Unreality Show

Chapter One

The Greatest Show Ever

Ten thousand lights – give or take another thousand – of all colours, including some beyond the visual spectrum of the human spectators, have burst into life. Glaring rainbows are shooting every which way, up, down, left and right, leaving the heaving mass of spectators temporarily blinded. The Duke Cowely Simon Dockland Plaza and Arena has erupted into a visual feast, be it on the ground or in the air.

A massive crescendo of every musical instrument ever invented is blasting forth. Cue the enormous orchestra pit, the size of a soccerball pitch, and the musicians inside are giving it their all. The conductor, an aged, white-haired man dressed all in black, wearing tri-focal glasses in order to see all his charges, is standing with his back to the stage. In his hands are two batons, one not being enough. His frantic hand movements appear chaotic, but not to the instrumentalists before him.

His ears can make out the lesser-known instruments: a deep throb of a trombohorn and the tinkling parp of a piccalumpet. He also determines the finery of an extremely rare Gravas Knee-Harp alongside the crass sound of a stone’n’bone crackophone, a vile instrument from a time long past. Regardless, he waves his batons furiously, and for certain the resultant sound is musical … sort of.

Far above, another noise can be heard, that of the United Queendom Red, White and Blue Arrow display team. The jets are flying this way and that, narrowly avoiding each other at tremendous speeds, trailing their multi-coloured ribbons of smoke. The enormous crowds are staring up and each spectator marvels at the skill of the pilots. It’s a sight for sore eyes, no question – but not for the spectators in a more elevated position, up in the gods. Those on high, not gods in their own right of course, but those in the cheap seats, aren’t enjoying the spectacle. The jets are flying barely a few metres above their heads. Their ears have popped and the toxic fumes are beyond the capacity of their lungs to cope with.

Many have fallen, not in the actual falling sense, but they won’t be seeing anything of the show, their lives extinguished by poor planning and a quest for the spectacular. Others, those at the very top, have actually fallen, their bodies ripped upwards as the wake of the jets dragged them from their seats. Still living, they tumble to their deaths, but those below have no idea. The less elevated continue to ooh and aah, unaware that others are really screaming.

Callous observers might say those in the cheap seats, rows ZX to ZZ, would deserve their fate, but they’d be wrong. Even the poorest in the UQ, and those who have collected 15 cut-out tokens from the daily newspaper The Stun, have a right to see the greatest event ever – but some lives have been cut short.

Unseen, a team of caretakers, lackeys maybe, are moving their carts to the rear of the immense scaffolding seating arena, a temporary structure erected overnight to accommodate the multitudes, and the SAV has bid them do so. The clean-up of the deceased is unemotional, almost autonomic, and those doing so retreat back into the Gubbins, the equally vast backstage area. Their carts are emptied into a large compound of awaiting skips; they change the liners and set off again for the front of the stage. They are prepared, but for what exactly, only the Secret Aural Voice can tell them via their special earpieces.

Again the jets fly past and all is well in the consciousness of those lower down.

The sound ramps up as enormous banks of Lucifer speakers, the most powerful on the market, fanning above and beside the vast pentagonal covered stage, are put to work. The units are tiny, but they are pounding out 150 decibels plus.

On the stage, off the stage, in fact everywhere, dancers can be seen with pom-poms, bare bellies, long legs and smiles wider than their faces. Limbs are pointing every which way and the watching crowds are mesmerised. Their attention is drawn to the lights, the orchestra, the fly-overs, the dancers and, in some cases, the gargantuan stage before them. In all, the observers are being blind-sided, but that’s for the good, as far as one particular creature is concerned.

Only the SAV, the director, is truly smiling, and only it can hear a different noise. The retorts of gunfire shooting skywards are clear in its dozens of ears, but the angle of fire may have to change. It appreciates this could be a long night, but as far as it’s concerned, all bases are covered. It smiles, chuckles sinisterly, and considers its next move.

