by Haidji
Only one will survive
Only one can win!
Live from the Night Stadium
Nothing compares to what you'll see here
Nothing compares to what you'll watch
You have already chosen your candidate,
You have Made your bet
To be part of a
New and unexpected game
Now it’s time to leave it all in the laps of the gods
And when the bell rings… it is time to jump…for your life!
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1!
JUMP!’
And the second group of candidates jumped.
Cassandra held her breath, while her heart was beating faster, as he jumped, opening her eyes only when it ended, to see that he was among the survivors. She tried to calm down and breath deeply, and normally, again.
Her candidate survived, Cassandra, relieved, tried to concentrate again on the next group of candidates.
The day passed by fast. And the other groups entered the game, accompanied by the Hostess’ voice; the public was blown away with the game’s adrenaline. And went out of the Stadium during the breaks, to breath or maybe search for a certain kind of street food they couldn’t find inside. There were so many food trucks outside.
The bets had increased a lot after the first game day and at the end of the day, only 920 candidates remained from the initial 2000; only 920 survivors from the 2000 candidates who jumped on this second game day. So it was almost a miracle that Cassandra’s chosen candidate survived.
As the Hostess, sliding over the platform with her Alexander McQueen shoes, announced the end of the second game day, promising an unforgettable third game day, without forgetting to mention that the public could buy and wear t-shirts with the game symbol to support the Game and the candidates, Cassandra was thinking about 2252.
Cassandra was happy and sad at the same time: happy because 2252 survived, and sad too; now, she would see him again, perhaps; but only in the next step of the game.
She did not know much about him…so she began to wonder and imagine things about him, his life story, why did he seem to look at her in that half-second, why was he in the game, why had their paths crossed at all...?
There was nothing else better for her to do than to engage in this musing, to make her workday time pass by faster. Or, was she really just trying to make the workday time pass by faster? Was there more to this than musing? She had a conscious thought that musing about something like this elusive feeling was, perhaps, not like musing about something she could remember, at all. Or maybe it was a new feeling, or maybe it was something she had read about in a good literary work, or seen in a classic film, so her dim memory of an elusive feeling was not a memory of a real event, but of a fiction.
Chapter 4
Candidate 1518 – Fabio
Black hair, black eyes, gentleman, passionate; a common Italian man.
His name was Fabio Giovanni Cristiani. As a child Fabio used to spend the afternoons and weekends in his grandfather’s company, riding his first bike, made especially for him. In exactly the right size. He already had a road bike made for him by measure, while his friends were still learning to use the tricycle, and while others were learning the numbers, he already knew them and was learning the name of the ‘Giro d’Italia’ winners for the last…10 years.
‘Nonno’ Vincenzo was a master bike frame builder in Italy. An original. One of the true founders and masters of the trade. Fabio remembered many hot summer days and weeks during school vacations, spent in his grandfather’s shop near Milano, watching grandfather and his crew work. In typical Italian fashion, the sounds of their work—loud noises from cutting and rolling special metal alloys—were most often completely buried under the din of the workers’ passionate discussion of, well, just about anything and nothing.
But most especially, anything to do with bike racing, and gossip about the leading racers. And not only about Italian racers, but foreigners, for grandfather’s bike frames were in high demand by elite riders in many countries. Any time there was a national caliber race in Italy, or a major tour abroad, it was hard to get the workers to focus on their work. They were too busy arguing about who would win or, after the race, arguing about who should have won, and in both cases, that the newspaper and television commentators who covered the race were complete idiots.
When the Giro came—every year around May—well, it might as well have been declared a three-week national holiday. In an effort to get at least some productivity out of the workers during the Giro, or maybe just because he loved to read it too, while working in his shop, grandfather had arranged for early morning delivery to his shop of fifteen copies of La Gazzetta dello Sport. Plus there were the TV monitors he installed so the workers could see the live coverage on RAI from their stations; even if this made foreign customers wait in the shop. Italians just took a spot to enter the conversation, and even forgot to buy something if their preferred biker lost. ‘Nonno’ Vincenzo Cristiani supported the Giro even if he could lose some immediate sales, because he always won new customers, enjoying the atmosphere of his shop so much that they came back to buy something another time.
Fabio’s middle name was chosen by his parents to remind everyone of the family roots.
They were from San Giovanni, a beautiful town on the river in the Valle Brembana, the valley that runs north from Bergamo straight up to the mountains. San Giovanni was just north of San Pellegrino, home of the sparkling mineral water by the same name; San Pellegrino was just north of Bergamo; and Bergamo was just east of Milano. Grandfather’s bike shop was always close.
Fabio had held a series of summer jobs in the San Pellegrino factory and with time, had worked his way into the office side of the operation. His innate aptitude for arithmetic (and later, mathematics) and his logical, calm mind, caught the attention of the owners. He became one of the key helpers in their finance department. From that, Fabio got a free education in international business and finance, because the ‘Pellegrino’ brand was well established in fashionable places around the world.
