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(Male Version) Life's a B**ch: A What Would You Do Story (Part 1 of 3)
🕑 Added 2024-02-07 04:44:25 +0000 UTC“Do you smell that?”
It was a bright, sunny early afternoon in Daytona Beach, Florida, and the start of the long Memorial Day weekend. The air was warm and full of possibility. The days were getting longer, the temperatures getting warmer. It was also Day 1 of the inaugural Life’s a Beach Festival, a 4-day music festival which would bring over 100 artists to perform on stages built right on the sand.
Festivalgoers were encouraged to camp on the beach, and the beachfront was set up to accommodate them: just off the festival grounds sat a temporary campground where visitors could set up tents, allowing them to attend without spending exorbitant amounts on beachfront hotel rooms, all of which inflated prices just for the festival. All the better for the organizers to vacuum up that money instead, redirecting it from Hilton, Sheraton, or the Shellfish Motor Inn toward their own overpriced food, drinks, and merchandise.
Families and festivalgoers alike shared the boardwalk on this Friday midday – hot dogs, sodas, ice creams in hand – when they caught a whiff of spoiled milk and sugar. Some scrunched up their faces. They looked at each other. They looked around. Then, they spotted them: the cause of that rank odor and the accompanying question.
Four college guys trudging down the boardwalk, as if in a trance. A couple were wearing shapeless, oversized T-shirts that they clearly just got; another was in an bright green speedo that looked like it had been through a war; and the last in a discolored pink soccer jersey and jeans that looked like they weighed 50 pounds, they were so smothered in goo. And it looks like it’s… is that duct tape holding his clothes together?
And that was just their clothes. Their faces had remnants of gooey substances all over them, smears of green, white, blue, and others. Their hair was all knotted and mangled. They all looked in desperate need of a shower, and seemed both embarrassed and dejected to be out in public looking like this.
[Four hours earlier]
Just after 9am, the boys parked their overstuffed Toyota RAV-4 at the campground parking lot, having just completed a 2,000-mile drive that took three days to complete. They were all 20-year-old members of the Omega Delta fraternity, about to be seniors at Arizona State University, and in fact drove straight from Tempe, their shoestring college budgets leaving them no choice but to hit the open road. They were both bleary-eyed and enervated, prepared to rough it for four days and three nights in nothing but a small camping spot. Still, they were ready to make this a weekend to remember.
With a few hours to kill before the first artists hit the stage, the guys decided to kill time on the boardwalk. All four were content to just wear literally the first thing they picked out of their duffel bags.
They only made it a couple of blocks when they saw it. On the marquee of one beachside building, a sign reading, “TV SHOW TAPING TODAY! WIN VIP PASSES TO L-A-B FEST!”
They ran to the ticket window to learn how to enter. A cheery attendant gave them each a wristband, and instructions to return at 11am.
Comedy Channel was an official festival sponsor, and were holding what amounted to a pre-fest party by shooting a new episode of their popular variety show, the rebooted What Would You Do. With VIP passes to all four days at stake, which entitled the holders to upgraded camping accommodations and prime viewing areas of the four stages, the line was down the boardwalk when the boys returned just before 11.
Luckily, the line moved quickly, and they found themselves seated in the fourth row center. They looked around at the opulent set with its wacky looking contraptions and bright colors and immediately felt transported back to the 80s. Or what they heard the 80s were like. With literally hundreds of people in the audience, they wondered how on earth they’d ever be the ones picked to get the VIP passes. Maybe this was a waste of time.
Just then, their seatmates, a couple of friendly-looking college girls, asked if they were here for the festival. They all started talking, and the girls revealed they were students at the nearby University of Central Florida. It turned out their campsites were near each other’s, so they pledged to hang out throughout the weekend. This filled the boys with hope, and instinctively raised their competitive juices. Who would hook up with whom, they wondered. One of the girls asked if any of them had seen the show before.
“Never!” one of them replied. “We’re just here for a good time.”
One of the women snickered. A bunch of marks, these four. “Well,” he said, “It gets pretty nutty. If you get picked, be prepared for just about anything.”
Before one of them could ask what she meant, a stagehand called for applause, and the famous What Would You Do theme song began playing. Just a few seconds later, host Marc Summers skipped out on stage under a bed of cheers.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to What Would You Do, how are we doing today?”
The crowd let out a roar, surprising the veteran host.
“Wow, a lot of energy in our studio today, thank you so very much!”
“And it’s no wonder why! We here at the Comedy Channel are excited to be partners of the first-ever Life’s a Beach Festival! By round of applause, who is here for the festival, huh?”
More big energy. Pretty much everyone is here for one purpose: getting their hands on those VIP passes.
“And we’ve got a special giveaway for some lucky people today. Who here wants some VIP passes?”
The ensuing sound could only be described as Taylor Swift tweeting she was at the local Target.
