“Good evening, my fellow babes and all you hunky dudes, and welcome to The Big Game! I’m Zapp Sparkle, along with my color commentator, Biff Demetrius. What a fascinating contest we have for our viewers this week, Biff!”

“That’s right, Zapp! This week’s lightweight division matchup features a dramatic contrast of totally different styles. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever seen such completely opposite teams in direct competition before!”

“Wow, that sounds incredibly exciting, Biff!” The beautiful, statuesque platinum blonde flashed her broadcasting partner a smile that combined admiration with unadulterated sex appeal. Zapp had recently had her teeth whitened, and they were truly dazzling. “And you would certainly be the guy to know! But could you explain it to us fascinated amateurs?”

Biff gave his best smile in return. He noticed the difference in his partner’s teeth, and was annoyed she had not warned him. His own teeth were pretty good, and looked even whiter against his very dark, ruggedly attractive face. If there was one thing he had learned about this business, however, was that you could never have too many advantages. And you should never, ever let your partner upstage you as far as the little differences went. That was how you lost your edge with the audience, and maybe lost your spot on the show the next season.

“My pleasure, Zapp. As you know, the Kiwi Commandos are made up of professionals. On the other hand, Marat’s Marauders are almost entirely an amateur team. Now days, that’s nearly unheard of.”

“Well, I guess that explains why the odds are ten to one in favor of the Kiwis, Biff. In fact, they’re favored by more than fifteen thousand points! Isn’t that a huge margin?”

“Sure is, Zapp. John Marat’s one rich dude, and he’s spent a lot of money to equip his team. But he’s a total amateur who insisted on captaining his own team, so he didn’t get much interest from the true pros out there. On the other hand, the Kiwis are about as experienced as they come. But they had to buy all their own gear, so the odds may not be as bad as the bookies make it. Still, it’s going to be tough for the Marauders to have much of a chance in this one.”

“We’ll be right back to analyze this match for our vast audience, and give some quick background on the key players. Right now we’ve got this exciting message from our prime sponsor, International Gaming and Casinos! Don’t go away, all you vivacious viewers!”

Ben Murphy carefully checked his weapon to make sure it was spotless. A heavier caliber than the old AK-47, it was lighter and more accurate. But the slightest speck of dirt inside the barrel could decrease its accuracy, or even cause damage to its accuracy.

“Are you ready, Lieutenant?” a voice asked crisply and imperiously.

Murphy looked up. John Marat really loved this game -- which was all it was to him right now. Murphy wondered how long that would last.

“Yes, Captain,” he said obediently. Marat had paid a hell of a lot for this opportunity, so Murphy figured he deserved the respect and obedience of his lieutenant. More importantly, his own future depended on this venture. He was determined to play the hand out.

Murphy looked around at his troops. He had known what to expect from the beginning, and had not been pleasantly surprised. They were young and basically inexperienced. Most of them had no more training than he and Sam Brown had been able to provide. Still, it was his little army, and it was his responsibility to make them the best they could be. Or die trying.

“Then let’s move out,” Marat said confidently. He even sounded happy, Murphy thought. Well, that would certainly change as well.

Murphy snapped an ammo clip into place, stood up, and signaled for his troops to follow. As he headed off into the brush he gave one more prayer that he had placed his last hopes in the right place. Then he put all negative thoughts out of his mind.

“Welcome back, sports fans! As you see on the insets, the two teams are just moving out from their base camps. As you said, Biff, this already looks like a total contrast in styles!”

“That’s right, Zapp. As we get an aerial camera view of the Kiwi Commandos, you can see they’re all moving separately, each one totally wary. They’ve already got their game faces on. No uniforms to speak of, just various camouflage gear they bought themselves.”

“Wow, Biff, that Spy Cam from the satellite sure gets you right into the action!”

“Uh, right, Zapp,” Demetrius agreed with false gusto. Damn, he had already screwed up! They had taught him the lingo to use, such as ‘Spy Cam,’ for the aerial shots, ‘Helmet Cam’ for the little mini cameras on the player’s helmets, that sort of thing. Never call anyone by their last name; always sound like you’re old buddies. Plug the names and products of sponsors whenever you could. Two-time MVP of The Big Game or not, if he kept screwing up all the ‘cute’ little things the producer said their audience loved, this would be his first and last season -- maybe his last broadcast. And he needed the money. He had already blown the large fortune he had made playing in the Games himself.

