In celebration of Amazon Prime Video's newest series Panic, I am thrilled to be teaming up with Amazon Prime Video and Wattpad to write this exclusive chapter that puts my characters from this story into the world of Panic!
I hope this chapter intrigues and inspires you to learn more about Panic. Visit the #PanicWritingContest on Wattpad for the chance to put your creative writing chops to the test and learn more about the show!
To find out more about the contest, prizes, and how to enter, check out the #PanicWritingContest here: wattpad.com/AmazonPrimeVideo
Don't forget to watch the series premiere on May 28th, only on Amazon Prime Video, here: http://primevideo.com/
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"Why are you staring at the ceiling, brother?" asks Hayden while opening up his trusty cooler.
A waft of some unidentified produce punches a hole through the nice new car smell that either says "new workplace bully," or "trust-fund kid about to get into a very bad accident that only the power of love and a totally average boy/girl can heal." I, for one, I'm glad to be rid of that smell.
"Just wondering why there is an author's note above us. As if God is telling us this ain't canon," I respond.
Brayden, who is driving the car - a brand new Tesla Model S that costs more than the entire road he is driving in, and that's more a statement about the road than about the car - squeals like something between a bullfrog and a pug during a hot summer day. "did god write something on the roof of my brand new doge-coin daddy car? cuz if he did, my hand ain't gonna tremble sending an invoice to the vatican. francis had it too good for too long. btw, what smells like crap?"
No, he didn't say "by the way," but btw. Bee tee doble-u. That takes more time than actual saying by the way. But I'm digressing. As for why we are in a car somewhere in the septic, gun-toting backwater that we call Texas, where even the GPS is chastising us for apparently falling over the edge of the known universe...I don't know. We were shoved into the car for a "club activity."
"Well," says Hayden, placing a small rancid-smelling egg on my hand from the back seat since he was so big that he literally takes the entire back seat, "thought we might get a little hungry on the way so I stayed up all night making deviled eggs. Even grinded my own paprika."
I swear to sweet baby Jesus with his little baby rattle that Brayden's entire body just twisted like a cat who got his tail pulled before braking the car to a screeching halt.
"so, lemme get this straight, you himbo," says Brayden with as little patience as his actual height. "ya thought it was a good idea to bring the stinkiest food you could find, stick it in a dank box, under the sun, for the last 8 hours, only to open it at the last possible second to maximize its rankness?"
Hayden tries to retreat into himself like a beefy ouroboros, but he can't quite disappear when you have your own gravitational pull.
"are they even organic eggs?"
"No," murmur Hayden, "but, aren't all eggs organic?"
If Brayden could stop the car again, he would. Not that it stops him from trying. "throw that non-organic, gmo having, whatever the opposite of free-range eggs out of my mobile vegan temple, pronto!"
"But, my handmade paprika!"
"screw your handmade paprika!" retorted Brayden. "my car, my rules. next time bring your own car. wanna play silly games with me, win silly prizes."
While they are arguing, I stuff the egg into my mouth. The paprika is too smokey.
"Well, I wanted to bring my truck, but you said, and I quote, 'them pondok freaks needs to know who daddy big bucks is.' Or have you forgotten?"
"that i did, yep. you gotta make a statement. like wearing white to a friend's wedding. but still, i also did it because i wanna be environmentally conscious, unlike that huge warthog propaganda machine you call a truck. you know how much carbon this bad boy can generate? zero, nada, zilch. so, out! yeet that thing!"
A hand comes out from between the back seats. A very hairy hand in badly need of a manicure, and some moisturizer. Okayden, being in the truck for obvious Vampire-related reasons, chimes in. "I shall take the egg,
Each and every one of them,
If that's okay with you."
A soft smile, like a warm cup of cocoa on a cold winter day, spreads through Hayden's face. "See? At least one person likes 'em. Eat up, buddy."
He opens the seat and slides the entire cooler towards Okayden. As for what he does to them, I don't think he wants to eat 'em.
"I shan't consume them,
They smell like sweet ambrosia,
Of which I mean feet."
Of course he wants to smell them. I can actually hear Hayden's heart break in a thousand pieces.
And that was the end of the conversation. The car begins to slowly resume its silent march like a land shark about to take a bite out of an unsuspecting protagonist. Really, this car gives me the heebie-jeebies. It doesn't make a sound, which makes me feel like riding on an overpriced cloud. That, paired with the unchanging road, makes me feel like we are stuck in Texan limbo, which I believe in a neverending 10 pound steak and a bottle of sarsaparilla. Nothing weird about the bottle other than it has sarsaparilla, and that tastes like old grease scrapped with an iron sponge after a three day soak.
After a few forevers of nobody speaking - if you don't count Okayden's incessant murmurs about stinky mommy feets, whatever that means - I break the silence.
"So, why are we in Pondok, Texas?" I ask. My bottom was already sore, and I can't say any curse words, so I feel like wherever we are going is strictly rated "E" for everyone. "I don't think it's because you wanna see the world's biggest cowpat."
