The arena was filled with screaming, blood thirsty fans. The condemned were held aloft in a cage which was craned around above the hoots and taunts of the audience. Close-ups showed the fear, the twisted despair on the penned law breakers. Some held their position with quiet dignity. Some cried. The crowd loved it when they lost it and screamed and clawed at their cage.

All over the country, splitters and repeaters came on-line to duplicate the live data stream as millions of Americans accessed the live net site.

Music. Fanfare.

Announcer: Live from Denver Penitentiary Area 5, it's The People's Arena. Tonight we witness the disposal of Father John Baker (camera shows a small man with gray hair and a look of sick shame) Craig Horton (punk, flips the bird to the camera) and Mrs. Henrietta Jones (a young woman crying frantically). Their crimes were selected from among the worst of the worst. Tonight we'll celebrate their executions as we (drum roll) Send 'Em To Hell.

Good Evening, I'm Doug Kellerman. Welcome to tonight's balancing of society. You may remember the story of Mrs. Henrietta Jones. She held her two children, Sarah, 8, and Thomas, 11, at gun point for over three hours, demanding her husband grant her a divorce. In the end, she killed her own children, her husband and a Dade County Sheriff. Tonight, she will be executed by guillotine at the hand of her husband's father, Karl Jones II.

Craig Horton, whose only defense was, "Human flesh simply tastes better," was found to have murdered over ten young women and at least six men, eaten them, and stored their remains in his basement refrigerator. Folks, that's just not done! That's why he'll be drawn and quartered by the four People's Arena Monster Trucks!

But first, we have Father John Baker, who confessed to the sexual molestation of dozens of children of his Sunday School over the past twenty years. Tonight, his execution is dedicated to the memory of little Amanda Sampson, who died at the age of twelve during complications of an unsupervised home delivery of Father Baker's bastard child.

We'll wait just a moment for the lovely ladies to finish shackling him to the shooting pole. Father Baker, what were you thinking?

...walk through he valley of the shadow of death the lord is my shepherd ...

Excuse me, Father, do you have anything you would like to say to the world, or to the children whose lives you tried to ruin?

... I have sinned against you, my Lord...

That's all well and good, but vengence is ours, isn't that right? Over here we have some of the children who had to endure Father Baker's evil actions. Your name is...

Tommy.

That's a nice, antique you've got there.

It's my daddy's deer riffle. I'm gonna shoot him in the gut. I've been practicing.

Good, very good. Let's move along. What's your name?

Heather.

Well, Heather, you're looking very pretty for this occasion. Is that a new dress?

Don't touch me.

Oh, I'm sorry. What's that you've got?

This is a laser sighted sub machine gun with smart tracking bullets. I'm gonna shoot his hands...

In the control room, the director, Polk, turned to the executive producer and said, Look at those ratings. I told you we weren't going too far with the whole kid angle.

I still wish you had cleared this with me. We've been getting more and more mail complaining about the program.

Trust me.

Doug Kellerman presented the fake news footage of Father Baker being taken into custody somewhere, as they always said, in a small midwestern town. Tommy and Heather were interviewed, as were some other actors playing the part of infuriated parents, the last of which said, I hope the whole world gets to see that sick son of a bitch put down.

The scene froze on the man's face and then dissolved back to Doug.

All right then, let's get ready to send 'em down.

Lights lowered, and father Baker and the kids were flooded by spotlights.

The engineer prepared the blood packets as the kid playing Tommy took aim. He pulled the trigger, firing the blank and sending a signal to the control room to activate the small explosion of the fake blood. The actor portraying the evil Father Baker jerked back and then forward with a convincing outcry of agony.

Heather's shot popped a blood pack just at his sleeve, covering his hand with dripping red stage goo. The slow motion replay, which had been computer generated and enhanced yesterday during pre-production, was shown to both the live and the net audience.

Tommy's next shot scored in the gut and then Father Baker slumped forward. Flashing signs around the arena prompted the audience to begin the standard long howl. Doug Kellerman ran around the center of the floor waving his fist in the air, urging the crowd to a roar and then he stopped, and as he knelt down and punched his fist forward, the audience, in synchronized fervor, chanted, "Got 'im!"

At just that moment, the guillotine was wheeled in by women wearing big hoop dresses, representing Marie Antoinette, each wearing a red scarf around her neck.

From the control room, the crew began the preparations for the standard beheading illusion which, hidden by a flash of light, enabled them to drop off a fake head into the basket and make the actor's body appear to have only a stump of a neck.

Karl Jones II was driven out from the end of the arena on a white carriage pulled by six horses whose coats had been bleached to be a pure white. He climbed down from the carriage and up the steps onto the platform where he was met by Doug.

So, Mrs. Jones is your daughter-in-law.

Well, not for long.

That was an awful day. Let's share that again with the audience.

The monitors in the auditorium, and the video stream on the net feed, switched to the footage of the video drama that had been prepared and sent to the media last week to be broadcast along with the other real news stories to set up tonight's event.

Terrible. Just terrible, Doug said at the end. Let's see if we can heal that a little bit.

Henrietta Jones was dragged screaming and clawing. Her cries and writhing brought the crowd to a high volume.

Once her head was pulled through the little gate and locked in, Doug brought over the microphone.

So, Mrs. Jones, what do you think of your little stunt now?

She merely screamed louder in a wild, disconnected hysteria.

Oh come on, you were little miss self control when you were holding a gun to your daughter's head. Say something.

More useless screams were now coming in a spasm of gasps and choked wails.

Stop, screaming! Doug commanded. Her wide eyed mask of horror only pitched the audience into waves of laughter and howls, especially when Doug put his own face close to her and began yelling, Shut up! Shut up, Shut the hell up, and then finally began his own show of feigned anguish, screaming back in her face.