“On the other hand, that Spy Cam really shows Marat’s Marauders were trained by ex members of the Guards.”

“You are referring, of course, to Lieutenant Ben Murphy and Sam Brown.”

“Exactly,” Demetrius agreed. “Murphy was actually a lieutenant colonel in the Guards, while Brown was a captain. That’s why their training is so traditional, so formal. But, as you know, the only ranks we use in the lightweight division are captain, lieutenant and troops, or players.”

“Which is why they’re moving in straight lines and looking in front of them?”

“Yeah, as well as having a point person out front to be the lookout. I mean, that works okay in the heavyweights division, where you’ve really got very formal armored or infantry companies engaging each other, but it’s not real practical in these guerilla encounters. And why are they moving at a double-time? They’ll only tire themselves out by the time they meet their opponents, and probably make so much noise they’ll announce their location half an hour before that. You’re much better off with the one-on-one tactics the Kiwis will use.”

“So you think the Marauders are already in big trouble because of the way they’ve been trained?”

“Well,” Biff hedged, “probably. But we’ll see.”

Murphy was not really worried about this. He had seen enough Games to know formal marching was really stupid in this situation, but that’s what his employer wanted. In another lifetime, Marat may have been a big game hunter, Murphy thought. He would have been fearless -- in fact reckless -- but would still have insisted that his beaters move in a straight line and flush the lion or other game out in time-honored traditions. It was just what fit his image of the sport. That’s exactly what did worry him. Marat viewed this as just another sport.

Throughout the world, true ‘sport’ had become a minor affair. It was all centered around The Big Game now, which just about anyone who could pick up a weapon could play. That was where his problems began, Murphy thought as he rapidly led his little band into battle.

Over the past few months he had come to know them well. Out of the thirty allowed on a lightweight team, there were a few like himself who were desperate enough to risk their lives for the potential gains. The rest he would classify as sociopaths or rogues. They were petty criminals, malcontents, or just adventurers out for the thrill of killing another human. Murphy had excelled in a world of discipline and honor populated by men and women hand-picked for their superior characteristics. It had been very hard for him to put aside his prejudices in order to give these people the training that might save their lives ... not to mention his own.

Unfortunately, those were the kind of people John Marat had been able to attract. As he trotted along a fairly wide jungle path somewhere in the Amazon basin, Murphy reflected on the reasons he had hesitated -- and why he had joined Marat’s team in spite of those reasons.

Most people who would have joined the Guards in the past, but could not quality now, joined a heavyweight team. Those were essentially small armies of a thousand troops. They could use up to eight dozen land-based vehicular weapons, such as tanks, light artillery or armored personnel carriers. No aircraft of any type was permitted, nor any chemical agents. They fought in open spaces such as deserts or the Russian steppes. They were paid, equipped, and trained by corporations or other large entities, sometimes small countries, which meant they were generally well-disciplined.

The lightweights were usually mercenary bands who were limited to hand-held weapons, and fought in forests or jungles. Because each company or person must equip themselves and put up as prize their belongings to the person who killed them, they tended to be much more individualistic. John Marat, a total amateur, had insisted on being captain of his own team. Consequently, few professionals would even consider playing for him. But he was incredibly wealthy, and had equipped his team with the best weapons, as well as a few other items that would no doubt surprise the other team.

And he had offered Ben Murphy, a rising young star in the Guards, a small fortune to be his lieutenant and train his team. Which was unfortunately exactly what Murphy had needed at the time, he thought grimly. Dead or alive, his family would reap the benefits of Marat’s wealth.

“Okay now, for those of you who may be watching the Games for the first time -- like you kids under six!” Sparkle joked with an engaging grin, “We’re going to start with a little history of The Big Game while our teams get into position. Take it away, Jeff!”