“Well, that’s what we like to hear!” Marc exclaims. “I wanna play a game with some lucky audience members, with the winners taking home a set of these VIP passes. I’ve got a question for everybody. Who here drove from the furthest away? Not flown, drove?”
Countless hands reach for the sky to get Marc’s attention. Groups of people shout their origins, and as Marc scans the crowd, he notices just how uniquely everyone is dressed. People have turned up in all kinds of flashy, colorful, skimpy festival wear.
It’s a dead giveaway. No one who drove from far and wide would have enough energy to put themselves together the way most of these people did. Frauds, Marc thinks to himself. He surmises the furthest most of these people drove was from the Enterprise Rent-A-Car counter at the Orlando airport.
But then he spots a group of four guys dressed extremely ordinarily, sporting some serious tans, which always look good under a layer of whipped cream. He points his microphone at a guy in a sleeveless button down t-shirt.
“Tucson, Arizona!” the boy says. “We go to the U of A, go Cats!”
Marc is impressed; a trip from Arizona to the edge of the Atlantic Ocean is no small feat. The crowd cheers in envy as Marc invites them up on stage to play.
“Now I’m looking for another group, anyone else from far away with us today?”
The cheers turn even louder, as everyone senses their fading opportunity to win the VIP passes. Again, Marc looks for the most plain looking group he can find, and sees one slender guy wearing a Toon Squad jersey with his arm ramrod straight up. To the surprise of his friends, he makes a beeline right for him.
“What’s your name, and where are you from?”
“I’m Ricky, and me and my three boys are from Arizona STATE!!”
“Oh, now how can I turn down a good ol’ in-state rivalry for these VIP passes?!!” Marc says. “In that case, come down and join me please, all four of you guys!”
The boys are all in shock. Of the hundreds of people in this audience, they were handpicked for the chance to win the coveted VIP passes. It was a long, long three days. They felt they deserved them, and that Marc was just in finding and rewarding them. Not only that, they’d put those losers from their rival school in their place: in the back of the festival crowd, where they belonged.
Not one of them recalled that vague warning. If you get picked, be prepared for just about anything.
Turns out there was a reason Marc sought the most fatigued folks from the audience, the ones who came from the furthest away. For one, a long road trip meant their minds wouldn’t be at 100%, which played right into his game. For another, he figured they probably had to squeeze themselves – and four days of supplies – into some tight little sedan, and likely didn’t bring enough spare changes of clothes to compensate for what this game involved.
Perfect for his sinister intentions.
The eight contestants assembled into two teams on stage, where they were met with a giant 3x3 tic-tac-toe-like board. The What Would You Do logo was in the center square, with the words Mystery Board and numerous question marks in the margin above the squares. The squares themselves are numbered 1 through 8.
Marc joined the two groups on stage. He approached the plain-looking University of Arizona guys first, asking them to introduce themselves. They all seemed the nervous, nerdy type.
- Eric had oversized glasses on, a kind of shield for his blue eyes. He had close-cropped blonde hair and had a light-blue v-neck t-shirt and dark basketball shorts.
- Grayson was the tallest of the four, but extremely lanky, like he’d never even seen a gym before. He, too, has close-cropped blonde hair and a cute smile to go along with his black tank top and gray running shorts.
- Victor was a skinny Asian guy who clearly had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. He was short with dark brown hair that was slightly unkempt, and had the look of a guy who had done most of the driving over the last three days. He tried his best though, putting on a crisp-looking light green slim fit Polo-branded t-shirt and some seersucker shorts.
- Ray was Hispanic and a native of Arizona. He’d never been out of his home state and really wanted to make this trip worthwhile; it was his hand that had been raised when Marc singled out his group. He had the darkest skin of the four and dark brown hair to go along with his gray sleeveless t-shirt and jeans.
Sensing that these guys had no sexual appeal whatsoever, Marc quickly moved on and urged the group of bros to introduce themselves.
- Charlie pandered to the area by wearing a pink and black Inter Miami jersey with Lionel Messi’s name and #10 on the back, with light blue denim jeans and aviator sunglasses on. He looked every bit a soccer player, shorter and more slender with a well-built lower half.
- Ricky is Mexican-American, 5’10” and toned with tan skin and close cropped dark brown hair. He was the one sporting the Toon Squad jersey. He paired it with maroon and gold basketball shorts with the Arizona State trident logo on them.
- Jason is jacked, Italian-American and introduced himself with a strong, borderline grating Staten Island accent. He further cemented his bro-y look by parting his hair to one side and holding it in place with hair gel. He looked like he just finished a workout at the outdoor gym on the beach, what with his royal blue skintight tank top with the Superman logo on it, his slim fit running shorts falling gently on his muscular thighs. He was a walking stereotype.