All going well, the SAV won’t have to make a next move as everything will play out, but there are always glitches during a live show. The pawns have been gathered but pawns can take knights or higher if given the opportunity. It understands that simian chess games, or the like, are never straightforward, especially when humans are involved, and it exhales through its many maws. It leans toward the desktop microphone and prepares itself. The moment it has been waiting for is nigh. Thousands of years of meticulous planning is about to come down to one single night.

It knows hundreds will be directly involved, thousands will be supporting the smooth running of the show, millions will be flocking for a live view and billions will be tuning in. That is all as it should be and the Secret Aural Voice issues commands. Thus starts the feted show that will be the greatest the planet has ever seen and most likely – the last.

The multi-faced creature leans back, relaxes, and observes.

High above the stage in a blacked-out cubicle, fighting for space with a massive viewing screen and a Security Control booth, sits a man – and he’s waiting. He has an implant in his ear connected to the director who has the responsibility of ensuring the smooth running of the live, well, live-ish show.

The man stares at his reflection in a desk-mounted swivel mirror, adjusts his dickie-bow, licks a finger and presses down a stray eyebrow hair. Finally, he removes a small aerosol from his jacket pocket and gives his dry mouth several squirts. He’s ready, and the SAV is speaking through his earpiece.

What the man is told is unknown to all but him. Moments later his confident voice can be heard issuing through the hundreds of Complex speakers. The voice in none other than that of Allen Petticoat, who reads out the National Lottery numbers – at last it’s time. His fluent words issue forth to all ears, whether they are present in person or observing through various types of visual media across the planet.

‘Ladies, gentlemen, VIPs and everyone else, allow me to introduce your host for the start of tonight’s extravaganza. Please welcome the third best presenter in the United Queendom according to recent polls, Dilbert O’Really!’

As the audience goes wild the smartly suited and booted Dilbert casually strolls on to stage and he looks damn fine. His navy blue suit is pristine, his black shoes are gleaming and there’s not a brown hair out of place. He acknowledges the massive crowd with a wave and a smile and trots nimbly to the front. He laughs, as expected. He bows, as expected. He mumbles the words, ‘holy crap,’ which wasn’t expected, but his microphone isn’t yet pressed close to his wonderful lips. Gathering himself, he speaks. ‘I’m Dilbert O’Really, one of the United Queendom’s most popular presenters, and I hope you’re ready for the greatest spectacle ever to be broadcast anywhere. Welcome to the magnificent show that is … The UQ has the Feck Factor and is Really Talented!’

Dilbert reels at the approval of the attending millions and takes an unexpected deep breath. He knew this was going to be big; a fine opportunity to improve his presenter rating, at present the third best in the UQ, but the sheer scale has taken even him by surprise. The cheering goes on and on and he waves his hands in a calming gesture, hoping for the chance to speak again. It arrives soon enough.

‘Wow, you are fantastic! Now, for the first time ever, the UQ television channels are coming together and letting go the fact they hate each other. For this show only, we’re broadcasting on a neutral channel as this evening, most of tonight, and for a few of the early hours, we’re as one my brothers and sisters. Oh yes!’

Dilbert takes in the tumultuous applause fed through the stands of thumping speakers, but feels his head nearly imploding. Lowering his microphone, he shouts to a nearby sound engineer but the woman can’t hear him. He considers throwing something to gain her attention but all he has is his microphone and various pocketed items of grooming paraphernalia. Instead he swiftly dashes over and taps her on the shoulder.

‘Hey, sound lackey, these speakers are too loud. Can we get them turned down a bit? I can’t hear myself think, turn them down! How the hell am I meant to present the greatest show ever with this racket in my ears? Turn them down! Turn them … Oh blow this, I’m moving back behind the stage and carrying on from there.’

Dilbert exits via concealed steps at the side of the stage and retreats through the Gubbins, the magnificent backstage show set-up. He walks past vehicles, trailers, masses of cables, satellite dishes, tall lighting rigs and pretty much everything else that would be expected in order to broadcast such a massive show across the planet. Now very far backstage and able to hear himself speak, he continues. ‘Welcome back everyone. Let me introduce my long-serving associate and cameraman Richard, who’ll be with me for the full ten hours. Obviously you can’t see him, but are you all right, old friend?’