He suddenly stood back and asked the crowd, Have you had enough? Do you want her to shut the hell up? Are you ready? All right!

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Karl Jones II pulled the large lever. The blade slid down, there was a quick flash of light, it was over. As Doug ran around with his fist in the air, the slow motion again displayed a sequence from the pre-production effects staff. Again he knelt, threw his fist forward, and the crowd cried, "Got 'im."

The carriage and guillotine were pulled away and from each of the four sides of the Arena, the monster trucks roared in and began circling Doug Kellerman whose amplified voice rose above the trucks.

And now, our main event.

The trucks stopped circling and then backed into position, each approaching Doug who stood at the middle of the floor.

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, it is our pleasure to bring to you the end of a life of such foul and disgusting evils that it pains me to have to confess that such a man can still live in this world...

Inside the control room, heads turned to the sound of gunfire in the hall. Polk hurried out of his seat and when he pulled open the door, he was greeted by a group of men and women wearing camouflage pants and tee shirts with the initials P.E.E.

They stormed in and pulled the engineers and directors out of their seats at gun point. Polk was held in a half nelson by a large, burly woman and felt the cold steel of her knife brushing his neck.

In walked a man with glasses, a flat top hair cut, a fanny pack, and a old western holster with a six shooter.

Patch me in, he ordered. Another man focused a camera on him as another plugged into a video port and sat down at the mixing board. In seconds, the setup story went blank and the arena's video screens and the net feed held only the image of this man's firm, angular face.

I am Jacob Peterson, leader of People for Ethical Execution. We have taken over this travesty in the name of the decent people of the world. No more will killing be done for sport. Criminals must be punished, but they must first be given the chance to repent and to change their ways. And if they must be let out of the world, then only by humane means. Tonight we will demonstrate this by executing the director of this show, Mister Humphry Polk. Take him downstairs.

P.E.E. had flooded through the entire arena, taking control of each camera and lighting position. Polk was taken down to the arena floor and Jacob Peterson took the place of Doug Kellerman as the master of ceremony.

Tonight ladies and gentlemen, you will see an execution for crimes against the decency of humanity. Not only has this man attempted to reduce us to the level of the animal, he has descended to the lowest of the low by corrupting the souls of little children to do his filthy work of nasty public revenge. Tonight will be the last broadcast of The People's Arena, and we will finish by the humane execution of Humphry Polk.

The monster trucks were pulled away and Polk was put in leg chains. Jacob Peterson unzipped his belt pack, pulled out a syringe and took off the plastic needle cover.

Witness the only decent way to kill!

Polk screamed out, Help! Help me. Don't let the justice end!

The crowd, which had been held by confusion and disbelief were suddenly pulled out of their stupor. They began pouring over the gates and out onto the arena floor. Jacob Peterson and his minions of P.E.E. were dragged down and swarmed over by the audience turned posse.

Polk hopped away through the crowd and as soon as he reached the edge was helped up into the stands by a couple of the security guards.

Get them away from the cameras and get me back to the control room.

He hopped up piggy back onto one of the guards and bounced up the stairs as he was carried away from the increasing clamor of the lynching going on below him on the arena floor.

The guard set him down at the door of the control room. He picked up the chain binding his legs and hopped over a couple of the intruders who were lying in a pool of blood on the floor. The net feed showed the roof of the arena from camera four. He scanned the vista of images, punched in camera nine that held a still image of the arena in a wide shot, showing the terrible melee below.

Who's with me, he called out as he put a set of headphones on. He heard a response from Pete on camera six.

Anyone else? Damn! Okay, Pete, give be a slow zoom into the center. Find some action. I need an announcer! Pete, pan around. I'm switching to live audio.

Ladies and gentlemen, as you saw earlier, our program was invaded by a band of radical kooks who don't approve of our manner of justice. Well, fuck 'em. Take a look.

He sat back and watched the images flowing in from camera nine. Anyone with a P.E.E. shirt was getting pummeled and beaten. The other fights were breaking out and the arena floor was packed with a wild, frenzied, uncontrollable mob of visceral hatred that quickly erupted in a conflagration of brutality that quickly spread from the intruders and onto itself.

Polk cut the microphone and called over his shoulder to the security guard, Lock all the doors. I don't what this spilling out into the streets.

He turned back around and said, Pull back Pete, then he glanced at the clock on the wall and switched the audio on again.

The primal urge of catharsis denied, the human drama of revenge breaking through the impotent anger of society. We will not be denied. We're mad as hell and we're not gonna take it any more.

He watched the second hand begin to sweep out its final minute.

The images showed men and women, clawing, fighting for their lives in the pit of chaos. Some were seeking refuge around the top row of seats, but there was hardly a soul in the arena not engaged in a some form of fist fight, foot race, or grotesque display of grief at the death or injury of a friend or loved one. It was like a human demolition derby, accompanied not by the crunch of metal, but by the echoes of flesh against flesh, bones snapping, mothers crying, and the primal screams of people trampled under the feet of the fight.

At thirty seconds to close, Polk punched the credits and the recorded voice that cheerfully thanked the sponsors and previewed next week's show, all while the bloody pit of howling hell panned across in the background.

Finally, he punched off the live net feed and turned around.

The executive producer came at him and grabbed him around the throat.

Is this what you wanted? Is this where you hoped to take us? Do you even see what you've done?

He pulled back and ordered the two men from the National Guard, Take him down the arena and let him feel what his brand of catharsis feels like.

Polk, despite his pleas that quickly broke into hysterical screaming, was dragged down the hall and the back stairs. When he was thrown through the door, he felt the sting of tear gas and the hands of a mob pulling him down, beating his face, tearing at his skin, and his screams were added to the final performance of his great work.

:^D