- And finally, Ben, a striking 6’4” with a blonde ponytail and pecs for days beneath his unbuttoned baseball-style button-down shirt. Like Jason, Ben’s thighs were basically popping out of his jorts. Though he was an international student from Sweden, Ben had quickly assimilated to Arizona State’s hard-partying reputation. This transformation made him basically fearless.
After they introduced themselves but before Marc could walk away, Jason grabbed the microphone. He growled, “And we’re frat brothers in Pi Delta Alpha! P-D-A, baby, let’s goooooo!!!”
Tepid applause greeted their introductions. These guys were already tough to take.
“So guys,” Marc said, “I hope you know the lineup to the Life’s a Beach Festival, because while the game we’re going to play is very simple, your memories will be tested.
“We’ve got four of you on each team, and one team is walking away with some VIP passes to the festival, while the other will walk away with absolutely nothing.
“Or maybe not nothing, but I’ll tell you what, it won’t be VIP passes,” Marc said in a sinister voice.
“Here’s how it’s gonna work. It’s very simple. There are four of you on each team, and there are four days of the music festival. So you’ll each be given one day of the festival, and you’re gonna go head-to-head against a member of the other team, with each of you naming artists performing on that day, until one of you can’t, or until one of you gives me an incorrect answer.
“Now you have to name artists only on your specific day. So if you’re assigned Friday, you tell me Ariana Grande – well, she’s playing Sunday, so you would lose the round, okay? Any questions?”
Marc is met with mostly smiles, head nods, and shakes of the head. He proceeds.
“Now you might be wondering about our Mystery Board here” – Marc gestures at the tic tac toe board that had already been on stage – “Whoever loses each round is going to pick a square from this board, and I can assure you, you don’t want to be picking from this board.
“Robin, can you show them why?
Right on cue, Marc’s longtime assistant appears from offstage, wheeling out what’s becoming the most dreaded set piece for any participant on the show. The audience, many of whom had never seen the show and so were unfamiliar with the ritual faux executions that took place, began to yell ohhhhs and whoaaas, with a few incredulous laughs mixed in. The few who were familiar with the show immediately break into applause, as they know this is the part where the messy ammo comes out.
And sure enough, a bakery cart as tall as Robin makes its way onstage, stacked high with full racks of gigantic cream pies, several sheet cakes, and even what can only be described as an industrial strength water gun, connected by a plastic line to a very large bucket with a lid on it.
Both teams are beside themselves. Some of the boys turn away, some chuckle. Charlie throws his hands up to the sky in exasperation, figuring his pristine pink jersey may not stay bright pink for long, while the others simply shake their heads.
Marc stretches his arms out and pushes them downward in an attempt to regain control of the crowd. They oblige.
“That’s right, guys,” he says. “The loser of each round will pick a square, and you’ll have to do whatever it says. Some of the penalties could be for you, could be for you and a friend, or they could be for your entire team. Each square has a certain number of skulls on it. However many you see, that’s how many people have to take the penalty. So that means even if it’s not your turn, if your teammate loses, YOU could be punished!
“Or, and this is the silver lining – they could be reversed, meaning your opponents have to take the penalty!”
More ohhhs and applause from the crowd. Everybody loves a good swerve. Anything could happen to anyone at any time! It’s anarchy!
“There are eight squares on the board, and one of them says ‘Game Over’. Whichever team picks that square loses the game, giving the VIP passes to their opponents and earning every member of their team a trip to one of our world-famous pie devices you see around our studio!”
The audience erupts again. As has become de rigueur on the show, not only are contestants at risk of getting messy in the actual game, they’ll get finished off at one of the Saw-like contraptions ringing the studio.
The combo Pie Pod/Pie Slide combo named The Torture Machine. The Pie Coaster. The Pie Slide. The Dunk Tank. The Human Fondue. The Cruci-Pied. Usually only one or two of them would get activated each show, but this crowd would be treated to four of them.
Marc hears a groan come from the Arizona State side off-mic. “I’m sorry, what was that, sir?”
“I don’t wanna play anymore!” Charlie says. He’d just bought his Inter Miami jersey – an authentic one! – a couple of weeks ago when they booked this trip to Florida, and couldn’t fathom it getting … ahem … Messi. Some silly VIP passes weren’t worth it for all of this. It wasn’t even his idea!
“I’m sorry Charlie, that’s just not an option! But if you want, we can just send YOU to the Dunk Tank and get this over with!”
“No!” he barks. He crosses his arms and stomps his right foot in protest.
“That’s what I thought,” Marc says condescendingly. His true nature is starting to emerge.
“Think of it this way,” he continued. “You don’t even need to have encyclopedic knowledge of this festival. You just have to not be the one to pick the Game Over square!
“Everybody good? What do you say, audience, are we ready to play this game?”
They’re absolutely feral. Based only on the obnoxious way the Arizona State guys introduced themselves and their overall bro-y look, they seemed to be on the nerds’ side. Plus, the bros were all so hot, it’d be a shame to not see them get absolutely demolished. They each seemed like the kind of guy you’d try to approach at a party, but they’d just tell you to get the fuck out of their face before shoving you into the pool.
