You Bet Your Species
Short story from Rocky Mountain Fur Con book, August 2015
"Remember when we used to just win money from this game, or a car, or an oven?" I'm shuffling my feet a lot, kicking at an olive green and yellow sofa stitched out of the same fabric my dad's pants were made of back in the 60's.
"I sure don't, and neither do you kid," the rat says back to me. I'm not a kid, I just turned forty, but arguing sounds like a great way to increase my stress. Let that one slide, Miller, just let it slide. I tell myself that a lot.
"Yeah, well, I'm just saying it was probably a lot easier back then." I scratch my snout and take another bite of apple. Then another. Then another. I think I'm eating the core.
Core tastes so good.
"Miller Troff! You're on in five!" My tail nearly uncurls, I pull my index card out of my jacket pocket. I have a few quick notes about baseball, names of Presidents, and who in my family to mention when I win.
The rat waves by and asks me just as I'm heading through the door, "So, what are you going to be on the other side? Fox, wolf, lion?" All fine choices I must say, though I already have mine picked out.
"Cat, white and orange." Then I'm told to hush by one of the producers as we start down the hall, the door to the waiting room closing and locking. Hopefully the rat finds some company with the warthog, who had been with us but stone silent for the last six hours.
It's an understandable silence. It's an honor to even be in this building, let along get on the show. This is a life changer, a real one, the kind that brings your family the kind of status you always want them to have when you're a loving husband and father. The money, the fame, it's all within your grasp. As long as you win.
I only think about the winners. The fox who scored a record deal, the vixen who became a movie star, those are the names and faces I thought about every night before going to sleep.
Did I think about the half rabbit half bear who shuffled off disappointed to a crowd of laughter? Or the lady who ended up part poodle part skunk?
Of course I didn't, worry won't help you win. Especially not on--
"You bet your species!" There's a thunderous cheer while an ominous drum beat sounds, and the host, Mark Stone, a gecko with a habit of chewing cigars, welcomes me with a cold handshake. He adjusts his thick rimmed glasses, steps back behind his desk and sits down. I feel frozen, but I'm where the producers told me to stand during yesterdays run-through. We'll have some banter, and then launch into the game.
Did Mark just say something? He's talking, pointing his cigar at me. I probably missed something, these lights are so hot, it's hard to focus.
"So are you here with any family?" he asks, turning his eyes to the crowd. "Someone cheering you on...and hoping you're a wolf within the hour." There are a few giggles.
"No, I'm by myself," I reply.
"Well that just stinks, like a pig in," he pauses, "too close to home for ya, sorry, ma tongue got away from me there." He flashes his tongue at the crowd, and they laugh as he waves to them with it.
Wilma refused to come. She didn't stop me, she didn't argue, she just stared as I boarded the bus with a suitcase and our savings. I had put on a brave face, told her the new life we would have, how it would erase decades of cruel teasing and torment. I could leave behind the cubicle and stale sandwiches, and be the man I was meant to be. And she'd have it all. Yet, she didn't come. She'll regret that.
I probably missed another question, because Mark has moved on to explaining the rules.
There's a graphic on a screen to my right, showing a silhouette of my stocky, rotund frame. It's labeled as just "Miller the Pig," which is pretty accurate and probably how most of the folks I know would describe me.
"Now Miller, I know you're fully aware of the rules, but I think, given the seriousness of the game, it bears repeating. Or pigs repeating, as it were." The audience laughs at Mark, and I'm getting curious if there's a sign telling them to do that. He's not as funny as show imagines he is.
He continues, and it is important for me to focus, can't get distracted. "We're going to have a series of seven questions, each increasing in difficulty, from categories chosen by you. I'm kidding, we choose them, that'd be quite silly if we did it any other way. For each right answer, you have the thrill of spinning the species wheel. It will land on an animal, and we'll assign that animal's part to the corresponding body part on the graph."
The screen lights up and crowd claps. "Now, you get all seven right, from your feet to the top of your head, and you get to choose your species! Which means, you'll have the privilege of walking right back there." He points behind us, smoke billowing out and revealing the phone booth sized device that modifies one's species. How did such a marvel end up on a game show? How did we end up so dependent on it?
"But of course, if you get a question wrong, the game ends, and that means, you're going to look really funny from here on out. And I'm sure our audience knows this answer, but you tell me piggy: are you able to come back on the show?"
"No, I'm not."
"Correct, so, let's begin, unless of course, you want to disappoint our wonderful audience, and yourself, and quit before we begin."
I look out at the crowd, as my mind ponders the possibilities of losing. I remember the articles I read about the losers. At least there's a support group. How would I feel the rest of my days, if i ended up with the legs of a cat, the tail of a skunk, and the arms of an elephant?
"Miller? You're not seriously thinking of abandoning the game? No one's done that, why would they? Think of the hours you've spent, applying, going through the testing, paying the deposit, only to quit? Is that what you want?"
My eyes scan the crowd, my hand sweating as I haven't picked up my buzzer to start the game. Have I been there seconds, minutes, will they decide for me?
Then I see Wilma, crammed up in the top row of bleachers. She's still wearing her ring, wearing the same blue and yellow sun hat she was wearing when we met. She shakes her head and puts her hands to her heart.
Mark's tone has decidedly gone cold. "Piggy boy, we have other contestants, other people back there who want a better life. So you can either join us and play the game, or you can quit, and go back to being laughed at, eating slop and playing in the mud. Doesn't matter to me, you're the tenth pig I've seen this week. Just another in a long line of swine--"
I feel the sweat trickle down my brow, hand trembling as I reach for the buzzer.
"There we go, let's begin Miller, life only gets better from here."
I clench my fist and close my eyes, opening them so I can look up at my love. "I quit."