Not surprisingly, given the family’s proximity to cycling, he knew how to ride a race bike. Fast. Very fast. Up and down hills, and on the flats. As a teenager, he had put his mind to riding and he trained around the Valle Brembana whenever he could.
It offered every possibility of terrain. One day there was to be a local race, sponsored by ‘Pellegrino’, a race of only 90 kilometers.
The parcours would run from the Pellegrino factory, straight up the Valle Brembana past San Giovanni, then left to climb up to the tiny village of Mezzoldo, at which began the crux: a 12 kilometer bitch of a climb, to the Passo San Marco, elevation 1989 meters with an average grade of about 8% and some much steeper ramps.
At the top of the pass the racers would turn around and descend the same route, with the race finish in the piazza of San Pellegrino’s city hall. Trophies and cash prizes would be awarded to the three fastest climbers and to the overall winners of the race.
His grandfather would be there to support Fabio with his pirate flag, which he took to every race.
Fabio entered the race with bib number 81, as the lead rider for a local amateur team sponsored by his grandfather’s shop. When his second cousin, Marco, heard about this, he also entered the race. Just a few years older than Fabio, he was a neo-pro rider with great prospects, just signed by a hot Italian pro team. Thrilled that Fabio was now racing, he hoped to speak with him after the race and persuade him to become a pro rider, like himself.
The day of the Giro de Pellegrino had arrived.
The entire valley was filled with cars, buses, campers, motorcycles, and of course - bikes. Team cars, team buses and all manner of transportation used by the tifosi, the rabid fans of Italian cycling.
Local bikers had ridden the course on their race bikes before it was closed, securing the best viewing spots on the climb and ‘becoming’ a part of the race, directly.
Fabio and the oth
er riders lined up at the start at the Pellegrino factory. Marco was there, strong and sleek in his new team jersey and shorts. He told Fabio they had to talk after the race; Marco would introduce him to his whole team and to the owner.
The race began with a processional start of 3km so the tifosi would get a good view of the whole peloton. The real racing began 2km short of San Giovanni. They flew through the town and rode the 9km up the gentle incline of the Valle Brembana to Lenna at warp speed. By the time they started the real climbing at Mezzoldo, Fabio was in the breakaway group along with Marco, some of Marco’s teammates, and the best climbers of the other Italian teams.
Marco was surprised how strong Fabio was; he muttered to a teammate, ‘my cousin, the little shit, has probably done nothing but train on this climb the whole winter…I’ll show him a thing or two’.
Marco decided he would let his cousin win the ascent, if he could; he wanted Fabio to have this so Marco could make a pitch to his team owner, to bring Fabio onto the team.
Marco thought he could win the overall race on the 45km descent back to San Pellegrino; the Italian cognoscenti viewed him as the best descender the peloton had seen in years. This would give a great story; the family that won this Giro, coming from no less than San Giovanni itself!
They passed the Rif. Madonna delle Nevi and started up the brutal incline of the hairpin turns, quickly rising above the tree line to approach the Passo di San Marco, still dusted with snow. Riding through a sea of tifosi and dodging their bodies and flags, Fabio arrived first to the ‘finish line’ at the pass. The announcer noted that he had made a record time in the ascent from Mezzoldo, being 12km of brutal climbing!
Fabio let his legs spin easily on the flat turnaround after the pass finish, waiting to see if Marco would arrive. He did, in the company of a group of four. Marco congratulated his cousin and said ‘now it’s my turn’. He sprinted off, launching himself down the mountain hairpins.
Fabio got scared on the descent, and lost time. Marco and his group of four were nowhere to be seen. There was still some snow on the edges of the road, in places where the sun did not shine.
His hands were freezing and almost numb. Some parts of the road were wet, water still trickling down the mountain brooks from the melting snow. He hadn’t noticed any of these things on the ascent.
Crossing the finish line in San Pellegrino, he saw the race clock and that he made a very good time; probably he was in the top ten, excellent for an amateur. The sun was shining in the valley. The race officials gave him hot tea to warm him up. But there was a chill in the air. After a few sips of hot tea, Fabio allowed himself to take in the scene at the finish.
All he heard was the announcer’s voice on the loudspeakers: ‘Marco è morto! Marco è morto!’
Fabio continued his work in Pellegrino’s finance department. His bike reminded him of his cousin, and the pirate flag in his grandfather’s shop reminded him that a dream could break at the beginning, in the middle or at the end of it…so it is better to not dream at all, and work. At least the water business was a good one, a clean and safe one.
Sometimes he thought that he should go back to riding again, and win for Marco, especially as he watched the livestrong bracelet that he never took off. But as fast as this thought came into his mind, even faster he took the thought out.
Fabio quickly became fluent in English. His linguistic proficiency expanded the possibilities for his self-education. An avid reader in the theory and practice of finance, he could buy the most important works in English, instead of waiting for a translation.
He decided that most of what was written in the field was utter rubbish. It was not literature, not good science or philosophy, and not even good business. There were a few exceptions. He once bought a book based on the reviewer’s line, ‘the book that rolled down Wall Street like a hand grenade’. Now, there was a ‘must read’.
