Mace Davidson

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  No Houses
For Irwin, because he wasn't happy with how I ended 'Spin That Wheel'!

Submitted: June 18, 2014

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Submitted: June 18, 2014




Oh, man, the pain!  Mace Davidson winced as he touched the black eye he'd been given courtesy of one Hank Triton, another inbreed idiot contestant on "Spin That Wheel!", the television game show that he hosted.  Was it his fault that the man had been too stupid to actually have a chance of winning?  The moron had guessed Q when he was asked what letter the hidden answer to the puzzle might contain; Q!  Really, how often was that letter used in language?  Maybe it was used quite often in Idiotese, but English?  Anyway, after the show, he had been walking out to his Beamer, and had been confronted and accosted by this Hank person, who had become enraged at his comments, and kept screaming something about "rude asshole host-bastards", hence the black eye.  The police had arrived, but not in time to save his $1,000 dollar suit.  When attacked, he had fallen where he stood and landed in a big puddle of oil from some loser-mobile.He supposed he should feel grateful he had walked away, but come on! 



He thought, Another blow-bag waste of a day, not to mention painful! as he grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and slumped down into his couch.He was the host of the long-running game show for in breeders, 'The Game of Pure Luck Piled On Top of Still-More Pure Luck!'  He made a sour face and flipped the beer bottle cap in the general direction of the T.V., where it hit the T.V. stand and rolled away, ending up about half way across the hardwood floor.  Shit! he mumbled to himself.  His eye throbbed; just par for the course lately.  It seemed that life thought it was funny to piss on his dreams; and, apparently, tee off on his face too.  And boy, did he ever have dreams!  He would like nothing better than if Pinehurst Studios, where "Spin That Wheel!" was filmed live in front of cardboard cutouts who clapped and cheered in all the right places, was smashed by a giant meteor that up until recently was harmlessly orbiting Mars.  All his life he'd dreamed of becoming a famous actor, touring the world with all his hangers-on.  When he'd been a struggling actor, he'd told himself the "Spin That Wheel!" gig was only temporary; just until the movie career took off.  Well, the old movie career veered off the runway, crashed into reality, and burst into flames.  He'd been the host of "Spin That Wheel" for almost seventeen years, and he was almost sixty, with no sign of escape in the near future, the foreseeable future, the distant future, or the future where people wore jet packs and flew everywhere, like on "The Jetsons", a cartoon when he was a kid.  In other words, he was trapped.  He guzzled what was left in the bottle and got up to walk over to the fridge to grab himself another.  In fact, he grabbed the rest of the half rack and returned to the couch.  There were twelve beers when he started, and they'd all be gone by the time the late local news came on, and he turned off the television and staggered into the bedroom to sleep it off for around five hours, when his alarm clock roused him for, oh boy, another day!  He didn't want to have to get up again after he huffed some model glue.  He took the tube of model glue and a plastic bag out of the drawer beside the couch, squirted a glop of the glue into the baggie, put his mouth around the opening, and breathed in several times.  Immediately, he felt light headed, and began floating away.  He knew he'd reached rock bottom, but it was the only escape from the reality that his life was one big ball of nothing-shit.  His unfocused eyes somehow managed to locate the open half rack, and he pulled out a another beer.

 He grabbed the last of the beers, mockingly raised it in salute to the eleven dead soldiers on his T.V. tray, and started to guzzle it, and....


Where was he?  The light from the flickering T.V. was reflecting off the white walls.  Wait a minute, that wasn't the light from the T.V., it was sunlight, emerging from behind clouds.  And, it was way too light for 5am.  What the hell was going on?  He bolted upright, and immediately regretted it; man, what a killer hangover.  His bloodshot eyes searched for the clock on the wall he knew was there somewhere.  Ah, there it was; 11.30?  Shock ran through him as he realized he was way late.  The damn show started in one hour.  He usually arrive by seven to prepare; but he had to be honest with himself, how much preparation did a guy need to spout, "Show me a T!"  He  struggled painfully to his feet, with his head pounding something fierce, somehow managed to brush his teeth (there wasn't time to stand like a zombie under the life-giving hot spray of a shower) and staggered out to his Beamer at around 12.15, shielding his eyes from the blinding rays of the sun; it didn't help!  He wanted nothing more that to don his shades and block out at least the worst part of the ice pick stabbing into his brain.  He fumbled in his pocket for the keys, gratefully put on his Raybans, and started to pull the car out of his driveway.  As soon as he started pulling onto the road, the blare of a horn shattered the quiet, the blessed quiet.  He slammed on the brakes, causing the car to suddenly come to a sudden and violent halt, but unfortunately, his brain failed to stop, and slammed into the inside of his skull, or so it felt like to Mace.  "Ouch, son of a bitch that hurts!" then immediately he rolled down his window, stuck his middle finger high above the top of the car, and waved it in the direction of the fast-disappearing car that had dared to honk at him; "Eat shit, you dick head!" he shouted, and immediately regretted it, for 1000 jack hammers assaulted his head.  "Owe, shit!" he screamed, and continued pulling out on the street, and headed for the studio.