“Eric and Charlie, can you join me up front here, please?”
Charlie looked radiant in his immaculate tan, while Eric seemed like he just got out of his differential calculus class. This guy is attending this music festival, Charlie thought? I’m gonna smoke him.
Charlie offered his outstretched hand, and Eric shook it.
“Aww, a little sportsmanship, Marc said, mildly surprised by the gesture. “Great job, you two.”
What Marc didn’t see was Charlie winking at Eric. What Marc didn’t feel was Charlie’s handshake, so hard that Eric pulled away, feeling like his hand was about to get crushed. Was this psychological warfare?
“Alright, Charlie, you go first. Here we go with Round 1. On your mark. Get set. Go!”
A thumping dance beat started to play as each of them began reciting names as best they could.
Charlie: “Billie Eilish.”
Eric: “Diplo.”
Charlie: “Portugal. The Man.”
Eric: “Noah Kahan.”
Charlie: “Um…” He still feels the tingling of Eric's handshake, and it’s distracting him. “Carly Rae Jepsen.”
Eric: “Key Glock.”
Charlie: “Uh… um…”
Marc: “Need an answer, Charlie. 3 seconds.”
Charlie: “The 1975?”
BUZZ.
“Oh no!” Marc says. “I’m sorry, The 1975 is performing Friday, not Thursday!”
OHHHH goes the audience.
Charlie clenches his teeth and both fists, while Eric punches the air and yells, “YEAH, LET’S GOOOO!”
Marc says. “Charlie, I’m gonna need a number from our Mystery Board. 1 through 8, what’s it gonna be?”
“I dunno… number 4?”
“Everybody, can we get a slow clap going?” Marc asked.
The crowd obliged as Robin slowly approached the board. Charlie clasped his hands together at his mouth as if in prayer, while shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. The claps became faster and faster. Robin gripped the velcro number, and slowly, agonizingly, pulled in back.
The crowd roared as a camera zoomed in and the screens above the studio revealed the result.
CAKE IN THE FACE! With one skull: the spotlight will be solely on Charlie.
Charlie is heard off-mic yelling “Oh my God!”
Eric rubs his hands together, a dorky smile on his face as Robin delicately hands him a 13” by 18” sheet cake decorated with a red, white, and blue American flag for the holiday. As always, the cakes look less like cakes and more like vehicles for massive amounts of colorful whipped frosting, designed to do maximum damage to the hair, clothes, and especially the face of its recipient.
Except Charlie won’t go down without a fight.
“I’m sorry, what’s that?”
“I said, you wouldn’t cake somebody with glasses, would you?” He points at his unnecessarily large sunglasses, which clearly had no purpose being worn inside.
Marc considers this for a moment. His eyes open wide when the idea comes to him. He calls an audible.
“You know what, you’re right. We’ll let your face off the hook this time.”
He nods at Marc in approval. He figured Marc would see it his way.
“Now turn around,” Marc commands.
More rapturous cheers. The crowd senses where this is going.
Charlie protests some more, but his complaints fall on deaf ears. Robin is heard saying, you heard him, honey, let’s see that butt! She takes him by the shoulders and turns him to face the crowd, she yanks down his jeans, revealing white briefs that barely cover his plump ass cheeks, a thin piece of fabric all that’s separating his ass crack from being shown on camera to the rest of the country.
Another slight smile creeps across Eric’s face. He was bisexual, and saw a hot guy stripped in front of him for maybe just the second or third time in his life. He knows what he’s supposed to do.
“Eric, I want you to show Charlie what happens when you try to weasel your way out of a penalty on this show.
Then, Marc twists the knife on his victim.
“Charlie, wow, this cake is… look at this thing, it’s red, white, blue. And that’s such nice white underwear you’ve got on. Any last words before we add some color to them?”
“Whatever, I don’t need them anyway.”
Marc squints his eyes. “I’ll remember you said that! On the count of three, audience, let’s give Charlie what he deserves!”
ONE! TWO! THREE!
BLOOK! A silly sound effect plays as Eric grips Charlie’s toned abs with his left hand and doesn’t hold back with his right. Charlie yelps as he feels the cake slam hard into his butt, with such force that he shuffles forward several steps. This dork hits hard! His pristine white underwear is instantly ruined under a slurry of gaudy colors. His butt, upper thighs and exposed lower back are absolutely smothered. Chunks of cake tumble down his legs, some of them depositing frosting stains on his shorts on the way to the floor.
The crowd loves it.
“That was awesome, Eric. I think we’d all love to see him get it in the face while we’re at it, what do you say, audience?”
Obviously, the crowd eats up the idea.
“Robin, can we get another cake please?”
