“Jim!” the wiry man in his seventies wearing a gray suit and neatly trimmed gray hair under a fedora yelled to the nattily dressed man a little shorter and rounder, but about the same age in a black business suit with a cleanly shaven head. Floating in from different directions, both converged on the driveway leading towards the curved concrete and glass building, past the silver sign declaring “WSB Television & Radio Group. “Are you going to be participating in the drawing tonight?”
“Evening, Marty! Nah, last time that Russian grandmother clocked me with her handbag.” He made an effort to stretch his neck, “my neck hurt for weeks. Way I look at it, my grandkids are on their own!”
“I’m with you, Jim. I thought you were nuts last time, but I get it. What’s it up to this time?”
“Five hundred forty-seven million dollars!”
Jim whistled appreciatively. “That’s a lotta cheddar.”
“Sure is. But I’ll tell you what: I think we’ll have the best show!”
“That’s the truth! The living has their MMA, but that’s nothing like lottery drawings!”
“Mmm hmm!”
Both passed effortlessly through the wall and into the building and into utter bedlam.
Inside the studio, a man in a tuxedo stood quietly on a colorful set with bright monitors showing the “Mega Millions” logo. He held a microphone as he stood in front of two spherical hoppers filled with individually numbered balls.
“How’s that, Ed? Levels okay?” the man said into the microphone. “One, two, three…” He listened to the response from the control room through his earpiece, “Okay, great. Could we get the thermostat up a little? It’s always too cold in here when we do the drawing!”
In front of him, three different camera operators swiveled their oversize cameras as the director keyed each operator to zoom and pan to check their motion before they went live. Off set a few more people stood, but the only real chaos in the room was a nervous buzz in the control room – there was always a little nervous buzz, but most of the people involved were veterans and had helped produce the drawing for years.
That’s what the living saw.
Thousands of ghosts stood shoulder to shoulder crowded around the hoppers. Against the walls, dozens of ghosts floated near the ceiling, observing the mass of ghosts below. Jim and Marty floated up in the northern-most corner of the studio regarding the madness below and in front of them.
“This is gonna be something!” Marty elbowed Jim.
“You know it is!”
“Makes me claustrophobic just looking at ‘em all!”
“Mmm hmm.”
Surveying the mass below, most appeared older – maybe late forties to elderly. Some held notecards with numbers scrawled on them, others lips moved as they silently recited the numbers they wanted. Marty noticed a few younger ghosts cracking their knuckles and bouncing up and down in anticipation. “Uh oh, that’s going to be trouble!”
“Don’t you know it – those punks are just here for the fight.”
“Shame,” Marty shook his head. “Well, I guess it’s lucky no one can die twice!” both roared in laughter.
Jim broke off the laughter, “Shh! Shh, Marty! They’re about to start.”
An announcement over the PA in the studio boomed, “Places people, we’re live in five, four, three,” the voice cut off as the director just off camera pointed to the man on the tuxedo as the red light light up on the camera in the center of the stage as dramatic music swelled and the tuxedoed man held a bright white smile.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve got a great drawing for you tonight! Five hundred forty-seven million dollars! Let’s get those balls moving!” The hoppers came to life and the balls swirled around wildly inside the transparent globes.
“Oh, Lord, they’re going crazy!” Jim said as the thousands of ghosts pushed in tighter and tighter, the mass of bodies nearly vibrating with anticipation. The mass, relatively quiet until now, began to rise to a din as the closely packed ghosts started cursing at each other and groaning with the strain of the bodies pressing in.
“I’m so glad we’re up here!” Marty shouted over the roar of ghosts as he shook his head.
Neither could hear the Mr. Tuxedo anymore, only the writhing mass, but suddenly he gestured and turned to the hopper.
That was the signal – the draw had begun.
Chaos erupted among the ghosts.
