They kept the Ricardos in absolute darkness in preparation for their appearance in the arena. They had to stand there, feet conforming to the neon footprints on the ground, and wait for the wall before them to rise. The whole family had been dragged into it: Mom, Dad, the teenagers Mark and Philippe, and little Selma who was just nine. Philippe was most familiar with this place; he’d seen it before, granted it was only in videos. He was surprised they didn’t snatch up their goldfish as well and put a stupid helmet and knee pads on it.
“Aaaaare we ready folks?” a voice asked through the wall, but it wasn’t asking the Ricardos. A crowd roared its approval, clapping their hands or slapping elongated balloons together. “Who wants to seeeee… some dirty laundry hung out to dry?” They roared again. “Let’s hope there isn’t any raaaaaaiiiiiiiiin!” The noise grew so loud that the Ricardos feared it would tear the wall down on its own. Continue reading
