hero,” he told him. “An inspiration.” All these really reality challenged kind of things like, “when I win this competition, I want to be just like you.”
Look, if you want to keep your dignity, don’t ever meet your heroes.
Anyways, our host, he went on to say, “Are you ready? You have until sunrise. Get in, create your piece, get out.”
He told us, “may the best artist win.”
That’s when our personal cameras and microphones turned on: the ones fixed to our ski-masks, the ones sewn into our jumpsuits. They even had some built into our gloves. Real point-and-shoot, you know? A panoramic portrait of the artist.
I guess mine’s now just a useless heap of ashes and melted glass.
Thanks, Warren.
Recording equipment aside, that was all we got. No other tools. But that was part of the challenge, to create what we could with whatever we could find. A real DIY project.
That’s when the doors of the surveillance van clicked open. “And…we’re live,” the host said. “Welcome to Masters of Mayhem, where only one can survive.”
Look, I tell the camera. “Masters of Mayhem?” It’s a problematic name. So short-sighted. I’m the best artist in the competition because I don’t punch down. I’m the best artist in this competition because I do the real work. My street activity index is higher than the rest of these contestant’s put together.
Jonestown wasn’t built in a day.
As I’m saying this, a door opens at the end of the interview room. Behind the camera, behind the production team and the blinding lights, a door opens and someone walks in with a cart.
And now I’ve lost my train of thought, so I have to ask the boom mic, “where was I again?”
Oh yes, I remember, the surveillance van. I jump out of it with everyone else. These uniquely coordinated wannabe’s. And I went straight for my assigned target, the last house on the corner.
Now this was a place that screamed “I am the one percent.” Perfectly trimmed grass. Fresh mulch. And just so many bushes cut into the shape of naked women. Seriously, not one twig out of place. How heteronormative.
I’m not even that upset it all burned down.
Beyond this shrubbery, red lights were blinking on and off from each corner of the house. Security cameras. I swear, the more money people have, the more afraid they are of everything. But that’s why I’m the best artist in this competition. Cameras? RING doorbell footage? Helicopter heat maps? Put it all in my portfolio.
I want everyone to see my work.
Back in the interview room, beneath the production lights, this person driving the cart smacks it against the side of the wooden chair. They’re wearing their own ski mask, and I’ve completely lost my train of thought.
This masked person driving the cart, they pull out makeup brushes and powders, and they start dabbing my face. They start concealing my melted eyebrows and singed hairline because beauty is only skin deep.
That’s what people like Warren understand all too well. Beauty is only skin deep. No one wants to hear what an ugly person has to say.
I don’t say this to the camera.
Instead, I ask, “has this makeup been tested on animals?”
But before anyone can answer, the person behind the camera, they tell me I should keep talking about the last challenge.
So I say, right, the house. I say, I made sure all the expensive security cameras were tracking me as I walked right up to the front door. I made sure they were blinking red as I pressed the doorbell.
And the person who answered? Now, this was exactly the kind of person you’d think lived here. Some old, caucasian male.
Look, the wooden chair creaks as I lean towards the camera, it’s about time we get some more diversity in this industry. Rich, white men have been marginalized for far too long. Aileen Warnos? She changed the game. Just a real pioneer in her field.
How do people like Warren sleep at night, S-A-ing only blonde-haired college women?
What ever happened to innovation?
So through my ski mask, I asked the homeowner, “Can I use your bathroom?”
And this person, this intellectually impaired grandpa, he screams. He screams this non-traditionally masculine scream, and I have no choice but to headbutt him.
Ski-mask-hidden-camera to the face.
I tell the production team it was a real promo shot, if only the recording wasn’t burnt to a crisp.
As I’m saying this, the makeup person, they squish something soft against the top of my head and secure it with the head mount. Salty water runs down the side of my face and the strap against my chin makes it harder to talk, but I know it’s all for show.
People are suckers for manufactured tension.
I have to ask, “are these leather straps real or vegan?” But the boom mic guy starts snapping at me, so I get on with it.
