Bend it like Sodom

A satire of American values and the hypocrisy therein

 

Trumpets sound as the combatants enter the field from either side of the ovular colosseum for the pre-fight warm up. Beneath them on the television screen is a scoreboard. From left to right, under the names Spritz and Kajowski, are zeroes. In the center of the scoreboard is a timer sitting at 10:00. Beside it are three white dots. Bright corporate logos flash along either side. The sound of trumpets grows dim as the audio switches to the live commentary channel. 

“Good evening, and welcome to Saturday Night Judgment!” says an enthusiastic male voice. “I’m your host Johnny Donner and here with me in the booth is former Judgment Champion Phil Meyer.” 

The camera feed switches to the broadcast booth. Two men in suits stand precisely four feet away from each other, their white teeth shining as they smile at the camera. Their names appear in a graphic below them. Johnny Donner, the man on the left, wears a grey sport coat with white undershirt and purple tie over pressed black slacks. The sleeves of the sport coat stop just short of his designer watch. His luminescent brown hair is parted along the side. 

Phil Meyer wears a loose dark grey suit. He is bald as the day he was born, a comfortable two feet taller than his counterpart, and, if he so chose, he could pick Johnny Donner up with one arm and cradle him to sleep. One way or another. 

Johnny’s eyes smile at the camera as he continues addressing tens of millions of home viewers. 

“We’ve got a great one lined up here for you tonight. Phil, what should we expect to see from tonight’s combatants?” 

The hulking man delivers his well rehearsed script. “John Don, the name of tonight’s game is adaptation. Neither of these guys have had to fight out of their comfort zone this season. But now that the fans get to choose the genre, everything they’ve done up to this point goes out the window. From now on, every match-up is a brand new fight.”

“So you don’t have a favorite tonight?” Johnny says, casting an inquisitive glance at Phil before turning his attention back to the camera. 

“Hold my feet to the fire, I probably go Spritz,” Phil says. “I think if he can get it into close quarters combat, he’s got the endurance to wear Kajowski down. Kajowski doesn’t want this to go three periods. That’s just not his game.” 

“Well Phil, Vegas seems to disagree with you. They have Kajowski as the clear favorite at -300 with Spritz coming in at +150. They must know something you don’t.” 

“Vegas has beaten me more times than I can count,” Phil says with a hearty laugh. “What’s one more?” 

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Johnny says as they both face out toward the audience. “Jason Spritz vs. Colton Kajowski when we return.” 

Catchy outro music plays as they roll a highlight reel from last week’s games. It shows  Jason Spritz spinning around his opponent and beheading him in one smooth motion. The replay slows down as his sword cuts through the man’s neck, gradually zooms in on his face as he lets out a primal scream until he takes up nearly two thirds of the frame, and then cuts to commercial. 

...

A too-specifically diverse group of attractive young adults sit around a table in a chain restaurant that looks more lively than a Manhattan nightclub. 

Attractive male 1 leans over the table and says, “Two appetizers and an entrée for fifteen bucks? That’s insane.” 

Attractive female 1 giggles while saying, “It’s like highway robbery.” 

Attractive male two says, “That explains that guy.” 

Camera pans to a man in tactical gear bursting into the restaurant weilding an AR-15 and a burlap sack. “PUT THE APPETIZERS IN THE BAG,” he says. 

The young adults at the table stand up and all draw handguns that were previously concealed. They all take aim at the intruder. 

“It’s two and an entrée for fifteen bucks, friend,” attractive female 2 says. “Why don’t we do this the easy way?” 

We cut to a top-down shot of the inexpensive food offerings, with a pleasant female voiceover repeating the deal for the third time. When she finishes, we cut back to the table where the gunman has joined our main characters. 

“This IS like highway robbery!” he says full of mirth. They all laugh. 

Fade to black

…

A bright red SUV speeds along an empty mountain highway. Dramatic music plays softly in the background. A gruff male voice begins to speak. 

“Man wasn’t made to waste away indoors.” 

Angle change, as we now see the front of the car driving toward us, the sun reflecting brightly in the windshield. 

“A man’s hands were meant for more than pressing buttons on a remote.” 

A long panning shot along the car’s sleek side, the black leather interior just visible through the windows. 

“A man’s attention wasn’t meant to be divided.”

