index


Message-ID: <37800asstr$1028956207@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Max_Wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
NNTP-Posting-Date: 9 Aug 2002 23:15:16 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Fish Tank Ch. 2 (no sex)
Date: Sat, 10 Aug 2002 01:10:07 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of
this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is
made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

The Fish Tank
in honor of ASSD's FishTank
Chapter 2 (of 5)
By theGreatxIam

The astute reader, not easily fooled, will have noted that the
beginning of the story has not yet been reached. Have faith; it draws
near.

By the time the fourth season of "The Fish Tank" arrived, its origins
in a tender young sociologist's dreams were but a distant memory. Tank
mania had swept the nation. Every network was trying to rip off the
concept, but the original kept topping itself and hogging the ratings
-- celebrity versions, blooper shows, the holiday special, "I Fish You
a Merry Christmas."

The producers made even more money on the package tours they sold to
visit the sacred spot than on the outrageously priced commercials.

What was most remarkable about those tours was that people would pay
to, in essence, become part of the cast. Make no mistake: By the
fourth season, what went on outside the Fish Tank was almost as
important as what went on inside.

People had been bringing signs from Day One -- the "Today Show"
influence. But those first signs were basic "Hi Mom" placards. Over
time, they switched to paeans to favorite players -- many featuring
phone numbers and increasingly graphic descriptions of what was in
store. By the end of the second season, though, it became much more
complicated. Signs told one player what another had done behind his
back. They urged alliances, tried to rattle front-runners, demanded
retention of favorites. It was pro wrestling meets "Big Brother."

The producers rode the wave. The crowds outside eventually were given
the say in which players got booted every week, resulting in huge
turnouts and a premium on players who could polarize the audience. All
attempts at keeping people away from the house were abandoned;
security just made sure no one got inside.

That policy survived even the Derek incident, when a very fetching
young man of ambiguous tastes attracted hordes of women and men. The
competition for his notice was so intense that an arms race atmosphere
prevailed and soon dozens of naked bodies, of both sexes, wallpapered
every camera shot. That week's TV episode had a lot of tight shots.
The phenomenon ended only when Derek made the mistake of signalling
his preference, producing a massive negative vote from the
disillusioned.

On the other side of the walls, things were also changing. Players
adapted to the new rules, each playing to the crowd in his or her own
way. One would be nice and try to woo them, another nasty, offering
entertainment value.

None was nicer than Jon Armstrong and none nastier than Desdmona
Gasten, and there is where our tale truly begins.

---- ---- ----

There were six players left.

Jon, of course. The 28-year-old was what all the astronauts looked
like before NASA started sending up science nerds and old politicians,
pissing away their proud image in the public eye.

Desdmona. Despised by all in the house. The audience didn't like her,
either; the Gallup Poll proved that. But they loved what she did to
the group dynamics. They voted to keep her for the same reason boys
tie firecrackers to cats' tails.

Pete. At 48, he normally would have been the elder statesman, but Des
had him by 15 years. He was ruggedly handsome enough, but couldn't
compare to Jon. In just about anything, in fact, he was second-best.
The handicappers -- and every newspaper had its own stable by now --
said that was how he had survived so far, flying under the radar. But
they thought his time was up.

Janelle, the sultry Jamaican. Was her beauty just skin deep? Who knew:
Her unformed 19-year-old personality didn't even sink in that far. She
contributed nothing to the group dynamic. But she had an array of
underwear quite appreciated by the male audience.

Brad the Christian annoyed the hell out of a lot of people, but
Baptist churches organized busloads to come and vote for him. At 18 he
was the youngest in the house, the youngest ever on "The Fish Tank." A
lot of old people looked at their nose-ring-wearing grandkids and then
voted for Brad.

Licia. She cooked like Bocuse, played piano like Paderewski. She ran
her own business, established a charity that cured cancer. Cancer of
the eyelid, that is, but it still looks good on a resume. Every one of
her long red hairs was in its place. Her clothes were so expensive
even their designer labels had designer labels. She made Martha
Stewart feel inadequate. Why did she stoop to the Tank? "I have no
secrets," she told the audience in the opening show. "She has a new
book coming out," her critics noted.

Jon made the first move. He pulled Pete into the kitchen and whispered
his plan. The onlookers knew this because several of the crowd outside
heard him through the window. (If the reader wishes to quibble at this
point over the purpose of windows in a house made of Plexiglas, we
won't be able to make any progress at all. This isn't PBS, it's ABC.
It doesn't have to make sense.)

Jon's plan, however, the crowd did not learn at the time. The
eavesdroppers said the gospel choir next to them was making too much
noise for them to catch the details.

But a few days later, when it came time to tape the individual
interviews for the next show, Pete shocked the world.

"I'm going to ally with Desdmona," he told the camera.

The host's smooth demeanor cracked. All he could get out was a croaked
"Why?"

"To get the prize, of course. Desdmona and I can sweep to the finals.
I'm in it to win it."

