Our Main Character was sitting on cold, metal bleachers in front of a large pane of 14 inch thick glass which looked out onto a Field. A few lifetimes ago this Field was probably a baseball diamond - that game had been replaced by a new Great American Pastime. This Field was about a mile large in circumfrence and contained various obstacles such as trenches, pillboxes, and large hills. These kind of Fields - which were not only common these days but were required by the new Enstatement - were called romp rooms. Players scampered across these fields (romp rooms) seemingly mindlessly, pausing every once in awhile to shoot their guns or fall down and die, only to get up again about a minute later. These regenerations were called reloadings, or so the program pamphlet that lay in Our Main Character’s lap stated. This pamphlet contained rosters of the MVP’s of both teams, along with Player odds. Our Main Character listened to the roar of the crowd around him. People were shouting all sorts of advice to their favorite teams navigating the Field in front of them.
“Watch out for the mines!”
“Use the pillbox, asshole!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know it hurts. Get up, you pussy!”
The two teams partaking in the sport didn’t have names, but colors. The Reds owned the left section of the Field, the Greens to the right. The scoreboard that leviatated around the glass showed that the Reds were ahead by 9. This didn’t please the far right section of the bleachers, who showed their displeasure through colorful insults to the Players on the Field. To Our Main Character’s left, there was a man taking bets on the action of the Game.
“200 says number 8 Red hits a mine on sector 4 within 20! Any takers?”
“I’ll see your 200 and another 100 says number 8 gets drilled with the mortar instead!”
“No way! Look at the little fucker! He’s scared shitless! No way he’s going into the mortar zone! And, besides, this here pamphlet gives 20 to 1 that number 8 will only have 3 reloadings in the first half, with none of them being caused by mines!”
Our Main Character looked down in the field and saw that one of the Greens, number 22 to be exact, was seemingly having some problems. He’d fallen down and the reload wasn’t working properly. He was convulsing and the electrodes that were hooked into various parts of his bodies were emitting showers of sparks. A whistle was blown somewhere above the Field and the gunfire and mortars stopped. A referee clad in all gray ran out on to the field to examine the situation. After a minute or so, the ref’s voice boomed over the bleachers:
“Number 22 Green, spent. Custodial Services requested.”
This remark elicted an uproar of excitement from the audience. Another voice came over the bleachers, stating:
“Numbers will now be drawn for the lucky ducks that get to do the Custodial Services! Our first number is…NUMBER 1171!! NUMBER 1171, come on DOWN!”
This lucky number 1171 was very happy indeed. He jumped down from somewhere near the top right of the bleachers and ran through the door that had appeared in the glass in front of the Field. Tears of joy were streaming down his face as he entered the field. He was handed a rifle by one man standing on the edge of the Field and our Joyful Lucky Number 1171 went over to where defective Number 22 was laying. Again, the voice boomed over the bleachers:
“Well, that certainly made his day! Our next two winners are…NUMBER 67 AND NUMBER 112!! Where are you, you lucky dogs?”
A few people groaned around Our Main Character, disappointed with their loss. The man betting that Number 8 would get hit by a mortar began screaming with delight, “I’M NUMBER 112! I’M NUMBER 112!”, and proceeded to run down onto the Field along with another woman who had been sitting somewhere behind Our Main Character. These two people were handed rifles just like Joyful Number 1171, and they too ran out to stand by defective Number 22. That voice came over the bleachers one last time:
“Our last contenders are…NUMBER 116 AND NUMBER 41!!”
Our Main Character looked down at his raffle ticket. Number 116 he was. He got up and walked through the door and out onto the Field. He was handed a rifle by one of the men standing on the edge of the Field and was given a wink by him.
“Don’t look so glum, kid. It’s not every day you get to be on Custodial Duty!”
Our Main Character walked with Lucky Number 41 to where Number 22, Green, was.
“Now, I know this is an exciting time for all of you”, the referee said, “But try not let emotion get in the way of what you’ve gotta do. We want this done in the most efficient manner possible.”
“Ah, come on and let us Clean Up!”, one of the Lucky Numbers shouted.
All of the Lucky contenders were lined up and told to point their rifles at defective Number 22’s head and shoot when the whistle was blown. Our Main Character shouldered his rifle and waited for the whistle. Those around him were postively shaking with excitement. The whistle was finally blown, and Our Main Character aimed his rifle away. He watched his fellow Luckies as they ravaged into defective Number 22. Flesh, or what might pass as such a thing, was torn open and all the Luckies were showered with blood. (or what might pass as such a thing).
“Make sure theres nothing left now!”, the referee shouted over the roar of gunfire.
Our Main Character looked into the crowd. They were absolutely eating all of this up. Our Main Character doubted if anyone was going to notice his decision to not partake in his Custodial Duties.
When there was finally nothing left of defective Number 22, the announcer who had made some dreams come true today said over the speakers:
“Now let’s give a huge round of applause for these people who so kindly did their Custodial Services!”, and the crowd erupted into cheers.
Our Main Character was escorted back to the bleachers by all of the Luckies. One of them said,
“Why do you look so disappointed? These people are expendable; don’t worry about it.” Our Main Character nodded understanding.
Our Main Character watched the action of the Game for awhile before those at the far right of the bleachers began complaining that there was a handicap on the Greens. Either someone else would have to come in for the Greens, or the Game would have to be forfeited, they said. The Red fans demanded that a few of their players get replaced as well. Yet again, that same voice boomed over the bleachers:
“We will have to draw numbers again for the requested replacement of two Red players, and one Green. The numbers for the Reds are… NUMBER 11 AND NUMBER 763!!” Two women from the far left went down onto the Field.
“And the replacement Green will be…NUMBER 116!! Jeez, first Custodial Services and now he gets to play for his favorite Team!!”
Our Main Character stood up and started to walk down onto the Field and heard someone near him say, “Jeez, it really is your Lucky Day, isn’t it?”