Richard, dressed in navy and light blue camouflage scout fatigues with a green woggle and dozens of sewn-on badges, briefly peers out from behind the camera.

‘Richard will be with me every step of the way throughout this evening, tonight and into the early hours.’

‘Whoa, Dilbert, sir. I‘ve only been contracted for the first four hours. The wife’s expecting me home by midnight,’ says Richard, looking somewhat surprised.

‘Richard, you’re such a wag. Just pan the camera around for a second so the viewers can get a look at the Gubbins in all its magnificence.’

When Dilbert disappears from shot, he places his microphone behind his back and speaks to his cameraman in no uncertain terms. ‘Listen up old friend. If I’ve got to stay, you’re staying. Remember what I saw you doing with one of those tarty dancers during rehearsals. I wonder how the wife would feel about you placing your camera on the ground so it looked straight up her skirt, you filthy voyeur. I saw you, Richard. I know you did it because I’ve already watched the recording four times.’

With his face masked by the camera, Richard grimaces and reluctantly gives a thumbs-up gesture. ‘I’m with you all the way, ten hours and then some. You’re in frame and looking great, Mister Dilbert sir.’

‘A fine decision. Now camera back on me,’ insists Dilbert, and when in shot continues. ‘That’s my good friend Richard holding the camera and he’s the best in the business. Okay, I think we’ll make our way over to the enormous backstage viewing screen away from the loud excitement out front and continue from there. Any objections, Richard?’

‘No sir, you know best. I’ve got your front.’

Dilbert makes miniscule adjustments to his blue jacket as he stands to the side of a three-storey screen displaying his own happy face. His features are perfection and his smile is wider than ever, showing the whitest of teeth.

‘Welcome back, and my word! I can’t believe the crowds who’ve swarmed to London’s newly rebuilt Duke Cowely Simon Dockland Plaza and Arena, and every single one of you is beautiful. There are over three hundred thousand people in the temporary scaffolding stands – can you believe that? Looking around the show Complex, you really get a feel for how many people have turned up this evening. The spectacular crowds go on forever and there must be well over a million outside the seating area. That’s great news for the concession stands and especially great news for our sponsors, who we’ll hear from a little later. Now, I have to hand you back to Allen Petticoat, who’s going to give you a taste of what it’s taken to stage this incredible event. Take it, Allen!’

Dilbert winks and reaches into his jacket for a small compact mirror, but only removes it when the camera is lowered. He wouldn’t want the viewers to think he was vain in any way. He starts his grooming as a nearby cameraman slowly shakes his head.

The planet’s screens switch to the crowds and not to Allen Petticoat, which isn’t wholly surprising as Allen only does voiceovers. As always, his words are eloquent and concise. ‘Thanks, Dilbert, but before I do that, we have to go live to today’s special, one-off, greatest-show-ever lottery draw. Earlier today we were in Gravesend in Kent, where a gorgeous lady called Chlamydia Sprogdropper picked set of balls 13 and the machine, Judas. I kid you not, and let’s hope that’s not an omen. Without further ado, I’ll ask lottery draw-mistress Con Doubter-Yercash to set the balls rolling.’

Allen takes a well-earned moment to draw breath. Despite not being able to see the lottery machine, he can hear it. Being a consummate professional, he can clearly distinguish the sound of a ball-releasing button being pressed.

‘There they go, and since the lottery began, Cane-A-Lot, the company which runs the lottery, has given over fifty pounds, that’s fifty whole pounds, to good causes, with the rest of the money placed in offshore bank accounts for the benefit of their Executive Directors. It’s a win-win situation for everyone, unless you lose but what am I saying?’ asks Allen, listening intently. He notes a quietening of the clattering balls; one has been selected and an aural voice tells him which it is.

