The Criminal Action Penal Entertainment Program (C.A.P.E) was effectively abolished shortly after Loretta Thurwar achieved “High Freedom” and helped dismantle the dehumanizing penal system through public campaigning and support from local prison reform advocates and growing protesters. Freedom was proven to be impermanent when a more vicious, money driven private-prisoner entertainment program named Gladiatorial Offenders and Rehabilitation Entertainment (G.O.R.E) emerged, formally replacing The Criminal Action Penal Entertainment program. G.O.R.E not only overshadowed C.A.P.E in terms of nationwide popularity and brutal violence, but more importantly, it completely disassembled and shattered all previous efforts to end the gladiatorial system.

“Wake up Maximum Mayhem, it's time for breakfast,” Officer Lawerence barked, rattling his steel handcuffs onto my cell bars. 

My real name was Maxwell Martinez but to the greedy corporations running G.O.R.E, I was nothing but a puppet for them to place their violent fantasies onto for public entertainment. I instinctively reached for the price of chalk by my prison bunk, tallying one more day onto the wall before getting into my prison jumpsuit. It was now December 20th. At least that's what I overheard Officer Greggs mention to Lawrence while they briefly discussed their upcoming plans for Christmas. They regularly raised their voices whilst talking about their outside lives as if they were trying to taunt any sense of freedom we held on to, and because they've been facilitating inmates since Cape was the existing entertainment program they knew exactly how to get under our skin. But that didn't matter, not right now anyways. Next week officially marks three years since I joined G.O.R.E’s highly televised gladiatorial program, meaning the only thing standing between my chance at “high freedom” is one final, nationally broadcasted deathmatch in the largest and most crammed sports arena that the United States has to offer. Then again, many of the men and women before me have been promised the same exoneration just to be silenced before their chance. I remembered Colt “The Peacemaker” Gunner, a fighter from my link who had twenty-nine kills and only needed one more to get out.

“Its just a cycle in their f*cked up system,” I muttered to myself as he was “freed” from his sentence. The excitement and roars of the crowd when his lifeless body was projected onto the arena's jumbotron will tell you how sick this place is. But they didn’t see a human being die, They viewed it more as a character losing a video game. Despite surviving and fighting all these years for a second chance of freedom, I could never imagine a normal life outside of this place, especially when those who were enslaved by the same cruel system as me had their lives taken at my hands. Every face of every person I had to kill throughout my “career” is burned into my eyelids. 

Officer Lawerence banged on the bars again, this time it was louder.

“Move it, Mayhem. You got an interview with Sports Central before the supper later. And try not to look sloppy like last time, sponsors are watching.”

They marched me down the cold prison hallway. My ankles smacked against the hulking iron shackles, but the real weight was the new Influencer implant buzzing at the base of my neck. It felt almost like a confined bee, constantly vibrating, reminding me that the directors of GORE could destroy my nervous system with a click of a button if I didn't act the way the viewers or organizers wanted. The media room was blindingly bright and poorly lit. Sitting across from me was a host named Eddie Morton, wearing a suit that cost more than any amount of money I had seen in my life. He smiled, but his eyes were completely dead, like a shark looking at a frozen fish.

“Maxwell Martinez, or should I say, Max Mayhem!” Morton shouted into his microphone, his voice booming for the millions watching at home. “Next week is the big finale. The Grand finale is set at the Apex Arena. Sixty thousand fans in person, and a whopping thirty million streaming live. How does it feel to be one step away from High Freedom?”

I stared directly into the camera lens. I wanted to tell the world that this was slavery built on greed and profits. I wanted to tell them that the private corporations running G.O.R.E were making billions off our blood while the government used us to hide the real problems in the world. But the buzzing in my neck gave me a sharp warning to act causal.

“Im just ready to finally finish the circuit,” I said, my voice sounding monotone and tired.

“Well that’s what we love to hear!” Morton merrily laughed, turning to a different and larger camera. They continued to drill me for answers for another hour or so before escorting me from the media room.

After the interview, they dragged me to the commissary room for what they called “The Last Supper.” Because I was a top performing link and had only one deathmatch left, my sponsors had funded a special meal for me. Which meant while the lower ranked prisoners got the gray, flavorless chow, my metal tray held a thick, juicy steak sandwich with seasoned french fries. The smell made my mouth water, but when I took a bite, it still tasted like mush. As I looked across the cafeteria I saw a new link, maybe eighteen years old staring at his plate of grays slob. His face was bruised, and his prison jumpsuit was far too big for him. He was named "The Newest.” The “fresh meat” that G.O.R.E brought in to replace the ones that were slaughtered last week, like we were just pigs.

“Hey”, I called out softly, sliding the rest of my steak over to his tray while the guards weren't looking. “Eat this, You’re going to need it for strength if you want to make it past the preparatory rounds tomorrow.”

The kid looked down at the dry meat, then up at me with terrified, dilated eyes. “Are you… are you really Mr. Mayhem? The one who survived over thirty matches?

“Yeah”, I said, looking down at my hands. “But you shouldn't try to be like me. The more you win inside here, the less of yourself you get to keep if you somehow make it out.”

He didn't understand. None of them do until they are too deep in the system. This system traps you by making you think you are fighting for your life, but really you are just working for their profit margins and entertainment. Later that night, they gave us each a thirty-minute “Salt Bath” to clean our wounds before the big match. The warm water was supposed to be a luxury, a special treat for us links. As I lowered my scarred body into the salted water, I felt the sting of every single cut and scrape I had earned over the last three years. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what my old  house smelled like, or what it felt like to walk down a street without heavy chains clinking around my ankles. But the memories were out of my reach. G.O.R.E had consumed them all, replacing them with stadium lights, violent crowds, and the sharp sound of futuristic weaponry cutting through our bones.

“One last dance,” I whispered to myself before dunking my head underwater.

If I won or if I lost next week didn't actually matter. Even if I somehow walked out of those gates with some piece of paper saying I was free, I would always belong to the circuit. They have turned my survival into a nationally televised sport, and once you're in, you can never truly beat the system.

Credits: The New York Times