We’re Live With Rib!

Chatlin O’Brien sat behind the wood desk of the Late, Late Show. He flipped through the notes from his writers, but he couldn’t read them. The world had gone well and truly mad… and he’d found himself at the center of it. But, of course, the curtains were up, the lights blazed down, and the show would go on.  

“Chatlin!” an assistant producer hissed. He glanced over. She held up a hand. “We’re on in FIVE… four!” She counted down in silence and he beamed at the cameras between him and the studio audience. The countdown centered him, pumping some blood back into his hands. His studio. His time.

“Gooooooood evening, America! Welcome back to the Late, Late Show! I’m your hose Chatlin O’Brien and I hope you had a light dinner because tonight is going to be a WILD ride!”

He did the intro, joked with the band, got the crowd titillated with nonsense news and politics. As if… as if their guest might not be immortal. Chatlin had his doubts. He dragged the intro, delaying the inevitable, but the show had to go on. He let the last of the laughs gutter out.

“Now,” he said, in his important-things-are-happening voice, “enough the big wide world. Tonight’s guest is QUITE the polarizing figure. Please, help me welcome to the stage, Ribald “The Rib” Egresssssss!!! The INDESTRUCTIBLE MAN!!!”

Cheers and boos mingled in the audience. Chatlin swallowed his shock. They always cheered. Always.

A screech of metal came from stage left. Chatlin watched the entire curtain ensemble, a thousand pounds of velvet and metal, crumple to the ground. The audience gasped, uncued. A grunt, a heave, and he emerged, the Rib, dragging the clanking mass behind him and tying two corners around his neck. A cape. He’d made a cape. Cheers and boos filled the studio. Chatlin laughed and clapped. 

The man wore a tank top, tight buzz cut, and cargo shorts. He’d bronzed his pale skin and whitened his teeth to match Chatlin’s. They gleamed as he lifted two massive arms over head and laughed along with the crowd. A small gold earring, the letter “M,” glittered on one of his ears. 

“MURDERER!” someone shouted from the stands. Chatlin froze for a moment, terror stopped his heart. But Rib just flipped his heckler the bird with a big grin. Easy to censor. No harm, no foul.

“Alright, alright, easy now!” Chatlin shouted, laughing it off. Bouncers dragged the heckler out. Relief surged. “Welcome, Rib! Welcome! have a seat!” The big man turned his brilliant smile to Chatlin. It was warm. Genuinely warm, all the way up to the eyes and back. Interview enough people on camera and you learn to see the soul in a split second. This man had no qualms about his life or choices, none whatsoever. So rare. Rib tugged the “cape” off and cast it aside. Chatlin watched his hand disappear into the cupped cavern of Rib’s paw. He gave it an astounded look, for the audience. The lightest squeeze from Rib. Perfect self-possession. And the smile. Chatlin’s smile had dragged him through two dozen rocky years of show business. This barrel-chested meathead could almost outshine him. Almost. 

Rib sat. The ample chair groaned and he made a scared face, holding his hands out. The audience laughed, no one booed. His humility drew them in.

“What an INCREDIBLE honor it is for you to have me on the show!” Rib nearly shouted. He smiled and laughed and the audience joined along. Chatlin went with it. 

“I know, of all the silly late night variety shows, you chose ours,” Chatlin said, grinning too hard. “Why is that, Rib?”

“2.2 million!” Rib shouted, leaning back in his chair. “I had 2.2 million and one good reasons, Chatty BOY!”

A pause. A frightened look to camera one.

“Wait! We’re not paying you to be here, are we?” 

“No way, brother!” Rib smiled and slapped the arm of the chair. “Why? Are they paying you?!” He had a brazen way of speaking, like someone at the back might not hear him. Someone at the back whose life he could change with a word. Someone who should be scared, no, terrified, to miss out.

The audience laughed again. More of them. Some of the boos were swaying.

“Ok, ok, so 2.2 million and one reasons…” Chatlin said, waving a hand.

“Right, well the Late, Late Show has one million BADASS viewers!!!” He gestured to the audience and they cheered for themselves. “Annnnd… don’t take this the wrong way… but the Rib Lovers crew is 1.2 million strong and counting!!!” 

Half the crowd roared. Half booed. Chatlin nodded good naturedly.

“Yes, yes, quite the following! And zero overlap between our audiences! Can’t imagine why that would be…” Theatrical eye roll. Laughter from the crowd. “You said 2.2 million and one, who’s the one?” Chatlin gave him the eyebrow waggle.

Rib grinned at him, again with a surge of warmth. Then swatted the air with a bashful little wave.

“Oh you know it’s you, Chat! Huge fan of the show! I came here just to share some of my darkest…” he dropped his voice to a spooky whisper. “Secrets.” He trailed off and the audience hushed. A natural crowd-herder.

“Oh yea?!” Chatlin demanded, with a big grin for the cameras, “And you’re gonna be totally honest?!”

“Oh yeah, Chat, I always am. 

“Ok… ok…” said Chatlin, pretending to think. “Well. now. I have to ask the obvious question: Are you really indestructible?” 

Serious look. Long pause. Longer. Longer still. The audience hung on the hook. Then, BAM! The big grin, arms wide. 

“Of course!” Rib shouted. Massive flex of the arms overhead, bear-like. The audience roared, drowning out the boos. Chatlin still only half-believed. He didn’t want to; it’d turn the world upside down.

“Oh?! And how’d you find that out?”

“Well it’s a lonnnnnnng story, actually,” Rib said.

“Well, it’s a short show,” Chatlin grinned and rolled a finger at Rib. “So, chop-chop big man.”