Ghosts tried to climb over each other. Fists were thrown. Jim saw the Russian grandmother wildly waving her purse and clubbing ghosts around her indiscriminately and his hand reflexively rubbed the back of his neck. The punks midway back just started punching and kicking for the sake of causing mayhem. Everyone was trying to get their hands through the plastic and into the hopper to guide the numbers they wanted – they needed – for their loved ones left behind. A usually comely woman with grey-streaked blonde hair, her face contorted into a mask of determination had fought her way to the main hopper and had an arm inside, trying to corral the number 3 ball towards the chute. She pushed the ball down against the ping-ponging other balls and the gust of air that swirled the balls into a maelstrom when she saw a hand reach down over the ball and help guide the 3 ball towards the chute. Astonished by the assistance, she let her determined mask slip a bit and looked up into the blue eyes of a man not much older than she was. He took his eyes off the ball for a heart beat, long enough to throw her a smile before he turned his focus back to the ball. The woman heard a roar and looked up again to see a heavy-set man without a shirt come crashing down on her bodily, her arm painfully wrested out of the hopper, the 3 ball spinning out of control. The heavyset man grinned maniacally at the older man who was helping the now-smooshed woman as he reached an arm in to find the numbers he was looking for. The older man frowned, and then headbutted the bare-chested man in the face. Bare-chesty’s nose erupted in ectoplasm and he roared.
“Twenty!” Mr. Tuxedo announced the first number.
A thunder of groans rose from the ghosts, interspersed with a few cheers here and there. A ghost with honest-to-god boxing gloves and the scarred face an crooked nose to prove he knew how to use them was punching his way to the hopper. He feinted as the Russian grandmother swung her handbag at him and followed with a right hook that laid the Russian Grandmother out as the crowd surged over her.
“Ooh!” Jim and Marty flinched at the same time. “That’s gotta hurt,” Marty added.
The boxer reached the hopper only to receive a tap on his shouder. When he turned, a roundhouse kick from a woman who had to have been twice his age dropped him like a sack of Halloween candy. The elderly blackbelt followed her kick by jabbing her hand into the hopper, nabbing a ball and slamming it into the chute with authority.
“Twenty-two!” Mr. Tuxedo called.
The disappointed groan was louder this time, the cheers fewer. One man hurled his much-smaller wife over the crowd. She tucked at the last moment and crashed into the front of the mass like they were bowling pins. She popped up, reached a hand in and started to move the 30 ball into place, but a hand from one of the fallen would-be bowling pins managed to reach up an arm, grab the small woman’s ankle and yank her down. The 30 ball careened off the side, bouncing a different ball downwards…
“Thirty-nine!”
Groans, cheers, more bloodshed as ghosts clawed – literally – for position and to get their number balls into the chute.
“Fifty-four!”
Jim could see the action changing. Enough peoples numbers hadn’t come up that they started to fall back. Those who still had a chance, though, fought more violently. A burly man fought to get the 50 ball out of the swirling balls when a woman bit the man’s ear clean off but before ear-biter had a chance to capitalize on her canibalizing, another woman placed a hand on either side of the biter’s head and twisted, dropping the woman as her neck broke with a sickening crack causing Jim to think he might be ill.
“Sixty!” Mr. Tuxedo called.
Now things changed.
The second hopper erupted, balls flying. “And for the bonus number…”
Almost all the ghosts were out of it at this point, but for the handful of ghosts for whom this number was critical, the ferocity rose to a fever pitch, the action brutal and swift with spurts of ectoplasm accompanying screams and groans.
“Eighteen!” Mr. Tuxedo called.
No one cheered. A few scattered groans from those still able to groan and still had faculty enough to know what they were groaning about.
Jim looked at the carnage of all the ghosts lying broken and injured carpeting the studio, ghost bodies three-deep in some places. “Wow, that was…just wow.”
“Agreed,” Marty said with a shudder. “Doesn’t look like anyone won.”
“Not this time,” Jim agreed.
Marty sighed, adjusted the fedora, turned to his friend and stuck out his hand. “Well, Jim, that was fun!”
“Yes, yes it was,” Jim said, shaking the proffered hand. “A lot more fun for us then them,” he inclined his head down towards the broken, ectoplasm-streaked mass.
“No doubt, my friend. When they manage to extricate themselves there’s gonna be a hell of a lot of hangovers.”
“You got that right!” they laughed as they floated through the wall and back down the driveway.
“So, Jim, no one won…” he left the statement open as a question.
“See you next Friday?”
“It’ll be over half a billion dollars! I wouldn’t miss that chaos for… half a billion dollars!” they both laughed uproariously and floated off their separate ways.