The cameras catch Charlie as he falls into an exasperated squat. But they quickly shift, as coming out from behind the cameras is a very special guest. Is that…?
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome festival performer and world-famous DJ, Steve Aoki!”
The man known as much for caking audience members at his shows as he is for his DJ-ing comes out with his right hand waving, amping up the crowd, another sheet cake in his left hand.
Charlie is back on his feet, but his shoulders drop and his face shows the defeat he feels.
Marc takes his ridiculous sunglasses off and prepares the crowd to see this doofus get caked a second time. Cheers rise as a snippet of his song “Cake Face” plays, louder and louder, as if reaching a crescendo. It’s the build-up to the song’s world-famous drop.
Marc yells over the song. “Steve, when the beat drops, do your thing!”
The crowd claps to the song. It plays louder and louder, the studio lights dancing along with it. The tension rises, rises some more, until finally…
“CAKE FACE!!”
BLAM!!! Steve launches the entire dessert at his target and connects with a direct hit. Charlie scrunches his shoulders and braces for impact, but it doesn’t help. The cake explodes in all directions, showering chunks of red, white and blue all over the stage and theatrically blowing his hair behind him like a giant gust of wind, providing a new definition of “frosted tips.” Charlie’s friends, just a few feet away, scramble out of the way, leaving a stunned Charlie bent over at the waist, giant gobs of goo tumbling down his formerly pink soccer jersey. Not a single square inch above his chest is still white – the Adidas logo, the team crest, the sponsor logo, all smothered under a layer of American flag colors.
Meanwhile, Steve continues to pump up the crowd, pumping his fists as the music and light show continues. Eventually, the lights return to their bright default, Steve bro-hugs the nerdy boys, fist-bumps Marc, and runs off-stage to another round of applause. Another job well done, another check to cash.
Charlie is seen desperately clawing cake off of his body in vain. First, his face. He quickly realizes all he’s doing is pushing frosting deeper into his pores, so then he tries his hair. All that does is spread the cake around. Lastly, he tries to push cake remnants down his formerly pink jersey and to the floor, but all that does is drive the colored frosting deeper into the fabric. He finally gives up, returning to his friends, all of whom slap his back tentatively. They want to give him support, but not at the expense of getting messy themselves.
And that was only Round 1!
“Well,” Marc says, “That was an eventful first round! Stick around to see who knows more about the festival when our memory game continues, right after this!”
The show goes to commercial while the song “Cake Face” plays once more, but not before a slow-motion split-screen interstitial plays. First, on the left, Eric absolutely blasting Charlie’s ass with the American flag cake, revealing two plump butt cheeks and a wild swirl of color. Then, that video pauses, and the one on the right plays: Steve Aoki hurling a second gigantic dessert into Charlie’s scrunched up face. The explosion of cake, the force of it causing Charlie to shuffle backwards, the hands clawing helplessly at the buttery mess all over his face and hair. The What Would You Do logo hops around the screen before settling in a corner and fading to black.
Before long, the song ends and a stagehand is counting Marc back in from break.
“We’re back on What Would You Do, and we’ve got two teams here vying for VIP passes to the Life’s a Beach Festival for their entire crew. We’ve got the University of Arizona, we’ve got Arizona State, battling it out, and Charlie from ASU here just paid the price for losing Round 1. How’s that cake taste, sir?”
Even after a few minutes, Charlie is still stunned from his double caking. He mutters something inaudible. Marc simply shrugs his shoulders and moves on.
“Round 2 – I’d like Grayson and Ricky to join me up here, please!”
Both come forward rather tentatively, wondering if what happened to Charlie is the worst they could expect, or if that was merely an appetizer. Marc gets them into position.
“We’re naming Friday artists. Bea, you’re up first. On your mark. Get set. Go!”
Ricky: “The 1975.”
Grayson: “Kendrick Lamar.”
Ricky: “Sabrina Carpenter.”
Grayson: “Thirty Seconds to Mars.”
Ricky: “Um… uh… Beabadoobee.”
Grayson: “Shit, that was my next guess. I, uh…”
Ricky: “3 seconds, need an answer!”
Grayson: …
BUZZ.
“Oh no!” Marc exclaims. “Grayson, you ran out of time. I’m sorry! I’m gonna need you to pick a square, sir!”
Grayson sighs. “2.”
The slow clap builds once again as Robin approaches the board. She grips the flap covering the penalty, and with a flourish, rips it off to reveal…
CLOTHES DESTRUCTION! REVERSED! Two skulls!
The audience is going nuts. This is a punishment never before seen on the show!
“Oh no!” Marc shouts again. “It’s a reverse! This one is going to the State boys! In fact, two skulls means TWO of your Arizona State rivals are getting their clothes cut off!”
Ricky’s immediate reaction is to grip his chest tightly. Are they really going to cut my clothes up?!