‘Here’s the first ball – its number 13! The first time ever to have been drawn in the lottery, even though it’s been going for over twenty years. Let’s hope that’s not an omen. Now then, here comes the second ball, and its number 666, even though the numbers only go up to 59. Let’s hope that’s not an omen, and so to the third ball. We’re waiting, and here it comes. It’s a picture of somebody walking under a ladder as a black cat wanders across their path.’

Allen presses a finger into his ear and gives his hidden earpiece a swift wiggle. Has he really heard right? It seems he has. Taking a moment to look down, he glances at a complimentary lottery ticket he was given prior to entering his voice-over cubicle. At first he thought it a joke, with strange pictograms and numbers, but now? Using a Biro, he ticks off the first three in his line.

‘I … I’m not sure how that got in, but anyway, here’s the fourth ball. It’s a cartoon bomb, with a sizzling wick. Yes, oh yes, I er mean, back to you Dilbert. Sorry, we’ve got a technical fault.’

Dilbert is momentarily caught with an eyelash straightener held to his face. The implement rapidly disappears and his charming features again fill the huge Complex screens. He silently curses his cameraman for not telling him he was back on.

‘Thanks, Allen, and good luck everyone. Right, okay, so let me give you the lowdown on the location for tonight’s incredible show. Anybody who knows London’s Docklands will understand it was once a thriving centre of docks and … land,’ says Dilbert, his smile evaporating, being replaced with a more serious expression. ‘But then, not too long ago, this area became a hub for extortionately expensive high-rise flats and ultra-posh businesses that looked out across the dubiously brown waters of the River Thames. What a sight, and smell, it must have been.’

The presenter pauses and wipes away an imaginary tear. He knows what’s coming as he’s been rehearsing his script diligently for the past two months.

‘Then it happened. Everything that stood here was destroyed in only a few minutes. The cowardly bombers came and what had so recently been constructed came down, in an apocalyptic crash. I … just give me a moment to compose myself.’

Once again Dilbert is brushing at his eye and gently shaking his head. ‘Nothing was left except piles of twisted debris. It was a sad time, but miraculously, over the following days, the rubble was removed by heavy plant machinery which just happened to be nearby. In its place was built the setting for tonight’s extravaganza. London’s Docklands recently renamed by popular demand to Duke Cowely Simon Dockland Plaza and Arena were transformed into what you see now. Has there ever been a more fitting tribute in remembrance to thousands of innocent deaths? I … I’m overcome, and here’s a first-hand account.’

The image on the Complex screens and across the planet changes instantly, showing an equally stylish man, the first of many special guests due to appear on the show.

The bald-headed man, a thespian no less, sits behind a grand desk. His arms rest lightly on the rhinoceros-hide inlayed top and all that can be seen of his clothing is a tight, red and black sweater with a curious silver insignia on the breast. He smiles, a sad smile, and his deep melodic voice rings forth.

‘Hello everybody, I’m Patrice Stewart and I remember that day, those few hours. I was in my penthouse suite on the 237th floor of London’s tallest building, The Sheared, when the terrorists struck. Being a highly trained actor with acclaim for Richard III, Eggs-Men, Spa Trek and a guest appearance on The Muppets, I realised that as the building began to topple, there would be no way out for me, but then I remembered. I once played John-Luke Picarse, Captain of the Starship Enterpies, and with haste I contacted my Number Two. No, of course I didn’t, as that’s purely fiction but there was a number two involved, I can tell you. In truth, I swiftly ran to the roof of the building where I had a helicopter waiting. I barely made it out alive, and to this day I’ll never forget seeing my penthouse apartment, with swimming pool, jacuzzi, and head-polishing chamber tumble into the apocalypse below. It brought many tears to my eyes, and I vowed this would never happen again … not in my lifetime! Goodnight one and all, good luck with the show and, make it so.’

Patrice nods as his image wobbles, mysteriously fades, and disappears.