“Thanks a lot, Zapp!” the young commentator acknowledged. “I’m Jeff Hirohito, and I’m here with Justin Bedford, founder of The Big Game. Thank you for taking the time out of your incredibly busy schedule to be with us today to explain the origins of this great sport, Justin.”

“Thanks, Jeff. It’s a pleasure to be here today. It’s been too long since I’ve spoken directly to our fans to silence some of this bullshit a few namby-pamby pacifist critics have been spreading recently.”

“Uh, right, Justin,” Hirohito agreed.

Although not unusually short for someone of Asian heritage, Hirohito was nevertheless dwarfed by Justin Bedford. Standing six feet five inches tall and weighing more than two hundred forty pounds, Bedford still sported the physique that had won him many millions of dollars as a young ‘wrestler’ in the Global Wrestling Federation. Having used every dime to buy a small cable company and launch incredibly successful program “The Big Game”, Bedford had become vastly wealthy over the past fifteen years. His company had expanded to virtually every nation in the world.

“As we celebrate our fifteenth season of broadcasting these great games, Justin, perhaps you could relate some of that fascinating history for us.”

“Absolutely. As you know, Jeff, a few decades ago the whole sports entertainment scene got pretty chaotic.”

“You’re referring to the proliferation of professional sports in the early part of this century, which became too boring for the general public?”

“Yeah, too many goddamn sports,” Bedford agreed as an engineer rolled tape of the events he was describing. “Not just the biggies like football, baseball, basketball, even soccer and tennis, for Christ’s sake, but then they started to do indoor versions. The ratings started dropping like turds after a heavy meal.”

“Do you agree fans were jealous over the money athletes made, even the so-called ‘amateurs’ like in track and ice skating, Justin?”

“Yeah, sure. The last straw was ticket prices of the goddamn events. That’s absolutely the best part of The Big Game, Jeff. You just spend your money on a big screen TV, sit in your own house, and enjoy all the action.” He did not mention paying huge fees to subscribe to his cable network.

Bedford turned to the camera on his best side, giving his audience a smile that had cost ten thousand dollars worth of orthodontic work to achieve. Responding to his critics, as well as getting in a few plugs for the show, had been a good idea of Hirohito. That’s why he had let this young, aggressive newcomer do the interview.

“And highly beneficial to the people of the entire world, Justin,” the young announcer added, turning directly into his own camera. “The crash of professional sports at the beginning of the century was quick and painful, especially to the forces of law and order,” he said dramatically as footage rolled showing confrontations between mobs and police forces.

“The increasing violence levels throughout the ‘civilized world’ dramatically jumped. The increase in world population was compounded by the growing anger and lack of a proper outlet for it. As you can see from this graphic, all sorts of violent crime, from assault to murder to terrorism, nearly doubled from 2011 through 2030. Which is where Big Game Entertainment, Inc. finally began to have some real impact on the world, isn’t it, Justin?”

“That’s right, Jeff. I’d been lobbying the U.S. and the U.N. since I retired in 2019 to let me try The Big Game format,” Bedford said sincerely, not mentioning that was also the year the G.W.F. had folded, the last of the made-for-TV wrestling organizations. “It took twelve long years of meetings, research and documentation, and good ‘ol fashion arm-wrassling before I finally got ‘em to let me try it,” Bedford announced proudly. He left out the part about good ‘ol fashioned bribery.

“That’s right, sports fans,” Hirohito said in reverential tones. “It was not until 2031 that a few governments finally agreed to sanction limited aggressions. After only four seasons, during which participating countries really cracked down on violence of all types outside the Games, terrorism and war had been virtually eliminated, random violence was greatly reduced, and national economies were on the upswing. All of which convinced the U.N. to convert its peace keeping force into the Guards and make The Big Game an international event! Isn’t that right, Justin!”

“Absolutely, Jeff. Not to mention countries found they didn’t need huge standing armies, and the Games cost them nothing. The answer had been to simply turn the problem over to television.”

“True, Justin. Before, we had a bunch of hooligans and sadistic criminals taking out their aggressions on innocent civilians. Now we’ve got these fine young athletes competing on an international stage, rather than creating violence in the cities and towns around the world. We’ve made a hell of a lot of progress as human beings, Jeff!”