“Grayson,” Marc says, “We know Ricky is getting his clothes cut off. Who’s going to join him?”
Grayson shows surprising self-confidence; he barely lets Marc finish his sentence before he grabs Marc’s hand on the microphone, yanks it toward himself and starts shouting.
“That’s a GREAT question, Marc, but there’s only one answer. He was such a diva trying to avoid those cakes, so obviously” – he points directly at him and looks him right in the eyes – “I’m picking Charlie.”
A no!!! is heard off-mic as Charlie realizes he has to take a second punishment in a row.
The crowd roars as Robin approaches from off-stage carrying two sets of fabric scissors. She hands one pair to Grayson, who makes his way toward Charlie, while Robin approaches Ricky. Grayson handpicked Charlie, he might as well do the deed himself.
Both bros stand ramrod straight as Robin and Charlie grip their jerseys at their respective waists. Robin takes hold of Ricky’s Toon Squad jersey and begins cutting upwards, while Grayson does the same with Charlie’s still-sort-of-pink soccer shirt.
The decibel level in the room increases as each boy’s shirt gets snipped off one cut at a time, painfully, agonizingly slowly.
In a silly turn, the scissors’ effectiveness diminishes as they reach the caked parts of Charlie’s shirt, causing him to yell, “Just get it over with already!” He finally cuts to the neck, frees the messy Messi shirt from his arms, and holds it in the air like a trophy.
Ricky, meanwhile, is complaining endlessly as Robin cuts away at his jersey. Without any cake to contend with, it gives way extremely easily. The crowd’s attention flips from Charlie’s complaints to Ricky’s supremely toned body. His broad shoulders, his well-defined chest, and his washboard abs.
Now completely shirtless, both dudes cover their mouths with their palms and close their eyes as Robin and Charlie get to work on chopping up their bottoms.
Grayson once again has to maneuver around cake remnants, this time around Charlie’s ass, as he cuts Charlie’s jeans straight down the right leg. Charlie shudders as he feels the cold scissors touching his thighs and the cool studio air washing over his legs a second time. Grayson finishes his right leg, then goes to work on his left, finishing the job and causing the tattered denim to yield to gravity’s pull as they drop to the floor, revealing Charlie’s caked underwear a second time. With his back to the audience, Charlie knew where everyone’s eyes were focused.
Meanwhile, Robin had a much easier time cutting through Eric’s mesh basketball shorts. She snickered as she spotted Ricky’s red, white, and blue boxer briefs – a Mexican-American wearing American flag colors on Memorial Day Weekend. God bless America!
The crowd noise indicated to Marc that the game has become a formality. The VIP passes needed to still be given away, but everyone in the room – the contestants, the audience, the hosts – want to know what punishment is next and who it will happen to.
The saving grace for the bros is that they’re no further away from the prize than when they started. All they have to do is win a round and have the guys land on the GAME OVER square, and they still win, clothes or no clothes.
Round 3 commences as Victor and Jason step forward. Unlike in Round 1, where Charlie sportingly offered a handshake to Eric, Jason simply nods and smirks at Victor as a sign of his perceived superiority. He gives him a stinkface back, which is exactly the reaction he was looking for: he’s in his head now. Victor is distracted.
“Alright, you two!” Marc says. “You’re naming Saturday artists! On your mark! Get set! Go!”
Jason: “Maggie Rogers.”
Victor: “Yung Gravy.”
Jason: “Sylvan Esso.”
Victor: “PUSHA!”
Jason: “Lana Del Rey. No wait–”
BUZZ.
“Nope, no take-backs!” Marc says, not an ounce of pity in his voice. “Lana is on Sunday, Jason!”
Victor is seen cackling and clapping his hands loudly. His intimidation gambit backfired on him!
“So I’m sorry, but I need a number. What’s it gonna be?”
Jason is sorely disappointed, not only about losing but about losing to that guy. In barely a mumble, she says, “3.”
A drumroll plays through the studio speakers as Robin approaches the board. She grabs the panel on square number three and peels it back to reveal…
PIE IN THE FACE! WITH FOUR SKULLS!
Every one of the bros is getting pied!
“Oh my gosh,” Marc exclaims. “Our first full-team penalty! Robin, can we hand these guys some pies, please? This is gonna be awesome.”
The State guys are all kinds of dejected. For the third straight round, they’re the ones on the receiving end of punishment.
Though not as visually menacing as the cakes, the pies that Robin gives to each of the nerds are still very intimidating. Each is piled high with loads of whipped cream, topped with a bullseye made of the same buttery frosting as the cakes, all covering a mystery substance underneath that the bakers in the back have engineered to do maximum damage to faces, hair, and clothes.
All four guys size up their targets: Eric takes aim at Charlie, Grayson at Ricky, Victor at rude boy Jason, and Ray at Ben, who has already lost even though he hasn’t even played a round yet.
