NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and
other uses of this work, public or private, free or
paid, in any format whether existing now or to be
invented in the future, so long as a copy of this note
and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration
is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002,
theGreatxIam

The Fish Tank
in honor of ASSDÕs FishTank
Chapter 5 (of 5)
By theGreatxIam

Pete hadn't even gotten back to sleep on the couch
before the producers were gathering. Like their
cousins, the vampires, producers are up all night --
although, in their case, it's because of dyspepsia, not
porphyria.

The fate of "The Fish Tank" had been heavy on their
minds and stomachs all week. Pete's steadfast refusal
to take on new challenges had stymied them. This late
in the season, they couldn't afford to throw him out.
Not that they didn't consider it, but the only
alternative would have been to put Jon back in, and he
had been ridiculed by the critics so viciously that no
one wanted that.

The critics -- there, one producer said, there was the
problem. Always giving the show grief about having no
redeeming social value. How about keeping the crew and
executives working? What about that for social value?

The others grumbled their agreement, but no one really
wanted to dwell on bad feelings. It was a night for
celebrating. The last two Tank players were fighting
again. All was right with the world.

After a week of nothing to shoot, there was hope for
fireworks from the live segment. Hastily they redid the
schedule, whittling away at the taped bits to give Pete
and Des more time to argue. They tinkered with the
rules a bit, too. Not very sporting of them so late in
the game, but all's fair in love and ratings.

Everyone was giggly with excitement and sleep
deprivation by the time they were through. The last
task left was one usually left to the director, but
this wasn't a night to stand on ceremony. One of the
producers had a great idea for the music to play in the
background as they led into the live segment, and it
was so ordered.

"Love Me Tender," it would be.

---- ---- ----

Pete and Des battled just as nastily as the producers
had hoped. Halfway through the show, she had already
called him a two-faced eunuch and he had been similarly
complimentary.

And that was even before the producers dropped two
bombshells.

First, with appropriate fanfare, it was announced that
the prize to the ultimate winner was being doubled, to
a record high for any game show. Much more quietly, it
was explained that second-place money was being cut in
half.

Second, the host said, there was a slight revision of
the rules, as allowed by the rules themselves. The
final winner would be chosen not by the live audience,
but by a national poll.

Immediately after saying that, the host ducked. It was
written right into his script, because the director
knew better than to expect the host to be able to
improvise his way out of the way of flung bric-a-brac.

Thus the glass paperweight that Des threw sailed neatly
over the host's head. It did clock a stagehand, but
since the Teamsters have an excellent disability
package, no one much minded that.

"What's the matter, Des?" Pete was at his snarkiest.
"No faith in the judgments of your country? Or do you
have too much faith? You know you're going to lose,
don't you?"

"That's just because the people don't know what an
asshole you are," she snarled. "They don't understand
what you're really like."

"Ah, you don't think they're smart, do you? I think
they are. Smart enough to see through "The Fish Tank,"
for sure. Smart enough to see this ploy by the
producers for what it is, a blatant attempt to freeze
me out."

"What?"

"That's right. Oh, don't you deny it. You've been in
cahoots with them all along. I see it now. Who got all
the face time? Des the Destroyer, of course. Who tried
to stop me when I called their bluff? Same old Des. And
now they think they can fool the people with their
last-minute hijinks and your phony act, 'woe is me, how
dare they change the rules.'

"The people at home won't be fooled any longer. Not by
you, not by those scheming producers. It's over, Des.
It's all over. America will have the final say. And I
say, God bless America."

---- ---- ----

That night, the Ichthyologists didn't light their
candles. They weren't even at the Tank.

Instead, they had convened at a Starbuck's several
blocks away. Bedlam reigned. One faction wanted to
lynch the producers for changing the rules. "There's
something fishy about this," a thin-voiced young man
said, before being pelted with Nutrasweet packets.

Another group wanted to lynch Pete, whom they found
suspicious. A third was eager to string up Des, and all
of Pete's enemies, for selling out.

The rest were neutral, which is to say they took no
sides and would be agreeable to any lynching they could
get.

There was general acceptance of only one statement:
"It's an outrage." Precisely what "it" was could be
left for subcommittee discussions.

Whatever, it was an outrage, and so outrageous an
outrage that one overwrought soul demanded they take
real action: a boycott. "Yeah," said another, "he's
right! Screw 'em all! We'll just go back to our real
lives and forget the Tank!"

"Point of order! Point of order!" The cry came from the
back of the room.

The chair recognized the delegate from Pomona. "And
what is your point of order?"

"We don't have real lives."

"Point taken. The motion for a boycott is overruled."

---- ---- ----

The Ichthyologists hadn't missed much back at the Tank.
Des alternated all evening between glaring at Pete and
ignoring him completely. She went to bed without a
word. When he crawled in and opened his mouth, she
silently gathered pillows and blanket and stomped off
to the living room couch.