He tried his best to gird himself for the idiot-contestants and their idiotic babble, but it wasn't going to help.  They were still idiots.  He angrily pulled open the studio door, and the angry voice of the director of the broadcast, Mel Dowdy, blasted into his ear holes,

"Oh, there you are; how nice of you to show up, with five whole minutes to air!"

"Give me a break, would you Duty?"  Duty was a take off on Mel's last name.  "I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Yeah, that's something, I guess.  No time for fucking around; get on the set." 


The blinding lights of the set pierced his brain, and he decided there was absolutely no way he would be taking off the shades.  It might look funny, but appearances be damned!  He turned to his two competing idiots and scowled at them.  There was Sharon Something from Somewhere, and Seth Something from Somewhere.  He didn't really care.  All he wanted to do was go into his office and sleep, but that was impossible; after all, the show must go on!  Sharon from Somewhere said,

"Hello, Mace; so nice to see my hero growing up in person; I'm a big fan!"

He wasn't in the mood, "Oh, so you're pointing out I'm some kind of living fossil?"

Sharon got a shocked look on her face, "No I wasn't, I was simply saying how much I've always admired you, 'America's Uncle."

Oh Christ, another 'admirer'; he looked in desperation and annoyance at Ken the announcer, locking eyes with him, trying to signal silently that he should shield him from this slobbering woman, but Ken just stared back at him, letting him know he was on his own.  He wasn't going to dignify her moronic explanation with a response; couldn't the moronic trailer park dwelling low-life see that he was hurting, and that if he was an animal, he'd chew off his own leg to get out of the trap, he was that desperate and in unbearable pain?  He didn't feel like listening to any more of her face-fountain spewing any more useless ass-kissing platitudes, so he turned away and waited for the red light to come on, telling him they were on the air.

Here it was, the red light, although through his shades, it looked only dark.  "Hello, and welcome to another addition of "Spin That Wheel!", America's favorite game show!" although just why, was a mystery to him.  He was supposed to make small talk, then introduce the two contestants, but he didn't feel like it; the sooner the moron game got under way, the sooner he could retreat to his dressing room, and rest his eyes of pain.  He was hurting so bad, he completely forgot they were on until 1.00, hangover or no hangover. 

"Let's get right to it, eh?  Our returning champion one of you losers is the returning champion?"  He had thought he'd turned his microphone was off, but the amplified sound of his voice came wafting over the entire set, and the entire viewing audience. 

"Ooops...well, l don't know who the returning champion is."

"I am," said the one named Sharon.

"Well then, just sit on your ass while Dumbo over here spins, huh?"

In his headphones he heard Dowdy Duty having an absolute fit, "What the fuck are you doing, Davidson?"

He turned towards the control room, grabbed his crotch, and announced, "The question is not what  I'm doing, but who;  I'm doing your mamma, Duty!"  He'd had it.  This job blew, and this place blew; all he wanted was a dark room and peace and quiet.


It seemed so strange after seventeen years to not have a show to do.  As much as he'd hated 'Spin That Wheel!", now that he'd been shit canned, he missed it.  He had been so mad at the show, he had lost sight of the fact he actually enjoyed doing it.  He flipped on his television at 12.30, only to hear,

"Spin That Wheel' will not be seen today.  Instead, we bring you an encore presentation of the original National Media Network series ,'Monster Trucks and Bikinis'".  What?  They filled his time slot with that bullshit?

The End





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