Each man cocks his right arm in aim, and a couple of them even point directly in their opposite’s face, providing one last clear indication of where this creamy dessert is about to end up.
They can hardly contain themselves as Marc starts the count.
“On the count of three, audience, these guys are from the desert, so we gotta treat ‘em to some dessert, whaddya say?”
ONE! TWO! THREE!
SPLOOK!
The guys’ simultaneous moans are downright orgasmic as all four of them are demolished by the sloppy cream pies. They all get hit hard.
Whipped cream flies back behind the their heads, their hair all blowing backward from the force, picking up cream, crust and pie filling along the way.
Eric walked behind Charlie and held the pie with two hands tantalizingly in front of his face. He waited an extra beat, allowing the camera to catch Charlie’s pained face – he’d already been caked, stripped, and now teased with a pie – just before he suddenly yanked his arms forward and slammed the pie right in his messy face. He smeared it around a couple of times before dragging the tin down his chest and down his stomach before shoving the mangled, empty tin down to the floor. Charlie was stunned, but ambulatory enough to spin around to shove Eric in disapproval.
Meanwhile, Jason is under siege: twinky Victor was unrelenting to the gym bro, as Victor placed his palm on the back of Jason’s head just before letting him have it with all his might, payback for the intimidating look he gave him a minute ago.
Every single one of the victims’ bodies contorts in discomfort. Charlie’s arms flail up toward his face, the force of Eric’s two hand hit causing his back to arch backwards, Ben tries to grab Ray’s wrist to stop him from force feeding him pie, while Jason’s shoulders shoot upward in surprise, and Ricky staggers backwards as if shot.
It turns out each of the pies was overflowing with blueberry pie filling, which drove wads of deep purple syrup and chunky berries deep into the boys’ faces, mouths, hair, and necks. All the boys got the pies grinded up and down their faces before most of them got them driven up into their hair, revealing the very same reaction underneath the slop: four wide open mouths, hanging there, frozen in shock.
The pies immediately started to melt, sending gobs of blueberry filling and sloppy whipped cream down their well-built chests.
White and blue filling dribbled out of Jason’s mouth and onto his skintight workout shirt. After a couple of seconds, Ricky took a tentative taste of the treat off his top lip.
The crowd rises up in unison to applaud, though it’s unclear whether the applause is for the bros’ courage, or for the nerds’ ruthlessness. Either way, it’s hard to imagine a single pie doing as much damage as these did, and everyone in the room, from Marc to the boys, are extremely satisfied with their handiwork.
Round 4! TIme for Ben and Ray to take their turns!
Ray looks at Ben, standing there with pie splattered all over his face, and he can’t help but laugh. He mouths an apology, but Ben knows this asshat doesn’t mean it.
“Alright, guys,” Marc says. “Sunday bands. On your mark! Get set! Go!”
Ben: “Lana Del Rey.”
Ray: “Red Hot Chili Peppers.”
Ben: “Rina Sawayama.”
Ray: “Lil’ Yachty.”
Ben: “Mount Joy.”
Ray: “A Boogie Wit Da Hoodie.”
Ben: “Louis the Child.”
Ray: “Afrojack.”
This is a surprisingly competitive round!
Ben: “The Backseat Lovers.”
Ray: “Joey Bada$$.”
Ben: “Dehd.”
Ray: “Upsahl.”
Ben: “Alvvays.”
Ray: “Fuck. Uh…
Marc: “3 seconds, Ben!”
Ray: “Uh… Dillon Nathaniel!”
Ben: “Oh crap. Um, uhh…”
Marc: “3 seconds, Ben!”
Ben: “Shit, shit, shit!”
BUZZ.
Ben: “No, goddamn it!”
“That was an insanely good round, you guys!” Marc says. “I’m really impressed. I’m genuinely sorry we have to have a loser, but unfortunately, Ben, that’s you… so what’s it gonna be?”
“Number 8.”
The drumroll plays, the crowd slow claps, and Robin approaches the board once more. The noise reaches a crescendo as she peels it back to unveil…
REVERSE THE ENTIRE BOARD! ONE SKULL!
“Wow, wow, wow,” Marc says. “Ben, it is your absolute lucky day! Do you know what this means?”
She nods no.
“You get to pick one person to get all the penalties we’ve revealed so far!”
The crowd voices their surprise and satisfaction with a chorus of WHOOOAAAAAAs. Friends in the audience are high fiving, jostling each other like they’re saying can you believe this shit?. The twists and turns of this show never fail to disappoint.
Marc continues. “So Ben, who’s it gonna–”
“HIM!” Ben points directly at Victor. His diminutive stature makes him look like easy prey, and his demeanor – he still seemed like he really didn’t want to be there, despite escaping the mess so far – likely meant that he would get embarrassed extremely easily and fold up like a tent in his next round.