I say, okay, we’re in his garage now, this financially lucky senior citizen. His unconscious body is spread out on some tarp I found, but there are no good tools. Sure there’s the lawnmower, but it’s not electric or even eco-friendly. There’s the power saw, but I can’t do much without any diamond coated blades. A claw hammer hangs from a peg board, but I’m not about to pull a Harvey Carignan. I’m no copycat.
I tell the camera that, sure, imitation may be the most sincere form of flattery, but it’s also the quickest path to obscurity.
The clock is ticking, and that’s when I see it. My inspiration. The idea that will guarantee me a spot in the finale.
A giant fertilizer spreader.
Look, I say, I’m the best artist in this competition because I’m in it for the right reasons. I don’t care about fame. I just want to inspire. The Zodiac never sold out. Jack the Ripper stayed quiet. The work should speak for itself.
I’m only telling you all this because of the fire.
But Warren with his disordered eating, his sexual dysfunctions, he can’t help but not brag to the judges.
Fire or no fire.
“My work is a metaphor for America’s consumerist culture,” he’d say. “The constant death and rebirth of capitalism.”
He’d say, “that’s why I had to eat the uterus.”
Just really obvious virtue signaling.
So, and I’m ashamed to admit this, but I started up the lawnmower. I had no other choice. Ozone dissolving smoke chugged from its engine, and I made sure to move the dial from the image of the turtle to the image of the rabbit before bringing the machine over to the body.
I tilted it over his head, and as I brought it down…no luck.
The homeowner screamed awake, and I tried again.
Nothing.
The problem was that the blades kept jamming. I’d raise it up and down. Up and down. A cancerous puff of smoke hit me in the face with each attempt, and I was really starting to worry about my carbon footprint.
I was really starting to worry I might lose this challenge.
But look, the best works of art are always the hardest ones to make. The more blood, sweat, and tears you put into it; the better the result. That’s why I’m the best artist in this competition.
I can make the most inspired creation with even the worst tools.
So I asked the homeowner about the power saw. Did he at least have any carbide blades? Anything metal rated? But he just screamed and screamed through his newly landscaped face, so I was kind of on my own.
Back in the interview room, my jaw burns from rubbing up and down against the straps, and the makeup assistant in the ski mask is restraining my arms with the other leather belts dangling off the chair.
I ask, “can you keep them just a little loose?”
But the assistant pulls them one notch tighter than I thought they even could go, and the boom mic guy says, “how did your target finally die?”
Now I’m excited because I finally get to say, “how did he die? It doesn’t matter.”
Anybody can unalive someone. What matters is the presentation. How do you make it mean something? I tell the camera that, if they really wanted to know, I spent the rest of the night switching between the saw and the hammer and the lawnmower and back again.
A little hard work never hurt anyone.
I hacked and smashed and cut, and outside the garage windows, the sky lightened from black to blue to almost pink.
Time was just about up.
So I wheeled the fertilizer spreader over and started to fill it. Not to complain, but the whole thing was very nasally disturbing. Just a huge release of all these trapped gasses, like ammonia and cow dung, and I was very close to an unplanned re-examination of my recent food choices.
But I pushed through.
I filled the spreader to the brim.
I brought it out to the garden, to these life sized bushes shaped like naked women standing against the side of the house. And I made sure to twist the dial from the image of a small dot to the image of a large dot so there was a wide enough opening. This wasn’t your normal fertilizer. I could only cut it up so small.
And as the sky turned from pink to orange I spread the homeowner at the feet of these perfect women.
As the rest of contestants snuck out of their assigned houses, their own jobs complete, I sprinkled this cisgendered, white man into a thick layer of nutrients.
It’s a real shame about the fire.
It’s a shame all that footage was destroyed.
This may have been my best work.
As I’m explaining this, the door at the end of the interview room opens again, and I’m really starting to get irritated. I tell the camera, Warren probably used those gas canisters to start the fire. The ones meant for the lawn mower.
And this new person walking into the room, he steps into my light, holding something in his hand. He nods at the makeup assistant who takes a step back.
It’s the host himself.
