House Odds

Dressed in white, surrounded by bulletproof glass, Hank sits with a 2 by 4 white canvas strategically placed next to his left temple. He scans the audience, each member paying $2500 to watch the evening’s event. The loudspeaker announces that the betting window is closed.

For the second time, in as many days, Hank places the bullet in one slot, holding it high so all can see. He flicks it shut and spins the chamber. The clicking sound, rapid at first, slows until it stops. The crowd grows silent.

The barrel of the revolver is placed next to his right temple, and just like Monday, after he pulls the trigger, either he or his beneficiary will receive $250,000. If there is a ‘click,’ Hank will retire to a luxury hotel suite provided by the owner. Otherwise, the canvas containing the red splatter will be auctioned off to pay for the cleanup and disposal of the body.

“Click.”

#

Hank opens the door to his suite. Sitting on the couch is John, his lifelong friend. He is thumbing through one of the many stacks of hundred-dollar bills sitting on the coffee table.

“Thank you for coming,” Hank says. “I need you to take those to Mary and the kids.”

“Care to explain?” John asks.

“I have a new job. Hanging drywall wasn’t paying the bills. I needed something more to tip the scale in my favor.”

“Not good enough. They let me watch from the back.”

“So, you saw.”

“I saw enough. What the hell?”

“That rundown feeling, the weakness in my joints. It’s a degenerative disease.” Hank puts a few stacks of hundreds in a suitcase. “I have three months. I should be able to function for the next four to six weeks. That will be followed by becoming bedridden. In the end, I will need someone to feed me, help me to the bathroom, even wipe my ass.”

Hank tosses another stack of hundreds into the suitcase. His hand forms into a fist, and he wants to pound something, but he bites his lip and focuses on controlling his breathing.

John’s mind races. He struggles to comprehend what he is hearing. “Shit. Hank. Why didn’t you tell us? You’re not alone. Let us help you through this.” John reaches out to Hank, but Hank pushes him away.

“Are you volunteering to wipe my ass?”

“If that’s what it takes.” John’s eyes turn glassy. “What you are doing now is not the answer. We will get you the best medical care.”

“It’s incurable. Besides, I don’t have medical insurance. I can’t even afford hospice.” Hank put a few more stacks in the suitcase. His thoughts turn to Mary and the children; he sees them standing over a hospital bed, watching him waste away. He shakes his head, clearing their image from his mind. “No, this is the answer. I make two hundred and fifty a night until, well, you know. And I exit while I can still care for myself.”

“I’m not accepting this. I’m going to find a way to help.”

“Fine, in the meantime, take this money. When I’m gone, give it to Mary.”

#

It is Wednesday, an hour before the event, and John enters the suite with a doctor and nurse in tow.

“This is Doctor Hamilton and Nurse Wilson. He is here to examine you and do some tests.”

“Damn it, John. I’ve already been through this. And where did you find a doctor to make house calls?”

“I used ten thousand of the money you gave me.”

“Damn it, that’s for Mary and the kids.”

“The Doctor is the leading specialist. There are treatments that can keep you healthy for five, maybe ten years.”

Hank argues with John. But since the Doctor is there and already paid for, he concedes to the examination and the test.

“Did you tell the Doctor I don’t have health insurance?”

Doctor Hamilton glances at John, then at Hank. “If you are a suitable candidate for treatment, you will need to deposit two million dollars before we can begin.”

“Great, I wonder the odds of working eight more days. If you have what you need, I have an event to prepare for.”

#

Hank walks around the bulletproof enclosure, staring out at the audience. They are millionaires and billionaires who have everything in life they could want and have grown bored. Most of them inherited their money, and some got lucky on Wall Street. It’s doubtful any have ever worked a day in their lives. They have no purpose, so this is how they choose to feel some type of emotion, a way to fill their days. If they had any decency, they would become drug addicts and alcoholics, destroy their lives, and flush themselves from society. Instead, they feed on the suffering and desperation of others.

Hank takes his seat, spins the chamber, and pulls the trigger. “Click.” A groan rises from the audience. An assistant places a watermelon in his chair. Hank points the gun and pulls the trigger. The melon explodes into a thousand pieces, and the audience cheers and laughs.

“See you all tomorrow,” Hank says.

#

Sitting on the couch smoking a joint is a young lady in a seductive dress. She glances at Hank and puts the joint out.

“The owner sent me with his compliments. Most people quit if they make it three days. The owner likes your style.”

“Out,” Hank says.

“Hey, I’m already paid for,” she glances at the new pile of money on the coffee table. “But, I do accept tips.”

“I’m married, with kids.”

“Shit, almost all my clients are married. The owner figured you might want to party a little. Not many make three days.”

Hank looks at the young lady and realizes we all sell parts of ourselves. We sell our time, our integrity, our bodies—and, in his case, his life. Who was he to judge?

“I’m sorry, miss, I don’t mean to be rude. Thank the owner. But I’m here so my wife and children can have a better life. No other reason.”

“We don’t have to do anything. Sometimes, it’s best not to be alone.”

Hank nods, and they watch an old sitcom together. Afterward, Hank thanks her, and she gives him a peck on the cheek.

#

It’s Thursday, and Hank has survived the event for the fourth day in a row. He aims at the watermelon, and a man in the audience yells, “A million dollars if you point the gun at your head instead.”

The man is wearing a finely tailored suit with gold cufflinks. He is sporting a Rolex watch. His eyes are cold, and he has a smirk on his face. “This has become tedious. Time to dispose of some human trash,” he says.

“I will do the second shot for free if you agree to do the third,” Hank says.

The man shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Your luck will run out soon, and that canvas will hang in my office.

Hank fires the second shot into the watermelon, and it explodes.

#

It’s Friday, and Hank feels better than he has in a long time; maybe the nightly adrenaline rush affects the disease. He turns toward the audience. “The fee tonight is ten thousand; for that extra money, if I survive the first, I’ll shoot a second time.”

The audience agrees, and Hank takes his seat. He puts the cold steel of the gun barrel to his right temple. Pulls the trigger. “Click.”

He stands, and the audience chants. “One more time.”

Hank points at the man who offered him a million the night before, walks over to the canvas, pulls out a Sharpie, and reads as he writes, “To the asshole, whose life is as worthless as this canvas, enjoy.”

The barrel is again placed against his right temple; he adjusts slightly to ensure the canvas receives the maximum splatter. He locks eyes with the man, winks, and pulls the trigger. “Click.”

Hank jumps up, points the gun at the man, and fires. A loud bang echoes through the room. The glass cracks, the man drops to the floor, and the audience gasps. The bullet embeds itself halfway through the glass.

Hank laughs and says, “See you all tomorrow. The fee will be twenty thousand, and I’ll do three shots.”

#

“Are you sure, Doctor?” John shouts into his cell phone as he rushes inside the building. “No sign of any disease? You’re telling me this was caused by a bacterial infection. The first diagnosis was incorrect?”

John tries to enter the building, but a guard stops him. He shoves a hundred dollars in his hand, and the guard lets him pass.

He runs down the hall and reaches the door as a shot rings out. Blood splatters across the glass bulletproof enclosure. John collapses to his knees, covers his face, and he cries out in anguish. “Why, what type of world do we live in?”

A man puts his hand under John’s arm and tries to lift him to his feet.

John shoves him away.

“Come on, I need help carrying these suitcases,” the man says.

“I’m not a damn bellboy.” John glances at the man’s face. His expression turns from anguish to confusion, and then a smile forms.

Hank shows John a text message from the Doctor. “I got this ten minutes before the event.”