Now we’re inside the car, seeing the driver’s face from the passenger’s view. He’s smiling, gazing intently out toward the road. “Text wife, I’m stuck at the office. Be home a little late.” A feminine robotic voice confirms his message has been sent. His smile deepens and he sinks back into his chair. 

The voiceover tells us the new Mercedes MSC is available for $1,599 a month. 

… 

The television becomes a bright green screen featuring the words, “Only on Xbox”. 

We cut to a classroom. The camera descends from the ceiling, focusing in on a bored looking teen holding his head up with his fist, not listening to the droning lecture in the background. As he starts to daydream, gunfire erupts from outside the classroom, accompanied with blood curdling screams. The teen leaps into action, drawing a fully automatic assault rifle from under his desk. The camera switches to first person, and we watch as he sprints into the hallway, gunning down faceless assailants by the handful. Now there’s a montage of settings, showing first person views of a theater, a mall, and a carnival. We cut away again to a fit young twenty something in a bright, high rise apartment playing with a virtual reality headset. A silky female voice tells us to, “Be the hero you were born to be.” A final cut shows a game box with the title, “Concealed Carry”. Red text beside the game says, “Available now.” 

… 

Dramatic music brings us back to our regularly scheduled programming. A lone man stands in a dimly lit studio behind a mahogany podium. He wears a red velvet suit, and his handsome face is framed by a thick black beard and close cropped black hair. 

“Welcome, America,” he says, eye f*****g the camera, “to Saturday Night Judgment. The people have spoken. The votes are in. And tonight’s battle will take us back to the days of Alexander the Great. A time when men were men, and life was kind only to those who were fit enough to survive. That’s the story of tonight. Two men enter. One will survive and move on, keeping the battle for his freedom alive.” 

Our host reaches behind the podium and pulls out a polished gavel. “So without further ado, let’s come together as a country and see which one of these fighters is the better man in the most primal sense of the word. Ladies and gentlemen, let the games begin.” 

He bangs the gavel. 

…

Jason Spritz sits alone in his cell, scratching absently at his upper thigh, aggravated by the rough fabric of his brown loincloth. He is drenched in sweat. There are no windows in the cell block. Air conditioning is a luxury for the free.

      Free.

      It’s not lost on Jason that it’s a word that most serial rapists tend to erase from their vocabulary. But if a lifetime of church had taught him anything, it’s that death pays for a multitude of sins. Ten more deaths would buy him his life back. His freedom. Two more months of confinement in a stone sauna is a small price to pay for that.

      Inmates aren’t given clocks, but Jason gets the feeling that it’s almost time. He gets up off of his bunk and kneels over it, clasping his hands together in prayer.

      “Heavenly Father,” he whispers, “thank you for this opportunity You’ve given me, and the abilities You’ve blessed me with that allow me to make the most of it. I know I’m walking the path You’ve laid out for me. Give me strength that I don’t go astray. In Jesus’ holy name I pray, amen.”

      He hears a door open at the end of the hallway. The sound of footsteps follows. Moments later his handlers are standing outside his cell, accompanied by a camera crew and dolled up sports reporter. The handlers wear sleek carbon fiber body armor and carry electroshock batons. One of them holds up a hand to stop the camera crew a few feet back from the cell, and then walks over to unlock the door. The other motions for Jason to get up.

      He walks into the hall, and the handlers stand on either side of him while the reporter asks her questions.

      “Jason Spritz, Ashley Gerhardt with Fox Sports. How are you feeling before tonight’s fight?”

      She stands professionally close to him, but her discomfort is tangible. It makes him smile.

      “Ready to go,” he says. “My wrist is back to 100% and I’ve put extra focus on my mechanics after last week. My fans should see a cleaner fight tonight.”

      “Vegas has you coming into this as a heavy underdog. How do you respond to that?”

      “Easy money.”

      “How many periods are you expecting this fight to go?”

      He grins. “As many as it takes.”

 

…

 

 

      “Dude. F**k this stream.” Oliver “Oli” Manson says, refreshing his browser for the fifth time.

      Preston Mills holds up a finger and finishes his bong rip. He exhales, coughs, pounds his chest twice and says, “Buy it a drink first.”

      “Any luck?” one of their guests calls from the kitchen.

      “No,” Oli says.