The men smiled at each other for the cameras.

Murphy maintained a double-time, not bothering to tell his troops why. At this point he needed to reinforce obeying orders without question to this motley crew. Because they had a lot of work in front of them, Murphy wanted to get them into position as quickly as possible.

The teams were not allowed much information about their opponents ahead of time, nor any reconnaissance of the terrain. Two hours before the drop, both teams were given the nicknames of the other team, plus the name of the officers to know who was authorized to surrender. The fact that none of the combatants was allowed to wear any personal body armor made his tactics even more potentially lethal. They were also given a few aerial photos of the battleground, mostly so they could know in which direction they should head to find their opponents.

All of that information had provided Marat’s team a possible advantage.

With his years of experience, Ben Murphy figured any team made up of New Zealanders, possibly a few Australians, would be battle-tested professionals. They would be highly skilled in jungle warfare. They would fight as a loose-knit band, preferring one-on-one encounters to group fire-fights, maintaining closed voice contact rather than visual. They would be virtually silent and invisible, deadly shots, and not prone to panic.

His team, on the other hand, had virtually no rough country training. He and Sam Brown had honed their troops’ shooting and other fighting skills as well as they could in their few months together, but they would be no match for the Kiwis. Far worse was that he didn’t know if he could depend on them to maintain their control when the time came. It was one thing to think of yourself as a ruthless killer, eager to taste the bloodlust of a sport that paid you well for maiming or killing other people. It was another thing to face actual combat against trained professionals who were shooting back.

That’s why Ben Murphy had no intent of engaging the enemy on their terms. In fact, he hoped his tactics, as unorthodox as they were in the lightweight division, would turn his team’s weaknesses into strengths. That, plus the fantastic equipment Marat had furnished them. Within the next two days, he would know if he was right.

“This is absolutely NOT the cynical, opportunistic event many of our critics claim, is it, Justin?” Hirohito continued.

“You know, it really pisses me off when those ignorant, pseudo-intellectual effete assholes say that kind of shit, Jeff.” The audience could tell from the way Bedford’s veins popped out of his short, thick neck that his anger was truly heart felt. “There’s a lot of history behind this. Fact is, you could say it’s sort of a natural progression of sports!”

“Extremely well put, Justin.” Hirohito beamed his most sincere and intense expression as the camera zoomed into his young, attractive face, and then dissolved into a collage of images that reinforced his message. “War and sport have been inextricably linked since the first cave man used his speed of foot, superior strength, and physical dexterity to encounter and overcome his rivals. What’s more, there is a great tradition of human death as spectacle, as well as an expression of honor.

“Our most ancient evidence dates back to the Uruk civilization, which began about 5000 B.C. The kingdom is better known as Mesopotamia, with its fabled capital city of Babylon. In the Euphrates valley during the middle period, there were many restricted precincts and temples that some scholars theorize were the sites of ‘ecstasies’ of a very physical kind, including controlled violence. There are also paintings of formalized boxing and other combative sports in the Egyptian tombs of Queen Ankhnes-Mery-ra and her son Pepy II dating back to around 2381 B.C., and Ptah Hotep, Vizier of Isesi, in 2356 B.C.

“But the most famous of these bloodsports date back to Mayan games and the Roman Coliseum, featuring the renowned gladiators. By 200 B.C., the Maya had developed highly structured kingdoms. For their most famous sport, they built the Great Ballcourt of Chichen Itza, where a combination of soccer and basketball was played. Many historians claim that the winning captain, or the entire team, would present their heads to the priests, or maybe the losers, as the ultimate honor of having defeated their foe. Strange as this may seem to us, the Mayan’s believed such a great victor would go directly to heaven instead of having to ascend the normal thirteen steps to such exaltation.”

“No shit?”

The director quickly cut from the stock footage he had been showing to the owner of his network. The camera also happened to catch the startled look on Hirohito’s face at being interrupted in such an unprofessional way.