Robin brings out the scissors and hands them to Ben, who makes a beeline for Jason and gives them right to him. Jaosn accepts them with a gleeful smile on his face, and sprints straight over to Victor.
Their size differential is stark: the towering, muscular Jason over the twinky, nerdy Victor.
Jason is as menacing as ever. He takes hold of Victor’s slim fitting Polo t-shirt. He yanks it and he immediately hears the neck hole tear slightly. That only motivates him even more.
Victor frowns and braces himself as Jason gets a strong grip on the hem of the shirt and begins to cut. He slices straight up the right side, all while Victor’s head falls backward in agony. After several cuts, he drops the scissors, grabs the ripped flaps he created and pulls outwards, giving the shirt a huge rip. The shirt makes tearing sounds as it gives way, revealing Victor’s skinny chest.
With his shirt gone, Jason gets to work on his seersucker shorts. These are also easy to cut, and with a flourish, he rips them away to reveal, comically, a bright green speedo underneath.
The crowd OHHHHHs again at this revelation, but only temporarily, because there’s so much more to come.
Marc commands Victor to hold his hands behind his back – “no fair blocking those pies!”, he says – and Victor complies. Meanwhile, Robin arms each of the bros with a fresh pie of their own. Their faces are still smothered with cream and blueberry filling, but they can’t wait to let this dork from their school’s biggest rival get some. They look at the massive cream pies with glee, and all of them point right at Victor’s face, devilish smiles on their own faces.
Marc sees they’re not going to wait much longer before unloading on him, so he quickly gets the audience counting.
ONE! TWO! THREE!
The boys hit him so hard and in such quick succession that the foley in the production room has a hard time queueing up the pie splatter sound effects. Instead of trying to time them perfectly to the pie hits, he just slams the GLOOP button four times in rapid succession, leading to hilarity on set as the pies slam against Victor’s body and the sounds don’t match up.
They are as ruthless to Victor as the dorky guys have been to them so far. Ricky and Charlie deliver a pie sandwich to each side of the Asian nerd’s face, blasting his dark brown hair with cream and cherry pie filling. His head disappears under the two tins as pie filling jams its way up his nose and into his open mouth.
Victor sputters and tries to take a breath, but that breath is quickly taken away as Ben blasts him in his bare chest with his pie. The hit is so hard that what little breath Victor had escapes him, leaving him gasping for air. At the same time, he ingests a bunch of pie that was already in his mouth, causing him to cough and wheeze some more.
But his breath gets taken away again as jacked Jason saves the best pie for last. Jason spots Victor’s ridiculous speedo, and the shockingly large package inside. Time slows down as he gives it a good, long look, rears back and nails the stupid idiot right in the balls.
Victor doubles over at the waist and moans in agony from the shock and pain, all while Jason rubs the pie around and around. Victor finally takes Jason’s wrist and shoves it away, revealing that the lime green of his swimwear has been totally replaced with white whipped cream, red frosting and deep red pie filling. Little red cherries slowly slide down his skinny thighs and onto his feet. Jason, for his part, has a satisfied look on his face, with the empty, crumpled up tin in his right hand. He takes the destroyed aluminum pan and gently placed it on Victor’s head, where he taps it like a hat.
Jason gives it to him one last time, whispering in his ear, "Hope you enjoyed that. Only action YOU'RE getting all weekend, bitch."
Victor only barely comes to his senses before he sees it. Charlie curls his index finger toward him a few times, He’s armed with a giant sheet cake, as big, if not bigger, than the ones he got hit with earlier. Victor’s shoulders drop as he hears the audience begin their count.
ONE! TWO! THREE!
The American flag of frosting explodes all over the top half of Victor’s body, sending the mangled pie tin flying off his head into the ether, as Charlie demonstrates his strong throwing arm. Ben may have pied his chest, but the cake takes care of any bare skin still showing between his pecs and his shoulders. Delectable red velvet cake tumbles down his body, mixing with the pie and filling to create an amazing palette of color, but not nearly as amazing as what has piled up on his face.
The cake demolishes his features, leaving layers of dessert up to three inches thick in some places. His hair has been completely destroyed, strands pointing in all directions, while his eyes, nose, and mouth are all buried under layers of fluff.
The crowd cheers at his comeuppance, but not nearly as hard as the boys are cheering each other, for finally, mercifully, getting even.
“Well,” Marc says, “We’ve revealed half of the squares on our board, and we still don’t know who’s getting those VIP passes. We’ll take a quick break and come back with the second half of our game, so don’t move a muscle!”
As the show goes to break, the screens in the studio play slow motion shots of Victor taking hit after hit. The scissors tearing into the fabric of his shirt, all four pies smashing into his body – with an extra second or two dedicated to the hit below his belt – and finally, the sheet cake wrecking whatever was left of his top half. Cake remnants fall off his face in sweet slow motion as the What Would You Do logo bounces around the screen and the image fades to black.
To be continued…