Dilbert, appearing upset, wipes away a tear using a monogrammed silk handkerchief and signals for his cameraman to start filming. ‘Well, there you have it. I feel for Patrice and all the others who lost everything that day. It was devastating, nothing short of murder, a tragedy of the highest …’ he says, pausing while listening to his earpiece. ‘Quick Richard, the judges are arriving, let’s turn our attention to the front gates.’

‘But sir, we’re in the backstage area,’ says Richard.

‘Just film the front gates and don’t be so selfish.’

The cameraman knows he can’t film the front gates, but somebody else is, as the picture is already lighting up the enormous screen. It’s not as if he’s the only cameraman in the Complex; that would be ridiculous. He lowers his camera, allowing his shoulder a little rest and watches. Observing the massive screen, Dilbert is now voice-only.

‘Apologies for the sudden change, but we need to go to the front of the Complex. The judges are arriving, and just look at the black-garbed security officers trying to control the crowds. I’ve no idea how they’re going to open a route to the backstage area through that sea of fans,’ says Dilbert, suddenly stopping. ‘Errr, was that a flamethrower?’

Richard, ever the professional, tugs at his woggle and stares at the screen. To his professional eye there was no mistaking the scything flash of flame. ‘You’re right, sir, but it can’t be. Who’d use a flamethrower?’

Dilbert hears the Secret Aural Voice in his ear and growls in annoyance. ‘No, I’m wrong. Apparently the legitimate crowd control method was a water-cannon, which accidently contained methanol and was accidentally set alight by a security officer holding up his cigarette lighter to the jet of liquid. Richard, look at the pain … oh no. Some of the human torches are getting too close to the pyrotechnic platforms set up for tonight’s winner. That would be a real tragedy if they went off early.’

‘It certainly would, sir,’ says Richard, dryly.

‘Indeed, and look how professional the massive, hulking security officers are. Without a thought for their own safety they’re beating the blazing fans with large clubs and stomping on them, trying to quell the flames.’

Richard grips his woggle with his spare hand, nearly ripping it from his neck. ‘They’re real heroes, sir,’ he says, through gritted teeth.

‘All herald security! I’ve never seen such selfless acts from dark-garbed, brutish, extended forehead individuals ever before. We’re in safe hands, big hairy-palmed hands admittedly, and I salute them,’ says Dilbert, lifting his microphone to present once again. ‘As we watch the judges’ Bentleys enter through the Complex’s far gates, now three abreast, that’s six in total, only six? Ah, of course, our head judge, Duke Cowely Simon, would never arrive by car. If I’m not mistaken, here comes his private Learjet now. No wonder the Bentleys are speeding up.’

As Dilbert pauses for dramatic effect, Richard peers intently at the screen. He can see the six cars, and in the background, the approaching jet. Whoever’s behind the camera is doing a sterling job in his opinion but his attention is broken by Dilbert speaking again.

‘Blimey, are you seeing this? The cars need to be free of the crowds and into the Gubbins before the jet hits the tarmac. My word, that’s amazing. If they planned it this way then it’s a big thumbs-up to the Director,’ says Dilbert, realising that the Bentleys are being used to clear the way through the dense crowd. It’s going to be a close-run thing as the jet, barely thirty feet above the river, is catching up with the cars fast. The crowd are trying their best to get out of the way but to no avail in many cases. ‘It may look brutal, but the crowds were warned of what might happen,’ he adds.

Richard turns his head and frowns. ‘Really?’

Dilbert nods. ‘It’s in the small print. The complimentary show pamphlet has it on the back. It clearly states, failure to provide a clear path to the Gubbins for the judges may result in unsightly injury, for which the organisers can take no responsibility. This includes broken bones, decapitations, incinerations or all of the above. It’s in the small print.’

‘Show me.’

‘No, I can’t. There isn’t time and I know it’s unfair but when it’s in writing, what can you do? Phew, the Bentleys are home and here comes the jet. It’s skidding on some unexpected liquid on the newly vacated tarmac … yes, the Duke’s jet is safely home. Just listen to the cheers.’

‘Sir, I’m so happy,’ growls Richard, sarcasm edging every word.