"But --" The host tried to recover. "But she's called you a bland,
blithering idiot. When Fred (a quickly departed player) ended up in
the master bedroom with her, she almost ripped his -- ah --"

"Almost injured him," he ended lamely. "She's called every other
player a fool. She reduced every other woman to tears at least once."

Pete smiled. "And Brad, too. Yes, I know. Isn't she wonderful? What
brilliant strategy. When she shouts, I hear music. When she glowers,
it's beauty. She tells me to get the hell out of her way and it's the
best invitation I've ever gotten."

The host was struck mute -- one could say struck dumb, but that's not
only disparaging to the deaf but also, in his case, redundant.

---- ---- ----

The producers huddled as soon as the video was beamed to the studio.

Though the audience thought "The Fish Tank" was about the players, it
was the director and this group who really manipulated events -- or so
they were used to thinking.

After all, they chose which moments to show on TV, in which order,
with which comment from the host. Putting votes in the hands of the
onlookers had complicated matters, but as long as they could limit
contact to visual, not aural -- and the toughened Plexiglas had great
soundproofing characteristics -- they still had the upper hand.
Monitors set up all around the yard and, by the third season, the
neighborhood, showed the weekly episode live to the crowds. Only after
that could they vote.

Swaying the crowd one way or another was child's play to people who'd
sold entire nations on razors with three blades.

Sometimes they did it just to show they could, but mostly they
carefully monitored events and let them play out straight, as long as
things stayed close to their intentions.

Thus the tizzy that Pete's comments caused. Des had been the greatest
thing to happen to the show ever, the most hated villain, the
bitchiest bitch. They were loath to let anyone interfere with that.
And Pete -- the perpetual runner-up had an almost nonexistent Q, the
measure of audience appeal. Where did he get off trying to hitch his
wagon to their female lead?

One of the producers -- as the men were all effeminate and the women
butch, they were interchangeable -- came up with the conclusion that
won the day.

"She'll chew him up," s/he said, brushing fingers through pompadour,
"and save us the trouble. Give him enough rope and let him hang
himself."

---- ---- ----


Privacy is a relative word in a transparent house. Pete found Des
alone in the laundry room.

"Hello, Des," he began, shutting the door behind him. The door muffled
the sound, but it didn't keep anyone who was looking from seeing the
older woman whirl toward Pete.

"My name is Desdmona," she said, eyes narrowed. "Or is that too many
syllables for you to handle? Try to sound it out. Come on, you can do
it." She reached up and squeezed his cheeks so his mouth popped open.
"Say it with me: Dezz-deh-moh-nah."

Pete kissed her hand. She pulled it back as if scorched.

"No," he said, "they call you Des. Des the Destroyer. But you're
beautiful Des. Wonderful Des. Des, my destiny."

"Are you drunk?" She leaned forward to sniff his breath. He grabbed
her head and planted a kiss on her forehead. She swung. He ducked. She
kicked. He backed up against the door, grabbing a laundry basket and
holding it as a shield before his crotch. She lobbed a pair of dirty
underpants at him. He barely grabbed them before they hit him in the
face.

"Spirited, athletic Des," he said. "With a beauty that grows ever more
bewitching."

She held a spray bottle of stain treatment in front of her like a gun.
"Stay back," she said, blue eyes blazing. "You must be drunk. Or
something. You think I'm beautiful? With these?" She pointed to the
crow's feet on the edges of her eyes. "Or these?" She held the back of
a hand up, calling his attention to a few small age spots.

It might have been a more convincing performance if Des actually
looked her age. But the age spots were almost invisible, the crow's
feet mere shadows. Des was 63, but she never would have reached the
show if she wasn't attractive -- slim, shapely, yes, even sexy. If TV
showed imperfect people on reality shows, the home viewers could just
as well sit in front of mirrors -- and how would anyone make money off
that?

So while Des could not match the vibrant look of the youngest
contestants, she was about as sexy as 63 gets. Her breasts maintained
a certain structural integrity. Her face was small, even in proportion
to her body, with delicate features and unblemished skin. Her hair was
blonde then, cut short but full. And her cheeks had a glow, especially
when she argued. As she did with Pete.

He ignored her jabs, serene and smiling. "I admire your spirit," he
told her. "That's just what a team needs to win this game."

"What team?" She waved the spray bottle menacingly. "It's everyone for
himself. And I don't recall inviting you, even if there were."

"Your offer is graciously accepted," he said, exiting as she stood,
speechless for once. The cameras and mikes had captured it all, and
diligent editors were already picking out the best bits for a show
just a day away.

---- ---- ----

When the cameras rolled for the live segment of the weekly show, Pete
raised his hand and announced that he and Des had become allies.

She was livid, which showed up quite nicely on TV. "No, we're not,"
she shouted. "He's crazy. He thinks he can tell me what to do. I'm my
own woman. I don't need allies. Not when I'm competing against losers
like these."