“Uh, no, Justin. No shit. But as I was saying, folks, the Romans took this form of spectacle to unprecedented heights. Like the Maya with their Great Ballcourt, Vespaisian built the Coliseum to hold more than fifty thousand Roman citizens. The official opening ceremonies were conducted by emperor Titus in AD 80, and those games lasted one hundred days, taking the lives of thousands of animals and gladiators.

“There are other, smaller examples throughout history. But Man has always been a creature who enjoys the spectacle of death. Isn’t that right, Justin?” the young man asked as the stock footage dissolved back to them.

“Absolutely,” his employer agreed. “I mean, throughout the centuries we’ve seen public beheadings, shootings, hangings, stonings, electrocutions, and people burned at the stake. Even our own local governments have shown public executions on TV in the past.”

“But there’s a big difference in The Big Game and past public competitions, isn’t there, Justin?”

Bedford flashed that ten thousand dollar grin again.

“That’s right, Jeff. These days, anyone convicted of a violent felony is immediately executed. No chance of playing in the Games, like in Rome. Which is why the public violence rates have dropped so much. You think you want to take a piece of somebody, join a team and play in the Games!”

“So, in addition to providing entertainment that billions of viewers throughout the world find immensely exciting, we’re also doing a great public service, aren’t we, Justin?”

“You got that right, Jeff! Those candy-assed critics go crying to their governments about how sick this is, how it’s an affront to God or something, and do they ever get told where to go!”

“One of your original arguments to those governing bodies was that The Big Game is just a logical progression of all that history, wasn’t it, Justin?”

“It sure was. Not just all that ancient stuff you talked about. I mean, you look at what was happening on TV around the end of the Twentieth Century. Lots of sports had become a spectacle, even more than an athletic competition. There were pro athlete ‘challenge’ events, made for TV battles between ‘champions’ and challengers who used nerfball types of weapons, for God’s sake. And of course there were my favorites, such as pro wrestling and the XFL.”

“What’s more, “reality TV” started to become popular with survivor-type programs, which pitted ordinary people in potentially dangerous, direct personal conflicts. Then those programs started allowing contestants to actually use weapons against each other, which was when they truly became survivor shows. Right, Justin?”

“That’s right, Jeff,” Bedford said seriously. “And war is the ultimate sport. We just took entertainment to its next step. Which, as you said, was really back to its roots.”

“You mentioned the WWF and the XFL, created by your mentor. Vince McMahon was one of the inspirations for your cable network, wasn’t he, Justin?”

“That’s right, Jeff. Vince McMahon was a goddamned genius!”

Murphy signaled the troop to a halt. The starting points for each team were thirty kilometers apart. Normally, teams would meet somewhere in the middle and spread out according to the preference of their captain. Instead of carefully moving to that nominal meeting point, Marat’s Marauders had quick-marched nine or ten kilometers to a knoll Ben had spied on the aerial photo. Although the team was in much better physical condition than a few months before, only Ben and Sam Brown did not fall to the ground for a rest as they stopped. They did shed their backpacks, however, which weighed nearly a hundred and fifty pounds each.

Other than the weapons in their hands, the packs contained everything they would need to live and fight with over the next five days. Ammunition was heavy -- but an extra burden had been added to all of the packs. After all, they only had to carry it in, not out. Murphy hoped those extra few pounds might save a few lives.

Careful to play his role in front of the troops, Murphy walked over to Marat and saluted.

“Sir, all troops accounted for and in position. Request permission to perform reconnaissance.”

John Marat forced himself to stand and return the salute. A shade over six feet tall and solidly built, Marat was considered handsome by most magazines that reported on the lifestyles of the rich and infamous. He was on the ‘top ten most eligible bachelors’ of every such list in the country, and a few international ones as well.

“Very good, Lieutenant,” he said, trying not to pant. “Permission granted.”

“Please have the troops dig in as we planned, Captain.”

“I will. And you report back to me within the hour,” Marat said, wanting to sound as if he were really in control.

Murphy saluted once again, more for the benefit of the rest of the team than because of his strict military training.