So it went for two more days. On the afternoon of the
third day, Des was on the toilet -- mercifully, it was
white porcelain, and long shirts have their uses --
when there was a tap on the wall next to her.

She looked up. A sign was taped to the other side, in
the hallway. It read, "I think it's going well so far.
Don't you?"

Standing behind the sign, Pete had his thumbs up and
was grinning maniacally.

She shook her head and looked away.

The next communication was written in Alphabits on her
morning pastry. "Thanx partner," it said.

She swept the cereal off and grumbled through her
coffee before heading to the bathroom to shower. She
looked in the mirror and almost leaped through the
ceiling. "We've got em now," said the writing on her
forehead.

She confronted him in the living room. "Talk," she
said.

"What, are you sure? Because I've tried, but you --"

"Talk."

He explained it then. Or at least he offered a
plausible scenario. It was all about the game, he said.

As long as every player stuck to stereotypes, the
producers had control. They could slot everyone into
categories and guarantee results.

But if you started veering off course, that control
disappeared. And he had looked over his fellow players
and decided she was the most likely to be able to pull
it off. When Jon had even suggested the team, that made
it perfect.

"Why," she asked, "if this was your plan all along, why
didn't you tell me before?"

"Would you have gone along if I did? Would you have
believed me?"

"I don't believe you now."

"Exactly my point!"

She sat back and stared upward for several minutes
before looking at him again.

"So," she said, "so why tell me now?"

"Because it's OK," he said. "Because we've won."

"What we, kimo sabe? You're scooping the big prize. I
get just this side of nothing."

"The prizes don't matter. It's the endorsements, the
personal appearances, the tell-all book. And we're
gonna strike it rich. There's never been a season like
this one. All because you followed my lead."

"I did?"

"Sure. You were perfect. Just keep it up, no matter
what I do, no matter what I say. If I tell you it's
midnight when the sun is burning through these walls,
you just say yes and go to bed. If I say the water's
cold even though there's steam, draw a glass and drink
it down. Do it my way and we can't go wrong."

She rubbed her nose. "Wait. How do I know this isn't
some weird ploy to make sure you win?"

"Oh, right, you caught me. I was tricking you. You
really should do exactly the opposite. Don't believe a
word I say. Or maybe ..."

He got up, leaned over her. "Or maybe I knew you'd know
I was fooling, and you'd do the opposite of what I
said. So you should do what I say."

He pulled back and started to walk away, then turned to
her. "Or maybe I knew you'd know I knew you'd know I
was fooling, so -- let's see, the inverse of the
inverse of the inverse -- yeah, so you shouldn't
believe anything. Or maybe --"

She hit him squarely in the face with a pillow. "I'm
withholding judgment," she said. "But tell me more
about those endorsements."

---- ---- ----

Through the rest of the week, they fenced over Pete's
offer. On the one hand, Des said, she assumed she had
nothing to lose. On the other, what if the polls were
wrong? What if she was being suckered out of a prize
that could solve so many problems -- paying off the
house at last, helping the kids with theirs, even --
dared she dream -- retirement?

"I keep thinking," she told the camera the day before
the final show, "I keep thinking, what if he has some
last-minute surprise brewing? Something that will blow
me away.

"But then I think, maybe he's already done it. He's
kept me so busy wondering that I haven't done anything
to help myself. Maybe that's what he planned all along.

"It's like these walls were mirrors instead of clear --
every argument reflects back on itself.

"It sucks, is what it is.

"I mean, take the bed. After we talked this week, I
still didn't trust him, and I told him to keep away
from me. And he did. A perfect gentleman.

"Now, does that mean he's sincere? Or does it mean he
doesn't find me hard to resist?

"I'd like to trust him. He certainly stuck it to you
guys, and I respect that. But -- I don't know."

---- ---- ----

The Fish Tank was more like a beehive on the night of
the final show.

Producers, crew, network executives all flitted in and
out, with their attempts to look important being in
inverse proportion to their actual roles in the
proceedings.

The crowd outside had swelled. Rumors flew that both
players had something special planned to sway the
nation their way during the two hours voting would be
open.

In two dozen languages, camera crews shouted at one
another as they tried to disentangle miles of cables so
reporters could beam back to their home countries from
what had become the most famous TV show ever.

One of the producers was kept busy explaining again and
again why only Americans could vote.

"We're caught in a trap," s/he said, "and we can't get
out. There are rules, and time zones, and phone lines.
It's complicated."

What about claims that the contest was fixed?
"Suspicious minds" was the dismissive reply.

At last the hour arrived. The crowd quieted. The lights
flicked on. The theme music rolled out.

And then Pete walked toward the cameras, smiled, and
said, "I quit."

The host was stunned into silence, but the scream from
the producers could be heard quite clearly from the
producers, an anguished "What?"

"I quit," he said again, with a smile. "I give up. I
throw in the towel. Des wins. She gets the money.
Show's over. Good night, folks."

