Chapter 3

Champagne was flowing freely back at the studio as the producers celebrated.

Jon would be a perfect winner, all set to step onto talk shows, sitcom cameos, even -- dared they dream? -- movies. And every appearance, every article would have to note that he got his start on "The Fish Tank."

Janelle would lose in the finals, of course. She was even more vapid than Jon. But she'd guarantee them two more weeks of sex appeal and tons of diversity points.

One producer -- an androgynous being in a silver jumpsuit -- noted cheerfully that they were even squeezing a little extra drama out of Pete and Des. The others nodded politely and got refills.

Though the living room of the Tank was spacious, Jon and Janelle cuddled together in one corner of the white leather couch.

Janelle had a special gleam whose source was no secret. Night-vision binoculars were very popular with the crowd, so everyone knew the couple had been celebrating their success every night with a sexual display that looked like ghostly gymnastics in the greenish screens.

Pete perched on the edge of a small hassock, hands drumming on his knees.

As far from him as possible, Des sprawled in a plaid recliner, feet not touching the floor. She ignored the host during the intro, staring only at Pete with naked fury.

As the floor director counted down to air, Pete bounced up. "It's too damn hot in here with all those lights," he said, and he ran around the room flinging windows open. He just got back to his seat when the count reached zero.

Once the host's smarmy introduction was over, the cameras swung to Jon. Before he could even open his mouth, though, Pete was talking. When the cameras refused to seek him out, he marched over and planted himself in front of them.

Up to that point all he had been saying was that he wanted to be heard. But then Jon tugged on Pete's sleeve and quietly said it was his turn first. "We drew lots, you know. Fair is fair."

Pete's hands flew out from his sides. "Fair? You're telling me about fair? Ha! There was no 'we' drawing lots. The producers told us they did. And we all believe them, don't we? Because the producers would never lie.

"No, not them. Not the same producers who fixed every contest so Pretty Boy would win. Not the producers who edit all the shows to make the audience hate the people they want them to hate.

"And since when are you such a stickler for the rules, Pretty Boy? You weren't so ethical when you told me you'd give me a free pass if I made nice with the Ice Queen."

Des had been staring in shock like everyone else, but Pete's last comment snapped her out of it.

"Ice Queen? You think any woman who doesn't fall all over you is frigid? Then the whole world must be frozen, because I didn't see anyone trying to jump your bones. Not even that airhead slut over there!"

"Hey!" Janelle simpered. "That's not nice. Tell them, Jon."

"Yeah," Jon said, cuddling closer. "Be nice. Look, we're all friends, right? It's been a long time in here, and the pressure and all. We're all bound to be a little cranky. But there's no reason to be nasty. I'm sure Pete's sorry he suggested those things about the producers -- right, Pete? You know the show's on the level."

Pete smacked Jon with the back of his hand. "Shut up, you obsequious moron. A six-year-old could see the show's rigged. The whole thing's a crooked game. Like those tours they sell. Jack up the prices for fleabag hotels. Charge $25 for a T-shirt that fades in five days. It's all a rook. Des knows. Ask her -- she was talking about it last week. And is she getting a penny from those 'Des the Destroyer' nutcrackers? Not a damn cent! It's all a rip-off!"

"Stop it," Jon said. "Stop it this instant!" As he said it while cowering on the couch, it wasn't very impressive.

Des took a more forceful approach, leaping into the air and landing on Pete's back. "You're a lunatic," she yelled, hands around his neck. "Shut up or they'll throw us out and we won't get anything! You may not care, but I need that money."

Pete pried her off and advanced on the cameras. He grabbed the lens of the one with the glowing red light and stuck his face just inches away.

"Hear me, America! The only thing more unbelievable than how phony this is, is how you nitwits swallow it. Why are you watching this? Don't you people have anything better to do? What, is wrestling too real for you?"

In the background, Des had been tugging on Jon and then the host, trying to get them to take on Pete. When they refused, she clouted both of them on their heads and ran over to the cameras, desperately unplugging cables while shrieking at Pete.

As the light above the camera he'd commandeered went dark, he abandoned the lens and strode to the closest window.

Pete leaned out and shook his fist.

"You people are even bigger saps than the home audience," he said. "What are you doing? Go home and get a life!"

As he turned away, the last of the glowing lights on the electronic gear winked out. Des held up the last cable, wiping sweat from her brow.

A noise made her turn. They all looked -- players, crew, the lot. The noise sounded like a tornado, or a freight train. It grew and smothered them. Everyone looked past the transparent walls.

As far as the eye could see, people were applauding.

The studio had cut off the live feed before Pete even began. No one watching on TV saw any part of the melee.

That meant they could not understand what had happened when the final live shot showed Jon and Janelle being voted out of the house almost unanimously.

The studio conference room was just two eye gouges and a knuckle flick away from a Three Stooges scene. Two producers were slugging it out atop the table until one of them skinned his/her knuckles on the other's chin. He/she fell back in pain while she/he staggered in the opposite direction. They both fell off opposite ends of the table onto pileups of other producers. There have been mosh pits with fewer tumbles.

From the tumult, occasional bits of coherent speech emerged: "How could they do that?" "Who fucked up the polling?" "All the money we got, couldn't we have gotten Janelle a damn personality implant?"

In time, they were able to discuss things calmly. The polling had been accurate, as far as it went, said a producer who either had long sideburns or a seriously bad beautician. What the survey had missed was a last-minute stampede to Pete and Des based on a belief that they would rip each other's guts out if caged up in the house for two more weeks.

"And ours," someone in the back said.

"Huh?"

"Exit polls indicate the crowd bought Pete's accusations of us. In short, they think we're cheating, and they wanted to shove it up our ass."

The director groaned. "What's their problem? Did we get every conspiracy nut in America? What else do they believe? That Oswald didn't act alone and Elvis is alive?"

The room burst into laughter. One producer curled up a lip in a sneer.

It was traditional -- if anything can become traditional in four years -- for the big glass house to get a thorough cleaning the morning after the final two players were chosen. That part went according to plan.

It was also traditional for the cleaning to be followed by a series of photo shoots as every magazine and news service vied to be the overkill straw which broke the smelly camel that is public fascination with a celebrity.

That tradition, however, did not survive. Pete flew into a rage when the photographers arrived. As it would have been impossible to hide from them in the Tank, he didn't try. And as the shooters would have been quite happy to get close-ups of him biffing a fellow photographer, he didn't act out his anger. He simply sat. For hours. Staring blankly, coldly. Most definitely unphotogenically.

This caused the frustrated legions to descend on Des. She wasn't camera-shy -- no one could survive the Tank if they were -- but she quickly grew tired of the attention. She had cameras following her whatever she did, drawing them like a dead bird does flies. This metaphor, in fact, was one she herself uttered when flashes greeted the successful conclusion of a trip to the bathroom.