‘I know, Richard, I know.’

‘That’s fine then, Dilbert sir,’ says Richard, adding in a whisper, ‘you unfeeling tit.’

Dilbert’s head moves sharply, questioning eyes staring around his compact mirror. ‘What was that?’

‘Nothing, best get on. You’re looking great, sir.’

Richard lifts the camera to his shoulder and notes the look on his boss’ face. His eyes are staring, unfocussed and dreamy, which isn’t unusual for Dilbert, though his momentary bouts of lack of empathy are. The man always wants to look his best, to be the best, but his behaviour is tipping beyond his usual obsessiveness.

Richard has an idea as to the cause, and silently curses. He notes Dilbert’s earpiece, provided by the show’s Director, and raises a finger to his own. To any observer they would appear identical, but they’re not. Richard’s is blocking the malicious undercurrents hidden in the words of the Secret Aural Voice. The creature’s foul commands will not be able to scramble his thoughts.

The importance of this cannot be underestimated, given his scout mission brief.

Chapter Two

The Rise and Fall of Dilbert O’Really

An excited Dilbert moves forward in the Gubbins, past multitudes of overloaded trailers, but not too far because of the blaring speakers out front. The whole time his friend and cameraman keeps him in frame, the camera never wobbling despite walking backwards. For certain, the feed isn’t live but a small army of editors will be working on the film and sending it across the planet in next to no time.

Once again, Dilbert has had his orders, and like a faithful puppy he’s following them to the letter, pausing only once to gaze at his reflection in a minibus wing mirror.

‘Welcome back, you wonderful people. I’m currently on my way to pay a visit to the sound-proofed booth above the stage used by the Security Company hired for tonight’s event and just look how high it is. It’s like a biblical tower what with the ivy and iguanas growing up around the scaffolding. It truly is very high,’ says Dilbert, gulping. ‘Are you getting this, Richard?’

‘Yes sir, I’m getting it, and the plants are lianas, not iguanas.’

Dilbert ignores the correction as he only has eyes for a very tall structure. ‘And look at all those steps leading up to the control booth. There must be a thousand at least.’

‘There’s a hundred and eleven, sir. I’ve counted them,’ says Richard.

‘Right, but I don’t like the look of the two security officers at the bottom of the steps. You go first, old friend.’

‘You’re so generous, sir. I’ve still got your front,’ says Richard, expecting nothing less.

A pair of dark-garbed, brutish hunks of meat stomp forward from the bottom of the steps. Both are near to breaking out of their tight, un-made-to-measure black suits, and each has fists the size of melons. The bald female one listens to a radio handset moments before she speaks. ‘Oi you, bugger off or me bloody hurt you.’

For the first time since the show began the camera wobbles, but it’s barely noticeable. The man behind the lens turns the camera to the officers, getting them fully in focus. With as much confidence as he can muster. ‘I’m Richard the cameraman and this is Mister Dilbert. Dilbert … Dilbert sir? He was here a second ago,’ he says, looking all around but not seeing his boss.

The officers flex their muscles and crack their knuckles but pause when up close. The male leans forward and notes something beneath the camera, flapping around in the breeze. ‘Wait, you not bugger off as you got red square thing, but if it not right, then it punch time.’

Richard releases his held breath, lowers the camera and holds up the red square hanging from a lanyard around his neck. It’s an All Areas Backstage Pass and he holds it towards the officers, as far forward as the lanyard reaches. ‘That’s right, here’s my red square thing. Take a good look.’

‘You okay. You go up but if you lose card you get a slapping,’ says the female officer.

‘Right, thanks. Now, where did …?’ begins Richard, but he stops on spotting the man.

Dilbert’s strolling confidently from behind a row of temporary toilets. He’s waving his red pass frantically before him. ‘I’m right here and I knew we’d be fine. Don’t look so scared, Richard. They’re only doing their job and you need to calm down. We’re perfectly safe, and despite my distrust of heights, I’m going to take one for the team,’ he says, starting his ascent. ‘Eurgh, I’m not liking this.’