"You can drop it, Des," Pete said calmly. "You were right in the first
place. We don't need to play games."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know I suggested this whole 'pretend we're fighting' idea, but the
audience can see through it. It's me, not you. You were really
convincing in that laundry sequence -- you guys put that in the show,
right? But I just couldn't bring it off. Sorry. But it's good to get
it out in the open, isn't it?"

"You ... You ..."

They broke for commercial. When they came back, Des was still fuming
at Pete, but the host moved on to the other players.

It was one of the weeks a guy was to be eliminated, so they got
special attention. Jon mostly preened for the camera. Brad, as usual,
delivered a humble sermon. The choirs outside always hushed for his
sermon.

For his text he chose Purity, which was a crowd favorite and seen by
the more cynical worshippers at the video altar as a slap at Pete in
particular, whose previous conversations had revealed him as, to put
it mildly, a more experienced man.

So, after Brad's speech, all eyes turned to Pete. He did not
disappoint.

A pair of underpants appeared in his hands. A bewildered Brad admitted
they were his.

"Then," Pete said, waving them before the camera, "perhaps Mr. Purity
would like to explain this crusty stain -- the one that looks
suspiciously as if someone was having impure thoughts?"

Brad stammered as the crowd outside murmured. The faces pressed to the
walls all had open mouths.

"I -- who says that's mine? You're the evil one. What if you --"

"Shall we ask the producers for a DNA test?" Ever since a hushed-up
incident involving an unexpected sequel nine months after the end of
the first season, the producers had insisted on DNA samples from every
male player.

Brad looked around and saw the eyes of a hundred Baptists. "It -- it
might be mine, but that won't prove anything. It could've happened
while I was asleep. I can't control nature."

Des snorted. The camera swung to her. "So who put these in your bed?
Mother Nature?" She held up three pairs of panties. "I couldn't find
mine in the laundry, so I did some checking. Found them under your
pillow."

On the audio of the show, you can hear an odd noise then. It was the
sound of a hundred Baptists turning their backs. They didn't even wait
for Licia to recognize one of her pair -- and discover a crusty stain
on the outside. Brad was voted out by one of the biggest margins in
"Fish Tank" history.

---- ---- ----

Licia went down hard the next week when Des turned up evidence in
online financials that she'd been cooking the books in her charity to
cover losses in her business. "And she's not really a redhead, either
-- but then, everyone who saw her in the shower knows that."

That brought it down to Pete and Jon, Des and Janelle. In online chat
rooms and among the crowds outside the Tank, depleted by the departure
of the Baptists, speculation began to spread.

The guess was that Jon wanted to end up in the Tank with Janelle, or
at least not with Des the Destroyer. Jon had won every one of the
master bedroom privileges in the final weeks and had made sure his
partner never was the Destroyer.

As word of Jon's little chat with Pete filtered out, it was assumed
he'd suckered Pete into helping the scheme in return for Jon's
agreement not to try pushing Pete out until the semifinals. That could
mean a lot more money to Pete.

The older man's repeated claims that he was in it to win were
dismissed as further proof of how deluded he was. The only question
the oddsmakers had was whether Des could make it past Janelle.

She'd seemed a shoo-in all along based on her caustic criticism and
cold-blooded attacks. But Pete's confounding approach of the last few
weeks had weakened her image. Though she did her best to avoid him,
her inability to pierce his friendly front, her bafflement in the face
of his determination to ignore her insults had cost her dearly in
polls of the crowd.

As the showdown show began, last-minute surveys even showed her
falling behind Janelle. TV Guide pushed the button on a cover showing
Brad and Janelle in the Tank alone.

Des clearly sensed the swing. The signs plastered to the outer walls
that said "You're Going Down, Des" and "Ding, Dong, the Bitch Is Dead"
might have tipped her off.

She pulled Pete aside just before the show started.

"All right," she said. "You got me in this shit. How are you going to
get us out?"

Pete was stone-faced.

"Come on," she said, a little louder, trying to ignore the taunting
faces pressed to the walls around her. "You wanted an ally, you got
one."

"I don't want an ally."

"What?" Her shout brought the TV cameras swiveling toward them.
"You're no better off than I am. You're going down, too. Our only
chance is to work together."

"I disagree."

"You stupid son of a bitch. Don't you get it? Jon set you up. It's all
over the Internet. The whole camera crew told me. He suckered you!"

"If that's true," Pete said, slowly, "then I certainly shouldn't do
what he told me, should I? Which, as I recall, was to ally with you.
So, sorry. You're on your own."

Des stared at him. Pete's face was utterly blank. She launched herself
at him, but he was able to hold her off. She pounded on his chest with
both fists, tears streaming down her face.

When the call came to assemble for the start of the show, Pete peeled
her off and walked away. The cameras zoomed in on Des's red face. Her
eyes narrowed. The mikes, cranked up to high, caught her muttered
words.

"You cold-hearted bastard," she said to Pete's back. "I'm going to
lose, but at least I'll take you with me."

To be continued...

For the complete story and more, visit
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/theGreatxIam/www
For more about the FishTank, a place for writers to get feedback,
visit
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Desdmona/www/FishTank/base/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+