In New Zealand, a man watching the satellite feed while
at work was momentarily distracted, an event that his
ram, "Old Lop-Ear," resents to this day.

In a Palm Beach, Fla., nursing home, 16 heart monitors
went off at once. The old folks survived. Two nurses
passed out, however, and an estate lawyer who happened
to be visiting ran himself ragged getting signatures
and later expired unnoticed in the parking lot.

In the street where the Tank sat, three dozen residents
flung open their windows, startled by an almost
forgotten sound:

Silence.

---- ---- ----

By the time the show was supposed to have gone off the
air, Pete and Des were the only two people left inside.
Everyone else had drifted away in shock, leaving their
equipment untouched. The lights still blazed, the tape
recorders whirred.

Outside, the crowd remained, but they had retreated
several feet from the house, as if it would burn them
if they got too close. They stared blankly. Their lips
moved, but no sound came out.

Pete and Des both walked through the house, each
finding different memories. They met in the master
bedroom.

"So," she said.

"So," he answered.

"Why?"

"It was the only way you'd believe me," he said
quietly. "And, like I said, the only way to win is to
do the unexpected."

"But you lost."

"Did I?" He got onto the bare mattress, its bedding
stripped off by the cleaning crew before the show
began. "I think I'm going to win the big prize."

She smiled. "You do, do you?"

"Yes," he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

"But sir, all the lights are so bright. I'm too shy."

"The lights are off," he said. "It's pitch black."

"Ah. Now I see. You're right. But the walls are glass.
People will see us."

"The walls are solid wood. No one can see."

"How right you are," she said, sliding her skirt to the
floor.

For the first time, one Ichthyologist later said,
people felt ashamed to be watching. Some left. Others
turned their backs.

What they didn't see, the reader can well imagine.
Indeed, perhaps imagine better than words can tell.

Or not. The words we have describe physical acts, of
which there were many. They explored each other in
myriad ways, and this time there was no turning back.
They kissed, caressed, licked, probed.

Pete proved to be more than capable of pleasing Des,
and demonstrated that ability several times. She
returned the favor.

They were both energetic, more than one might expect
for their ages. And yet there was not just a frenzy to
their love-making, but a passion and even a grace.

It was long after they had begun, and after more than
one peak had been reached, that they locked into a
perfect groove.

Their movements were exact complements. Like a child on
a swing, going higher and higher by stretching out at
just the right moments, they pushed each other further
and further to ecstasy.

Sweat rolled down Pete's back as he lay between Des'
spread legs, pressing himself into her again and again.
She responded, hips rising to meet him, to take him
deep inside.

"Oh," he whispered, "do you feel it?"

"Yes," she said, "yes, it's so close."

"Oh, yes," he cried.

"Almost," she answered, "just -- just --"

He shouted, she moaned. Her legs closed about him,
clutched at him as her body heaved. He buried himself
completely in her. They stayed like that, locked
together, for several minutes before they collapsed
next to each other, breath coming in gasps.

---- ---- ----

When we left Pete and Des at Larry King's show, the
reader is asked to recall, she had just completed an
act of fellatio that shook six continents.

When the initial shock was over, the other women on the
show reacted with disgust. Their distaste, it became
clear, was not with the act itself -- her technique
could hardly be faulted -- but with the way she had so
swiftly and wantonly acceded to Pete's command.

Des replied that he would do the same for her, and
moved to demonstrate her point by lifting her skirt.
Only the collapse of Larry King face first onto his
desk interrupted the encore.

The guests were shoved aside as the paramedics rushed
in. Charlotte and Teresa continued to criticize Des,
calling her a submissive slut. "You can't think for
yourself," Teresa said.

Des demurred as she kicked Teresa in the shin with the
pointy toe of her red pump. "I think for myself," she
said. "I think that I like things the way they are."

"But he just snaps his fingers and you do what he
says," Teresa complained, trying to get at Des but
being held back by Charles.

"It won for us," Des said.

"But that was a game. This is real life!"

"Life's a game. Don't you get it? It's all about
knowing what you want. I want a husband and a lover and
a friend all in one, and I got him."

"You got him by giving up yourself."

"You ever faked an orgasm to make a guy happy? You ever
have a guy pretend to be moved by a sunset so you would
think he was all sensitive?

"Ever have a guy say 'Oh, honey, this stew is
delicious,' because he knew you wanted him too? Ever
tell a guy, 'No, really, your dick's not small at all?'
"

Tony shifted in his seat.

Des put her hand on Pete's arm and walked away. Just
before they disappeared around a wall, she turned back.

"Everybody tries to game life," she said. "Everybody
decides what they want and what they'll do to get it.
You don't like my choice, tough. But before you start
criticizing me, think about all the games you play.

"And remember what they say about people who live in
glass houses."

The end

For the complete story and more, visit
/~theGreatxIam
For more about the FishTank, a place for writers to get
feedback, visit
/~Desdmona/FishTank/base/index.html