‘That’s the fifth step, only another hundred and six to go.’

‘Shut up, Richard,’ says Dilbert, shakily.

‘You’re so brave, sir.’

The ascent has taken a little longer than expected, but Dilbert has finally made it, with a few helping shoves from behind by a loyal cameraman. He’s sitting a little shakily on the floor of the elevated Security Control booth, way above the stage. A faithful cameraman is standing close to the floor-to-ceiling glass frontage unaffected by the altitude.

Dilbert eventually speaks, and thankfully this isn’t a live feed. ‘Okay, I’m up in the security booth … Oh heck, that’s a long way down. Calm now, Dilbert, keep calm.’

‘Would you like me to empty your sick bucket, sir? It’s quite full,’ asks Richard.

‘Shut up, just shut up. You know I’ve had a problem with heights ever since I fell off that swing when we were teenagers.’

‘I remember that scout-camp sir. It just goes to show how dangerous a three-foot fall and the repercussions can be.’

Dilbert glares. ‘Are you being facetious?’

‘Not a bit, sir. I’ve no idea what it means.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’ snarls Dilbert. ‘You never went to proper school. You only went to scout school and learnt how to tie ropes and skin rabbits. They didn’t teach you real subjects like maths or science or grooming techniques. Just think what you might have achieved if you’d stuck with me.’

‘A good point, sir. If only I could have accomplished being the third best at something.’

Dilbert nods, but not strongly as his head’s thumping. ‘I’m glad you understand. Now let’s get on. Okay, here beside me is the head of security for … Oh no, wait a second.’

If stomachs could talk, then Dilbert’s is doing so. The words however, are incoherent, sounding like, eurghhh … chundereurghhh.

‘Sir, would you like a fresh bucket?’

‘Just film it, Richard,’ says Dilbert, but shouts when he sees where the camera’s pointing. ‘Not me, you fool! Film the crowds. Sod this, let’s break for a minute.’

Richard can only agree, and turns his camera to the front window of the booth, his concern growing with every passing minute. As he considers the situation, he can hear the voice of Allen Petticoat being fed through his special scout earpiece. The man’s currently on and what Richard hears only adds to his worries.

‘Yes, yes, yes! I got all six and who could have known the last ball out would have been a devil’s head with a fiery trident behind it. Who, eh what? I don’t give a damn, I’m back on. I’ve just won the lottery! I’m out of here and good riddance to the lot of you. You can all kiss my superior posterior.’

Richard walks to the side of the security booth and sees Allen Petticoat exit the rear of the voice-over box. The man’s waving his winning ticket as he runs down the steps. On rounding the third turn, he meets a wall of officer flesh and bounces backwards. The ticket’s ripped from his grasp and a large hand lifts and throws the startled man over the safety railings. Richard grimaces on hearing orders from the Secret Aural Voice to bring it the lottery ticket as it’s very keen to take a look.

The scout cameraman moves back to Dilbert, contemplating the meaning of what he’s just seen. The SAV without doubt is a foul creature and needs to be stopped, but he didn’t think for one second it would openly sanction murder, especially with so many potential witnesses.

He hopes those on the side of good, of which he considers himself one, have the means to take it down when the opportunity arises. For now, he must bide his time.

Dilbert contemplates his next movement – hopefully not another gastric one – and raises a sweaty eyebrow. With a hand covering his mouth, stifling an acidic burp, he takes slow breaths. He turns to his cameraman. ‘Right, help me up, Richard, help me up. Oh God, I’ll sit back down,’ he says, taking more calming breaths, but eventually manages to speak. ‘Hi everyone, you join me a bit green around the gills due to acrophobic issues, but we all have a fear of some kind, don’t we? With me now is the Head of Security.’

A man, dressed identically to the security officers, crouches beside Dilbert. He’s only of average human proportions, although he is bald and sports a broken nose, so some effort has been made. He smiles, showing a cracked front tooth, just the one. ‘Hi Dilbert, I’m Ray Crushem, Head