He read the book in one day, hoping the grenade would explode and reduce the gene pool of traditional investment bankers, whom he thought were morally bankrupt and even worse, intellectually bankrupt.
The author’s thesis and anecdotes were brilliant and for him, entirely correct. Fabio followed the author closely; he seemed like a real thinker, a real philosopher. Inspired by the writings, he developed practical models for his current work, and used them to plan his future path. The water business seemed to be the right place for him.
As he was sure about it, he went out for a business lunch in Milano, with some Pellegrino customers. He ordered some water; they had only ‘Fiji’ in the fancy restaurant in Milano. He found San Pellegrino’s water in New York, Lisbon, São Paulo, and Tokyo...
Thinking about the water from San Pellegrino in New York, Fiji in Italy, Norwegian water in Portugal, Portuguese water in Australia and all the oil, plastic, glass and transport costs from the water business. He remembered his first bike and how easy and simple life was. He felt sick.
He looked at his livestrong bracelet that he never took off and said, ‘And they judge you?’
Nobody can understand a biker, without ever having ridden a bike.
He was very thirsty and drank the water he had available to drink. He would prefer to walk to the washroom and drink tap water, but it was a meeting with foreign customers, and he couldn’t walk away. Feeling the smooth taste of the water, he took a decision.
Sometimes the world around you makes you do things you would never do out of the circumstances.
Fabio entered the Game.
Chapter 5
The Council meeting was scheduled for dawn at the beginning of the third game day.
Alphabot opened the door.
White, Yellow, Red, Green, Blue, Purple and Black entered the room. The seven, wearing their togas in different colors, standing around the round white table. One after another, they sat down at their assigned chairs around the round table.
Alphabot brought them some coffee.
Black denied the coffee.
‘Would you like some water, Sir?’ Asked Alphabot.
‘No, no coffee, no water…thank you’, said Black.
Alphabot left the room and the meeting started.
They were more or less pleased with the results of the first two days, but needed to change some things about the betting system and also, about the street food.
Yellow had a suggestion, which he explained in too many words to the Council.
Besides betting on your favorite candidate number, which could be only one bet per ticket, and who knew how many would survive and die in each group or day, persons could only for this third game day bet on the composition of groups (of 20) of each day’s group survivors.
The persons whose bet hit these 20 survivors in a group could win a prize that was more or less half the amount of the main prize, so he suggested. But because on the first step of the game it was possible and common that much more than 20 candidates would survive inside a group, he told them that he had considered carefully the mathematics of it all, and how the prize money would be allocated, so they would still rake a handsome profit.
He said they didn’t need to bring in any experts in probability theory; they should just make this betting scenario for one day, to see the results. Green pretended he liked the idea.
Black said ‘We’ll vote about it…later.’
The Council also saw that street food vendors were starting to settle in, taking any available spot outside the Stadium gates. They were doing brisk business.
From monitoring the bracelets, the Council realized that the basic food and drink they offered in the Stadium was largely being ignored, in favor of the street food available outside.
People left the Stadium to buy it outside, coming back after. Not only were they losing potential profits, but also seats were left empty when persons went outside for food breaks, so it made the Stadium look less than full on the TV, while they took their food breaks.
Green had already a solution.
He had met with the most
successful street food seller outside the Stadium and decided to invite him to meet the Council. He presented his idea to the Council; they agreed, in principle. He stepped outside the Council chamber, and returned with another man.
‘This is Mr. Metz Wurss, known in the trade as ‘Metz’. He is one of the top master chefs for street food in the whole world. He has designed a menu for the Stadium and he’s here to tell us about it.’
Metz took a position at the Boardroom table, next to Green. ‘Thank you, Members of the Council. Allow me to present the proposed Stadium cuisine. First we have the Suicide Dog. Next we have the Platform Stacker. To drink, we have the Bloodshake. All made with the freshest ingredients.
Each of them is available in meat, vegetarian or vegan options. Everything can be made fresh daily in the Stadium kitchen, under my personal supervision.
We use only the choicest cuts of fresh meat, and all other ingredients are 100% natural, fresh and of the highest quality.
And the Bloodshake is available in different flavors, with or without caffeine, or alcohol.
The Council asked if the Stadium kitchen was adequately equipped to prepare the cuisine. Metz answered quickly, ‘Yes, no problem, and it’s actually far more than adequate. The best cook is the one who needs only a very simple kitchen. I don’t need Leonardo da Vinci’s spaghetti fork, and I could cook anything using only some ancient Pompeii cooking utensils’.
Green was impressed.
Metz said, ‘Oh, just one more thing. I have designed emoji icons for the menu items. I couldn’t find any emoji for hot dogs, stacked sandwiches or fruit and protein shakes, so I thought we could use the game symbol, and change it around a little bit, into a dog sandwich or drink. People can text us their orders using the emoji and they won’t even need to leave their seats. And this can also create a rumor that the food comes from the game.’
Red laughed ironically. ‘Great marketing strategy!’
