This Is Your Hit
by Laura Dunbar
Almost nine on Thursday night, Jed Thompson was sprawled on the couch in front of his ninety-two inch ultra-vision screen. Remote control was in one hand and a beer in the other. Coming after the nine pm news was Jed’s favourite show.
Jed never missed an episode of “This is Your Hit”. He always maintained it was much better than “Slaughter Thy Neighbour” and “Dodge the Bullet”, or any other reality death show. Contestants on those were mostly volunteers. The poor slobs nominated on “Hit” had no idea they were about to die at the hands of five publicly admired assassins.
A few bleeding hearts said this was endorsed murder, but nobody ever nominated any upstanding citizen. Moreover, with the Courts backed up for the next ten years and prisons overflowing, the Government gladly turned a blind eye. The revenues from taxes levied against these shows only abetted this blindness.
Each assassin on the show had a code name. The Dispatcher was the most popular, but Jed idolised The Stranger. Nobody ever saw this guy’s face. He could be the bloke down the road, for all anybody knew. The producers carefully edited footage from the hidden cameras recording The Stranger so that viewers saw the kill, but not the killer.
Just ten more minutes to wait. The news started, but Jed turned the volume down. He heard the clatter of his wife loading up the dishwasher. She wouldn’t leave the kitchen for the next half-hour. His missus knew better than to interrupt his Thursday night viewing pleasure.
“Hey, bring us a beer before the show starts,” Jed called out.
A moment later, she was wordlessly replacing his empty beer bottle with an open full one. Jed frowned at her. The vacant expression was normal, but she was in a right state with her lip all swollen up and a violent bruise blossoming around her eye. This would be a proper shiner by morning. Too bad he’d hit her in the face. Now he would have to do the shopping until she looked presentable enough to go outside again. At least the kids weren’t home. She’d taken them to her mother’s place the previous day.
Jed waved her away and turned back to the screen, already wondering what the unwitting participant might have done to warrant selection. Whatever the reason, he hoped the designated killer would be his favourite. The news was nearly over and Jed was just about to turn up the volume when the doorbell chimed. He scowled in the direction of the front door. Who the hell could it be at this hour?
“Someone’s at the door,” Jed yelled, utterly outraged at this ill-timed disturbance. “Go and tell them to piss off.”
Obediently, his wife trudged from the kitchen to the door. As she mucked around peering through the spyhole, Jed’s temper was about to explode.
“Who’s out there?”
“I dunno.” She looked back at Jed, her face completely blank. “It’s nobody from around here.”
Jed stood up, cursing out loud as he stomped over to open the door. A man was standing outside, dressed in a business suit and holding a briefcase. He was looking very apologetic. Before Jed could tell him to get lost, the man jumped in first.
“Look. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was driving home from work and I must’ve run over something.” He waved his briefcase towards the street. “I’ve managed to end up with two flat tyres and to cap it all, my cell-phone battery just died.”
About to deliver a mouthful of abuse, Jed glanced over the man’s shoulder. The sight shut him up instantly. Parked under a streetlight outside his house was his dream car. A classic 2019 red hot Holden Commodore in mint condition. The last V8 ever produced before the global fuel crisis in 2020 shut down the manufacture of all gasoline powered vehicles. He looked back the car’s owner with a new found respect. Any man who claimed possession of this vintage beauty was definitely an outstanding bloke in Jed’s book.
“Amazing motor.”
“Yeah, but she’s got no modern charger port,” the man said with a sigh. “Do you think I could use your phone to call a tow truck?”
“Sure. No worries mate.” Jed waved the man inside the house. “The wife’ll get it for you.”
“Thanks.”
Inside the lounge, Jed saw the opening credits for “This is your Hit” flash onto the huge screen. Suddenly, he was struck by the dilemma of either missing some of his programme, or offending a bloke who happened to have an awesome car. To his relief, the man in the suit came to his rescue.
“Damn, it’s started. I was hoping to get home in time. I never miss this show.”
“Me neither.” A solution immediately occurred to Jed. “Look, why not watch the show here while you wait for the towies?”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Hell, no, make yourself at home.” Jed waved at the couch. “Want a beer?”
“Sorry, driving, but thanks for offering.” The man smiled and sat down next to Jed. “You know, not many folk would let a stranger into their home, let alone invite them to stay and watch the telly.”
“Ach, it’s no trouble. Just nice to meet someone who likes “Hit” as much as me. Name’s Jed, by the way.”
His guest never got a chance to introduce himself. The studio audience had begun clapping wildly as the show’s host appeared on screen. Known as The Broker, he bowed theatrically. The first part of the show was routine. The Broker recapped the previous weeks’ hit and read some of the funnier nominations which viewers had sent in.
Jed nodded approvingly, reminded that the last target had been a right evil bastard who bludgeoned his own granny to death and sold all her valuables. He almost got away with it, but granny’s old pals saw to it that she got justice in the end.