“Hah!” Rib shouted, laughing along with the crowd. “Fine! The short version! So… I had 400 pounds on the bench, right? Camera on for my 200,000 OG followers!!” Rib paused to flex his pecs and grin, listening to the cheers. He lifted an imaginary bar. “Dropped it right on my throat!!!” He acts it out the scene with choking noises, laughter cascades down the stands. 

“And…?”

“Not a mark!” Rib said, showing his unblemished neck. 

“Wow!” 

“That’s what I said. Then I had that misunderstanding at the bank...” Boos and cheers. “I know, I know! I had my reasons and I never meant for those officers to be hurt.” He paused, somber, for effect. Boos echoed in the absence of laughter.

“An unfortunate incident…” Chatlin added, hedging.

“And people thought I staged the whole thing!” Rib went on, still serious. Then the grin came back. “So! I came here tonight to play a game.”

He reached behind him. Then, clunk, a handgun appeared on Chatlin’s desk. It was supposed to be a bat. Or a tire iron, at worst. Something slapstick. This. This was… unscripted. Live television. He threw his hands up, like it were a gaff, the audience laughed, but Rib carefully turned the barrel of the gun to point at himself. 

The producer waved a question, Go off air?! But Chatlin didn’t dare. Below his desk, he rolled his finger to keep the cameras live. Rib caught the motion and grinned at him.

The big man leaned over, chair creaking in the now silent studio, and pushed the handgun across the desk. It bumped Chatlin’s fingertips.

“Pick it up,” Rib said. “Then wait.”

Numb, Chatlin picked up the gun. It felt cold to the touch and heavy in his hand, a real gun. Terror ran through him. He smiled. As always. 

“Now,” Rib said, “before we play. Two rules. So we don’t have any… misunderstandings. First rule, the cameras roll, no matter what.” He smiled out at the audience. “Second, tell the truth. So. First question. Do they pay you to be here?” 

Chatlin gave a big stage laugh. A few reluctant chuffs came from the audience. Terror had squeezed out fear, but they couldn’t look away.

“Of course!” Chatlin said, beaming. “I’ve gotta eat! Just not as much as you!” A few more laughs. 

“Oh sure!” Rib laughed. “Man’s gotta eat! Gotta bulk up!” He slapped an arm and flexed. The audience cheered. “Where’s the rest of that money go though, Chatlin? To charity?”

“Well… not all of it,” Chatlin said, grinning for the crowd. They chuckled. 

“You invest it,” Rib said. “Don’t you?” Chatlin looked back at him. The warmth had bled away. Rib looked cold. Hard. “You put it on the market? Gamble it on stocks?”

“Well… I don’t know where every dollar… goes…” Chatlin stammered. Where was this going?

“Chatlin O’Brien, a primary investor in the Blue Heart Insurance conglomerate, hereby stands accused of murder in the first degree.” Rib’s voice rang out. “They made a promise. We paid premiums for decades in times of health and they promised to stand by our family in times of illness.” He paused. Glaring at the silent audience. “They broke that promise.” His fist clenched, Chatlin heard the knuckles crack. “Melissa. She got sick. Before… this. Before the million followers. Before the money. We couldn’t afford her treatment.” He glared out at the audience, letting it roam across their stunned faces until he rested it on Chatlin. The show host got a glimpse beyond the jovial weightlifter. He saw the rage, straining against the thin bars of its cage. Rib went on, choking out the words. “Blue Heart left us to rot. We sold everything, worked to the bone, paid our own way, went deep into debt… It wasn’t enough.” He screamed and slammed a hand on the chair's arm, denting it. “Melissa is gone. I know it’s my fault. I know it.” He stared down at his open hands, as if she lay in them, dying. “But it’s not only mine.”

He turned back to Chatlin, whose heart had frozen stiff.

“This is your judgment day,” Rib said.

The audience held its breath. Then Rib beamed at them. Caged his fury and smiled to outshine the stage lights.

“Now, Chatlin,” he said, “be a dear and shoot me in the head. If I die, you live. If I live, then you die.” He waited for a moment. “Oh! And no one call the cops. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.” Rib grinned. Half the crowd cheered, half sat, like Chatlin, in stunned silence.

The host felt all the blood run out of his hands and feet. Numbness crept into his chest. 

“It’s ok,” Rib said. “You can do it. Just aim carefully, we don’t want another bank incident.” 

Chatlin exhaled. He prayed. He aimed.

“Well, y- y- you’re the guest,” Chatlin said, fighting down the chatter of his teeth. He sighted, looking into Rib’s eyes. He saw no hesitation there, no doubts. 

He pulled the trigger. The gun leapt in his hand and the blast made him cry out, ears ringing. Despite that, he caught the split second vision when the bullet crumpled against Rib’s forehead, sending a ripple out across the flesh. The man didn’t even blink. 

Chatlin put the gun down on the desk. His body went limp. He stared down at the desktop. 

Rib picked the flattened bullet up out of his own lap, showed it to the audience, holding it up by his unmarked forehead. He placed it on the desk with a click, then stood up. 

He glowered into Camera 2 and lowered his voice.

“I will kill every primary investor of Blue Heart Insurance, one by one, until they reinstate themselves as a non-profit that serves the people. Instead of consuming them.” 

The audience cheered. All of them. Rib turned to Chatlin and leaned over the desk.

“Please…” Chatlin whined. “Please… I didn’t know…I didn’t know… I didn’t. I didn’t.” His voice sounded terrible. He wished he could stop.

Rib reached out, placing a gentle hand on either side of Chatlin’s head, then gave it a sharp twist. His neck snapped and Chatlin O’Brien died without a sound.