As soon as Murphy turned away, Marat sank to the ground once more. He had thought he was quite fit until he hired Murphy and his buddy, Sam Brown. That son-of-a-bitch Murphy was an inch shorter and ten pounds heavier, every ounce of it muscle. Brown, who was actually very black, was even shorter and heavier than Murphy. In spite of his body-builder physique, Brown was just as fit and limber as most black belts, holding two such ranks in different martial arts disciplines. Murphy only held one, but he was third degree in Muay Thai. In spite of his wealth, the pair made him slightly envious. After this game was over, Marat vowed to take his own martial arts training more seriously.

He would give himself and the others fifteen more minutes to rest. Then he would start to follow the plan Murphy and Brown had made -- naturally, with his blessing.

“Okay, Biff, speak to us! I’ve been doing these broadcasts for three years now, and I’m not sure I understand what’s happening.”

“To be perfectly honest with you, Zapp, neither am I,” Demetrius said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. As two-time winner of The Big Games MVP award, he had been hired as the color commentator, the so-called ‘expert’ who could give their vast audience technical insights into strategy, tactics, and even the minds of the combatants. But this was almost as baffling to him as to the average viewer. Even worse: they only found it interesting and different. For him, it went against his entire training, his comfort level in how combat should be conducted. “It may be because Ben Murphy was a member of the Guards, or because his usual assignment was the heavyweight division. Maybe it’s because their captain, John Marat, is really running the show in spite of being a total amateur. At any rate, it’s hard to figure out.”

“Well, can’t argue with you there, Biff! But I’m sure you’ll give it your best shot!”

Demetrius heard the edge to her voice and sighed silently to himself. He couldn’t blame her. In fact, he was almost surprised she didn’t say, “Well, that’s what you’re paid for, idiot!” In her place, he probably could not have kept his cool as well. Maybe that’s why she had held the anchor position for three years, although most viewers thought it was because of her looks. Only those who worked with her knew what a keen mind and dedication to her craft Martha Kowalski, better known as Zapp Sparkle, actually brought to her position. He just had to give it his best shot.

“You’re absolutely right about that, Zapp! Okay, here’s the way I see it. This is partly because of Murphy’s background. He’s used to formal tactics. You notice the Marauders have chosen a high ground area to defend, if that’s their actual intent. The majority of their team seems to be building some kind of fortifications, as well as doing some kind of perimeter work, which I’m not sure of just yet. This may also indicate Murphy recognizes that his untrained forces are no match for the Kiwis in the open jungle, and hopes to neutralize that advantage somewhat. On the other hand, both Murphy and Sam Brown, his sergeant, are doing a lot of reconnaissance work in a circle roughly five hundred meters around the team’s camp. So maybe they intend to fight more in the guerrilla manner most lightweight teams do, as well.”

“And the Kiwi Commandos, Biff?” Sparkle asked, sounding much more pleased with his last response.

“The Kiwis are keeping totally in character,” he answered firmly, happy he could speak with more authority. “They’re advancing in the usual slow, careful way most lightweight teams approach combat, clearing the territory around them, expecting trouble at every turn. They look pretty cool and calm, Zapp. On the other hand, whatever it is the Marauders are trying to do, the Kiwis are giving them plenty of time to do it. I don’t think they’re expecting to have to go as far as it looks like to engage the enemy.”

“Wow! Okay, Biff, sounds really interesting for tomorrow. Right now, it looks like there’s not going to be any action in the field this afternoon. But stay tuned for tomorrow, femme fatales and irresistible hunks, because this exciting build up promises to hold a whole hell of a lot of action once these teams do get together! Isn’t that right, Biff?”

“You got that right, Zapp!” Biff exclaimed, getting back into the flow of things. “This battle’s definitely not going to be like anything you’ve seen in the past. I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but it sure promises to be new and different!”

Satisfied that her new partner had finally gotten with it, Sparkle gave him a sincere smile.

“Thanks a lot for that illuminating analysis, Biff! We’ll be right back for our closing comments on today’s action after this blockbuster message from our newest sponsor, Frank’s Authentic Artifacts, featuring exact replicas of the uniforms and weapons used by some of the great teams of the past! And, by the way, featuring our very own two time champ, Biff Demetrius!”