“Right folks, it’s time to move on to this week’s nomination.” The camera zoomed in on the Broker’s solemn face. “This guy is a real thug; a violent bully who enjoys using his fists on a defenceless woman. Yes, that’s right, good people. Tonight we have a brutal husband to dispose of.”
The audience booed and hissed. The subject this week was already as good as dead as far as they were concerned, but the host raised his hands to silence them.
“For ten terrifying years, this monster has repeatedly beaten the living daylights out his helpless wife. He’s almost killed her on more than one occasion. Nothing ever stops him, not even his own children.”
Jed felt a momentary twinge of unease. This sounded familiar, but then nobody knew what went on in his house. He took a quick glance at his guest, wondering if he might have noticed the bruises on his missus’s face.
“Sounds like a right prick,” Jed commented.
“Yeah, he has it coming,” the man responded absently, seeming totally absorbed in the show.
“Now, I know what you’re all thinking. Why didn’t she leave him?” The Broker carried on. “Well, of course she did, but he always found her and forced her to come back. And now you’re asking. Why didn’t she try to get help? Of course she did. But did Social Services help her?”
“No!” the audience shouted back, their faces flushed and angry.
“Did the police help her?”
“No!”
“Did the Courts help her?”
“No!”
“So then, are we going to help her?” the Broker almost screamed into the camera.
“Yes!” In one simultaneous voice, the audience began chanting. “Hit! Hit! Hit!” Hit!”
The images of the five assassins instantaneously appeared. Each one of them was carrying their trademark weapon of choice and wearing a hostile expression, with one obvious exception. The audience cheered and stamped.
“Who has been chosen to save this desperate woman from her worthless husband?” The Broker cried out, turning to look at the images.
Only one assassin remained. With his face blacked out, he stood pictured with his semi-automatic pistol pressed against chest.
“The Stranger is tonight’s champion,” the Broker announced dramatically. “Justice will be done and her oppressor will torment her no more. All that’s left is to reveal who this dead man is.”
The camera scanned the eager faces of the studio audience, cutting cut back to a close up of the Broker.
“Jeremy Alan Thomas. This – Is – Your – Hit.”
Jed’s jaw dropped. There he was, pictured on his own television screen, sitting bolt upright on his own couch. The stranger he had cheerfully invited into his home was nowhere in sight. A moment later, he felt something cold and sharp jab into left temple. Sweat broke out on Jed’s body. He was too terrified turn and look at his favourite killer. Then, his wife was suddenly standing before him. The expression on her face was one he hadn’t seen for years. She was smiling.
Jed never missed an episode of “This is Your Hit”. He always maintained it was much better than “Slaughter Thy Neighbour” and “Dodge the Bullet”, or any other reality death show. Contestants on those were mostly volunteers. The poor slobs nominated on “Hit” had no idea they were about to die at the hands of five publicly admired assassins.
A few bleeding hearts said this was endorsed murder, but nobody ever nominated any upstanding citizen. Moreover, with the Courts backed up for the next ten years and prisons overflowing, the Government gladly turned a blind eye. The revenues from taxes levied against these shows only abetted this blindness.
Each assassin on the show had a code name. The Dispatcher was the most popular, but Jed idolised The Stranger. Nobody ever saw this guy’s face. He could be the bloke down the road, for all anybody knew. The producers carefully edited footage from the hidden cameras recording The Stranger so that viewers saw the kill, but not the killer.
Just ten more minutes to wait. The news started, but Jed turned the volume down. He heard the clatter of his wife loading up the dishwasher. She wouldn’t leave the kitchen for the next half-hour. His missus knew better than to interrupt his Thursday night viewing pleasure.
“Hey, bring us a beer before the show starts,” Jed called out.
A moment later, she was wordlessly replacing his empty beer bottle with an open full one. Jed frowned at her. The vacant expression was normal, but she was in a right state with her lip all swollen up and a violent bruise blossoming around her eye. This would be a proper shiner by morning. Too bad he’d hit her in the face. Now he would have to do the shopping until she looked presentable enough to go outside again. At least the kids weren’t home. She’d taken them to her mother’s place the previous day.
Jed waved her away and turned back to the screen, already wondering what the unwitting participant might have done to warrant selection. Whatever the reason, he hoped the designated killer would be his favourite. The news was nearly over and Jed was just about to turn up the volume when the doorbell chimed. He scowled in the direction of the front door. Who the hell could it be at this hour?
“Someone’s at the door,” Jed yelled, utterly outraged at this ill-timed disturbance. “Go and tell them to piss off.”
Obediently, his wife trudged from the kitchen to the door. As she mucked around peering through the spyhole, Jed’s temper was about to explode.
“Who’s out there?”
“I dunno.” She looked back at Jed, her face completely blank. “It’s nobody from around here.”
Jed stood up, cursing out loud as he stomped over to open the door. A man was standing outside, dressed in a business suit and holding a briefcase. He was looking very apologetic. Before Jed could tell him to get lost, the man jumped in first.