      “Is it on Fox?” Gracey Reed asks. The boys nod. “Let me see the computer. I’ll use my parents’ Dish log-in.”

      A few minutes later, all twenty three guests are huddled around the television. They turn on the event right as the fighters are meeting in the center of the arena. Both dressed like gladiators, each given a shield, spear, and a short bronze sword. Jason Spritz is a full foot shorter than Colton Kajowski. Where Colton is an absolute behemoth with arms the size of tree trunks, Jason is ripped and lean. He looks more like a dancer than a fighter.

      The Judge standing between them is a white haired, bearded man wearing a long black robe. He wears a patch over his left eye.

      “Gentlemen,” he says, his voice booming over the coliseum loudspeaker. “Swords together.” 

      Oli grimaces, counting 3, 2, 1, before Preston inevitably says, “Just the tipoff!”

      On cue, Gracey says, “Who knew they were both into edging?”

      “F**k both of you,” Oli says.

      “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Preston says.

      Oli turns the volume up until he is sure everyone recognizes his passive-aggressiveness.

      “...have to wonder if this fight can possibly live up to the hype,” Johnny Donner says.

      “I have high hopes,” Phil Meyer says. “Both of these guys have wowed in the arena all season long. I think we’re in for a real treat.”

      “We’re about to find out,” Johnny says. Even through the television, the crowd’s energy is palpable. A low murmur builds to a loud roar as the coliseum timer ticks down. The second it hits zero, there is absolute silence.

      The field in the coliseum is covered in sand, and nothing else. There is no high ground. There is no cover of any kind. As pure a fight as it gets. Preston, Gracey, and Oli squeeze each other’s hands. A foundation of their triad is mutual, unadulterated love of Judgment.

      Colton and Jason stand on opposite ends of the field. Colton holds his shield in his left hand, spear in his right. His sword is slung across his back. Jason opts for sword and shield, and simply tosses his spear to the side. The commentators laugh and commend him for his nerve. Colton starts walking toward Jason. He takes his time. The mens’ eyes are locked. There’s a blur of motion as Colton flicks his wrist and hurls the spear at Jason. Jason expects it and spins out of the way. He doesn’t expect the shield hurtling toward his face when he comes out of his spin. 

The announcers lose their collective s**t as Jason is flung to the ground, his face surrounded by blood and broken teeth. 

Johnny Donner is overwhelmed with glee. “HE SAID HE HAD SOME TRICKS UP HIS SLEEVE IN THE PRE FIGHT MEETING, DIDN’T HE?” 

“You’re not kidding Johnny, what a move,” Phil says. 

Colton is on Jason before he can get up again. He throws a right hook at Jason’s jaw, and the crack can be heard throughout the stadium. Jason throws his hands up. Colton grabs his left arm and snaps it over his thigh. He does the same with Jason’s right arm. The crowd has gone silent. So have Johnny and Phil. 

Colton picks up Jason’s sword from the ground and drives it into his knees, one at a time. Jason is completely unable to move. Colton kneels down beside him and picks his head up. He puts his hand in Jason’s mouth and jerks out his remaining teeth. The camera zooms in on Jason’s eyes, wide with horror. They get wider when Colton mouths something inscrutable. 

Colton stands up and stares down at Jason for a long moment. 

Then he pulls down his pants. 

The next thing everyone knows, he’s forced himself into Jason’s toothless mouth. Jason gags and chokes, helpless to fight back. Colton’s lower body clenches, and in a few seconds, Jason is sputtering and coughing up blood and yellow liquid. 

“He didn’t…” Gracey says. 

Oli, mouth agape, says, “I...Yeah..he definitely did.” 

“Dude,” Preston breathes. “Reddit thread is saying that one of Jason’s victims was Colton’s sister.”

“F**k,” Gracey and Oli say together. 

Colton stands up again and pulls his pants back up. Tears streak down Jason’s face as he looks into his opponent’s eyes. With no emotion, Colton curb stomps him. Jason’s skull explodes. 

The crowd roars over the shrill sound of the victory music. 

…

The headline at the bottom of the television screen reads, “Outrage Over Judgment Finale”. Three men and three women dressed in business formal attire sit around a large table, with coffee mugs featuring the broadcasting company’s logo sitting in front of them. The camera zooms in on the host, Riley Reid, a stern faced man with beady eyes and a receding hairline. 