This guy, Warren’s hero, he smiles and places whatever is in his hand on top of the makeup cart. A laptop. He opens the thing up and starts scrubbing through a recording.
His lips say, “you’re going to be so relieved.” But his smile says otherwise. He says, “we managed to find some footage of you.”
As he steps to the side, I see myself—naked as the day I was born. I’m more naked than an Ed Gein canvas, and the notches in my spine press against the skin of my hunched over back.
Whoever filmed this can’t control their breath, and it keeps fogging up the window they’re spying on me through. Every few moments, they have to wipe it away with their glove.
Underneath my naked body, a bush of hair rests against the carpet. The homeowner. But it’s not some cis-gendered, white man. It isn’t the intellectually impaired grandpa.
It’s just some blond bitch.
A real fucking cunt.
I don’t say this to the camera.
What I do say is, “this is character assassination.”
In the video, beneath my dripping skin, the blonde’s head bounces against her ponytail. Up and down. Up and down. I’m really beating into the bush.
The host is asking me if there’s anything I’d like to confess.
All I can say is, “did Warren film this?” I laugh. “You can’t believe everything you see.”
But the host, he just says, “the only difference between a true story and a fake one, is how well it’s edited.”
Back on screen, blood squirts against my face as though it’s shooting from an impotent sprinkler. It’s because this blonde’s torso is an open cavity. Her ribs are pruned from her chest and scattered around like kindling.
The host says, “I’m afraid you don’t have what it takes to win this competition.”
He checks the straps around my arms, and the one around my chin. As more salt water runs down my face from the sponge on my head, I start laughing even harder. I don’t have what it takes? How differently logical.
So I tell the host, the camera, the microphone, this isn’t just a hobby, this is a calling. Ol’ Sparky? Yellow Mama? Gruesome Gertie? The electric chair symbolizes what we all sacrifice.
The masked makeup assistant comes back to hand the host two electrodes, which he then hands to me. I still can’t stop laughing.
I’m a real live wire.
On the laptop, I stand up. Warren, or whoever is filming this, breaths even harder and has to keep wiping the window pane clean over and over again. I pick up two red canisters. One in each hand.
Look, I tell the camera, can’t you see I’m the best artist in this competition because I didn’t win. Are any of you prepared to die for your work?
Do you think I get off on this?
On screen, I pour gasoline all over the body. Carcinogenic fuel. The opposite of fertilizer. I’m pouring this all over her, and the carpet, and my crumpled mess of clothes. The ones with the cameras stitched inside of them.
Anything can be made attractive, if you burn off the fat.
If you know which cuts to make.
I don’t tell the camera this.
What I do tell the camera is, I came to this competition to be a hero for all those little boy’s out there. All those boys who’ve been judged for wetting the bed, or ripping wings of flies, or chasing their siblings around with an ax.
I did this for all those young girls who no one ever paid attention to until they started lighting stray cats on fire.
I represent the underserved.
This unauthorized termination of my life is for them.
On screen, the cameraman, Warren, he’s backing away from the house. He runs to hide on the other side of the street because I’m walking right out the front door.
Naked as Eden.
With the rest of the gasoline, I start dosing the garden—these leafy green women all standing watch. They sag from the weight I keep hosing on top of them.
And back in the confession room, the host, he’s saying, “Warren? As the winner, will you do the honors?”
That’s when the makeup assistant takes off their mask.
That’s when I laugh so hard it leaves a puddle in the chair.
Winner? I ask. I know school shooters with more of a backbone than Warren. Even the DC snipers took more risks. Winners are never remembered.
But Warren, this L word, he just waddles in front of the production lights, right past me and towards this giant lever on the wall.
“Exactly,” he says. “Who’s dumb enough to want to be remembered?”
And on screen, I’m ready to spark. My back looks like it was drug through thorns, and blood stains my arms in the shape of those bleeding heart flowers. The match is lit in my hand. As I go to flick it into the garden, just as I’m about to get some release, Warren?
He yanks the lever.
The End.
Oh, this is FUN! Thanks for a great little read.