“Look. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was driving home from work and I must’ve run over something.” He waved his briefcase towards the street. “I’ve managed to end up with two flat tyres and to cap it all, my cell-phone battery just died.”
About to deliver a mouthful of abuse, Jed glanced over the man’s shoulder. The sight shut him up instantly. Parked under a streetlight outside his house was his dream car. A classic 2019 red hot Holden Commodore in mint condition. The last V8 ever produced before the global fuel crisis in 2020 shut down the manufacture of all gasoline powered vehicles. He looked back the car’s owner with a new found respect. Any man who claimed possession of this vintage beauty was definitely an outstanding bloke in Jed’s book.
“Amazing motor.”
“Yeah, but she’s got no modern charger port,” the man said with a sigh. “Do you think I could use your phone to call a tow truck?”
“Sure. No worries mate.” Jed waved the man inside the house. “The wife’ll get it for you.”
“Thanks.”
Inside the lounge, Jed saw the opening credits for “This is your Hit” flash onto the huge screen. Suddenly, he was struck by the dilemma of either missing some of his programme, or offending a bloke who happened to have an awesome car. To his relief, the man in the suit came to his rescue.
“Damn, it’s started. I was hoping to get home in time. I never miss this show.”
“Me neither.” A solution immediately occurred to Jed. “Look, why not watch the show here while you wait for the towies?”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Hell, no, make yourself at home.” Jed waved at the couch. “Want a beer?”
“Sorry, driving, but thanks for offering.” The man smiled and sat down next to Jed. “You know, not many folk would let a stranger into their home, let alone invite them to stay and watch the telly.”
“Ach, it’s no trouble. Just nice to meet someone who likes “Hit” as much as me. Name’s Jed, by the way.”
His guest never got a chance to introduce himself. The studio audience had begun clapping wildly as the show’s host appeared on screen. Known as The Broker, he bowed theatrically. The first part of the show was routine. The Broker recapped the previous weeks’ hit and read some of the funnier nominations which viewers had sent in.
Jed nodded approvingly, reminded that the last target had been a right evil bastard who bludgeoned his own granny to death and sold all her valuables. He almost got away with it, but granny’s old pals saw to it that she got justice in the end.
“Right folks, it’s time to move on to this week’s nomination.” The camera zoomed in on the Broker’s solemn face. “This guy is a real thug; a violent bully who enjoys using his fists on a defenceless woman. Yes, that’s right, good people. Tonight we have a brutal husband to dispose of.”
The audience booed and hissed. The subject this week was already as good as dead as far as they were concerned, but the host raised his hands to silence them.
“For ten terrifying years, this monster has repeatedly beaten the living daylights out his helpless wife. He’s almost killed her on more than one occasion. Nothing ever stops him, not even his own children.”
Jed felt a momentary twinge of unease. This sounded familiar, but then nobody knew what went on in his house. He took a quick glance at his guest, wondering if he might have noticed the bruises on his missus’s face.
“Sounds like a right prick,” Jed commented.
“Yeah, he has it coming,” the man responded absently, seeming totally absorbed in the show.
“Now, I know what you’re all thinking. Why didn’t she leave him?” The Broker carried on. “Well, of course she did, but he always found her and forced her to come back. And now you’re asking. Why didn’t she try to get help? Of course she did. But did Social Services help her?”
“No!” the audience shouted back, their faces flushed and angry.
“Did the police help her?”
“No!”
“Did the Courts help her?”
“No!”
“So then, are we going to help her?” the Broker almost screamed into the camera.
“Yes!” In one simultaneous voice, the audience began chanting. “Hit! Hit! Hit!” Hit!”
The images of the five assassins instantaneously appeared. Each one of them was carrying their trademark weapon of choice and wearing a hostile expression, with one obvious exception. The audience cheered and stamped.
“Who has been chosen to save this desperate woman from her worthless husband?” The Broker cried out, turning to look at the images.
Only one assassin remained. With his face blacked out, he stood pictured with his semi-automatic pistol pressed against chest.
“The Stranger is tonight’s champion,” the Broker announced dramatically. “Justice will be done and her oppressor will torment her no more. All that’s left is to reveal who this dead man is.”
The camera scanned the eager faces of the studio audience, cutting cut back to a close up of the Broker.
“Jeremy Alan Thomas. This – Is – Your – Hit.”
Jed’s jaw dropped. There he was, pictured on his own television screen, sitting bolt upright on his own couch. The stranger he had cheerfully invited into his home was nowhere in sight. A moment later, he felt something cold and sharp jab into left temple. Sweat broke out on Jed’s body. He was too terrified turn and look at his favourite killer. Then, his wife was suddenly standing before him. The expression on her face was one he hadn’t seen for years. She was smiling.
Copyright and licensing notice
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
(CC BY-NC-ND 4.0)
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, Laura Dunbar.
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, Laura Dunbar.
This page published 18th September 2017