The Final Contestant

They called it The Game. Every month a new round began, drawing thousands of competitors. Most were insane, or simply suicidal. Its ten deadly traps, called Levels, had claimed their millionth victim just last month. The billion-dollar prize was seductive for those without hope. It was win, or die trying.

Nobody ever won, of course. Few even made it past the first Level. There were exceptions - a year ago, a woman from Iowa left her family behind and entered The Game. She got to Level Six, and her widowed husband got a book deal out of it.

I never knew of my dad's obsession. He never talked about it, never read the monthly results in the paper. So I was stunned when I saw the bold headline on the news one morning: JACK FRY COMPLETES LEVEL 9.

In the following weeks, I retreated from society, from interviews and movie deals. I spent my days studying my dead father's extensive notes, the scribblings of a madman. The Game was a disease. Our society was sick, and there was only one cure - I had to end it all.