THE ULTIMATE CASINO

It was the most successful and watched television program of all time.

Every Friday evening at 8 o’clock, half the country and viewers from around the world came to a standstill, as millions tuned in to root for the contestants. But, in a rather sick and disturbing way, the viewers were not necessarily rooting for them to win.

The rules were quite simple. It was gambling taken to the ultimate level. The potential reward was spectacular: $50 million was the top prize. However, the potential downside was equally spectacular.

Each hopeful player sat in a large chair contained within a glass booth. Cameras from every possible angle broadcast the person’s face and expression onto numerous 30-foot video screens. The cameras caught every emotion, from exhilaration and euphoria to absolute horror, despair and panic.

The contract and “informed consent” signed by all participants was 275 pages long, an exculpatory agreement that included many references to absolving the production company of all responsibility, assuming all risk, granting total indemnification, holding the company harmless for any and all loss, including loss of life and limb. In addition to signing the contract, each signatory had to initial each page.

Each player, if he or she decided to proceed, had the opportunity of pulling a silver handle on a panel located directly in front of him. Pulling the handle then set in rapid spinning motion a large wheel, about 10 feet in diameter, which contained 100 possible stopping points. The wheel would spin at a high rate of speed, requiring about one minute to stop. And as the wheel inevitably slowed, the contestant and the audience would hang on every inch, praying and using their imagined telekinetic power to halt the wheel where they wanted.

And the stopping point was extraordinarily important.

The most hoped-for outcome from the contestant’s perspective was the segment with a schematic of three gold bars. That one resulted in payment of $50 million, the grand prize.

And the most hoped-for outcome from most of the viewers’ perspective was the segment with a schematic of three alligators. That one resulted in the floor of the glass booth snapping open like a trap door, the contestant falling 30 feet into large pool containing a mixture of 20 hungry American alligators and Nile crocodiles.

All the remaining segments on the wheel had a variety of rewards, from mundane items like a refrigerator or washer dryer, an interesting vacation, a car, or straight cash, up to $50 thousand.

According to the rules, each contestant would decide after each throw of the wheel whether to continue or take his winnings home.

Tonight’s contestant was Gordon Schlimazel, 46, chief financial officer of a mid-sized tech company in Atlanta. He’d been meticulous once—numbers, budgets, forecasts—but a single bad decision, a “guaranteed” investment, had swallowed not only his life savings but also the company’s entire liquidity. He hadn’t told them yet. Monday morning, the auditors would find the gap. By then, Gordon planned to have the money back.

If he won tonight, no one would ever have to know, and he would live happily ever after.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the host bellowed into the microphone. “Meet Gordon Schlimazel, our first contestant, an everyman with everything to lose and everything to win.”

The emcee—sleek, smiling, and sadistic—placed his hand on Gordon’s shoulder.

“So, Mr. Schlimazel, are you ready to take your chances? You could walk out of here a very rich man tonight. Remember our motto: Every spin a chance; every loss a lesson!”

Gordon tried to smile but instead looked pained. “I’m ready!” he said, as beads of sweat formed on his forehead and upper lip.

The host lifted his arms and yelled, “Folks, let’s spin that wheel!”

The audience roared, then settled back to watch, as Gordon’s fate hung in the balance. Somewhere below, accustom to the routine, the reptiles stirred.

Gordon gripped the silver handle and pulled. The wheel spun, first rapidly, then inexorably slowing, slowing, each segment clicking by, one by one. The wheel finally came to rest on a $1000 reward. Gordon looked very relieved.

The audience screamed for more.

The host interjected. “So, Gordon, shall we call it a night, or do you wish to continue? It’s only fair to remind you that you can stop at any time and take your winnings home.”

Gordon, gulping hard, asserted, “No, let’s go for more!”

The emcee smiled. “Gordon, spin for your life!”

Gordon pulled the silver handle for a second time. The wheel whirred then gradually slowed.

Another small cash reward, this time $5000.

A third spin, resulting in a lovely backyard rattan furniture set.

The crowd began chanting his name, as Gordon exhibited ongoing courage and determination.

“Gor…don! Gor…don!”

The audience’s fervor gave Gordon increasing confidence.

By the eighth pull of the handle, Gordon had racked up a fairly good haul of $20,000 plus a variety of houseware and furniture. But it was still far from what he needed to come out whole financially.

The host leaned in. “Gordon, you’ve compiled a fairly nice set of rewards. You could stop now and take your winnings. Would you like to cash out?”

Gordon’s hand hovered over the lever. The cameras zoomed in for a closeup of his face.

“I can’t stop now,” he said, almost to himself. “I’m so close.”

The host stepped back. “Then spin for your life!”

The wheel blurred again—dazzling light, hypnotic color.

The wheel slowed, clicking past each segment, finally coming to rest on… the schematic of the three alligators.

Sirens blared. The stage lights turned crimson. The crowd gasped as the gears of the floor beneath Gordon activated with a groan and clack. Then, the floor sprung open.

For half a heartbeat, he sat frozen—bewildered, mouth open as if to protest. Then gravity took him. The cameras followed his fall from every angle, screaming all the way—thirty feet down into the dark water and pale, snapping teeth.

The audience erupted in a jamboree of euphoria and excitement. The host raised a hand for silence.

“Another reminder, folks,” he said, his voice silky smooth. “In the Ultimate Casino, the odds are always fair—and the consequences always final.”

The credits rolled to the sound of the crowd’s cheers and the muffled, chaotic splashing from below.

And somewhere, in homes across the nation, millions of viewers leaned forward on their couches, eyes gleaming with excitement and dread, already wondering —

Who would spin next week?