“Welcome back to Riley’s Roundtable. Tonight we’ll be discussing whether or not changes need to be made in the Judgment format after last night’s highly controversial ending.” He introduces everyone at the table from the left of the screen to the right. Barry Ross, beat writer for a magazine called Liberty Daily. Clyde Henderson, representative from the American Family Association. Riley himself. Cynthia Bernthol, one of the station's talking heads. Kara Blackthorn, author of Left vs. Love: The War on America’s Family Values. And Alyssa Black, representative from the FCC. 

“Kara,” he says once introductions are completed, “in your book, which was published nearly two years ago now, you said that what our society has defined as acceptable content ‘is slowly but surely plunging into the abyss of depravity’. Do you see last night’s events as a manifestation of that prediction?”

“I do, Riley,” Kara says, hands folded on the table. “Last night showcased what’s become of our country’s moral values in revolting fashion. I’ve been saying for years that we need to take a hard look at our censorship policies, and last night cemented that opinion.” 

Riley looks to his left. “Alyssa, you’ve made a very public showing of your discontent with the FCC’s recent quality control. What’s your reaction to Kara’s comments?” 

“I own three copies of Kara’s book,” Alyssa says. “One on my coffee table, one on my nightstand, and one on my desk at work.”

“Safe to say you’re a fan, then?” 

Laughter. 

“It’s what inspired me to join the FCC in the first place. For years, those of us who are parents have put our faith in that organization to put care and effort into curating the kind of content that’s allowed on our television screens. I can’t watch my son every hour of every day, and parental controls only go so far.” 

Clyde Henderson chimes in. “Parental controls are meaningless when children’s programming falls victim to the liberal agenda. A few weeks ago, I walked in the living room while my kids were watching Saturday morning cartoons, and the show that was on featured a same sex couple. In high school.” 

Somber expressions and shaking heads all around the table. 

Cynthia Bernthol addresses Barry Ross. 

“Barry, I vaguely remember you having a ten or twelve week series on hidden messaging in modern media with a sinister agenda. Was that inspired by Kara’s novel?” 

Barry nods. “I’d shared some similar feelings, and reading her book made me go back and watch some of the more popular shows and movies going back, oh, a decade or so. And in doing so, there was a clear and disturbing trend. I have to give it to the Left, they were patient with how they planted the seeds of their agenda. A character making a passing mention of a homosexual couple. Males kissing in the background of a shot. Emasculated men being presented as more virtuous than their alpha counterparts. Traditional masculinity painted in a villainous light. Slowly chipping away at manhood, natural relationships, and the institution of marriage. Conditioning the general audience to notice less and less, until we were being presented full-fledged homosexual relationships and the glorification of feminized men.”

The camera cuts back to Riley, on the left side of the frame, with the title card of the night’s episode in the right corner of the screen. 

“Which brings us to the focal point of tonight’s episode. Saturday Night Judgment has been a fixture of American living rooms for nearly two decades. And last night, in front of an audience of over 25 million people, the two fighters engaged in a homosexual act with zero prior warning. Parents had no time to get their children out of the room. My own congregation has viewing potlucks after Sunday night service, meaning that depravity was shown in the house of God. Church leaders, parents, and local government officials are now demanding that everyone involved with broadcasting Sunday Night Judgment face severe consequences.”

“As they should,” Cynthia is heard saying offscreen. 

“As of now there has been no statement from the SNJ PR department,” Riley continues, “but rest assured, America, that we in the media will not rest until this heinous act is answered for. We’ll have more reactions after the break.” 

…

Upbeat music plays as a camera pans around a pool in a summer scene.  We zoom in on a group of athletic girls in skimpy bikinis, who have seemingly all had their entire bodies waxed. Two men sporting chiseled abs walk over carrying brown paper bags branded with the Taco Bell logo. One of them says, “You ladies want some T-bell?” A girl reaches into one of the bags and pulls out a Cheesy Gordita Crunch. She takes a bite. Melted cheese drips out of the bottom of the taco, and in a slow motion shot falls just above the girl’s navel. One of the other girls smiles at her and says, “Let me get that for you.” She licks off the cheese. The two men smile at each other. 

A deep male voice does the voiceover, saying, “Taco Bell. Man’s new best friend.”