Brayden lowers his "Best Of Harry Styles" playlist and becomes quiet. Deadly quiet. A silence with over 300 confirmed kills, no-scope. PTSD from all the kills it has. Can't even hold a decent civilian job. "so, you know how i'm trying to make my own money independent from daddy?"
I still have nightmares about the basement, so, yes. "Yeah. What cockamamie scheme you're trying to pull to swindle these fine folks?"
Brayden's knuckles turn white with anger, then red, and finally purple, like a pissed-off octopus. "i ain't swindling nobody. i'm a man of vision and invention."
"Like the Ultimate Magic Championship?" I snark. "How's that going for you?"
"well, somebody, which i won't mention who, but whose name ends in 'yden-'"
"Me?" I ask.
"Me?" asks Hayden.
"Stinky," murmurs Okayden.
"...made it hard for me to catch the tooth fairy, so i hit a snag. lucky for me, i did manage to capture santa claus. that fatso is gonna make me lotsa moolah."
Hayden leans forwards, putting his hand over Brayden's shoulder. "Brother, I keep telling you, that was just an old, fat hobo with a grandpa beard."
"then, why was he in my house during winter and had rosy cheeks?"
"He was drunk and trying to rob you."
"you just jelly cuz you don't have santa chained to your basement," said Brayden with a smirk. "but #whateves. this ain't it. lemme give you the 411. this little town called carp, which i believe the founder was dyslexic but nobody wanted to correct him - cuz believe me, the town is crap - i kinda forgot where i was going."
"The town of Carp," repeated Hayden.
"yeah, that. some hihgschool seniors decided to screw about one summer and dare eachother to do dumb thinks, like high-five a truck, or licking a bee-hive. it soon became a tradition, cuz let's face it, there ain't nothing else to do during summer round these parts, and kids will do dumb stuff anyways, so might as well make it a competitions, and that they did. things escalated when they began to collect money, a buck a day from every senior, and awarding the money to the winners. that's when i come in."
"Can't wait to hear how you screw this up."
I think I never realized how dull the ride was, or maybe it was a plot thing, but time just passed flying by. It's suddenly dusk when we pull into the sleepy town.
It really is a piece of Carp. It has a main street, and that's about it. It's a one-street town. I can see other streets branching from it, but I can feel it in my nuggets that they loop around the main street. It isn't even that good looking of a street.
"look, there ain't much money going around here. i'm surprised they don't use bottle caps and fighting radioactive roaches. that sounds half fun."
"Roaches have no feet,
And yet, they have many legs,
A waste of fetish," chimes Okayden, but nobody pays attention to him.
Brayden pulls in front of a cafe and turns off the car. Or just rests it. Dunno with these electric cars. "i saw the opportunity to bring this game to the next level. i talked to the organizers, said i was gonna match them dollar for dollar, and up the ante for the participants. pass the briefcase, wolf boy."
The back seat opens again and Okayden's hairy hand reaches out with a briefcase and the stench of a thousand wet poodles. Brayden takes it from his hand and opens it to reveal the huge sum of about 25k dollarinos. Not too much, not that small. Almost a life-changing amount, but not quite so. But that depends on the person.
"Dang, brother. That's a lot of dineros," says Hayden. "That could get me through culinary school."
"well, this ain't canon, so, no, it won't," says Brayden. "of course, i am required to be enrolled in the school to give this money to the game. you know, for tax purposes. also, them's the rules, homs. only seniors can be involved. they don't even know how i look, tho. i'm only enrolled in name."
Well, that sounds fine and dandy, but I don't believe he is doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Mainly because he only has a piece of rotten kimchi where his heart is supposed to be.
"So, how do you make money out of this?" I ask.
Brayden looks at me with a blank stare, like a lizard basking in the sun - a monologuing brain if I've ever seen one.
"i livestream it on the deep web and take bets on it, duh!" he says, because of course he does. "they make me more money than i give em, they get some extra cash for the pot, everybody wins."
"So, it's like a redneck Hunger Games," comments Hayden.
"but with less dead people," says Brayden, scratching his perfectly hairless chin. "well, except for the people who died last year. who would've thunk crossing the street while blindfolded and playing russian roulette would leave a trail of bodies?"
Just as he said that, the sky lit up with fireworks. From North, to South, and even West.
Not East. Nobody likes East. Such a pretentious cardinal direction. Just because it has the sunrise it thinks it's better than anybody. Jerk.
"Fourth of July, soon,
But the light blooms early this year,
Or clowns are shooting us," says Okayden.
"You know you can come out of the trunk, right?" I ask Okayden.
He just mutters "smells like feet" over and over again. So, no.
The Tesla roars back to life, or so I want to say, but this thing is like a ninja. It pulls away into the street and down the only path that leads into some woods.
"Seems like an early 4th of July," I comment, drawing a chuckle from Brayden.
"nah, homie. that's the signal. the game of panic is about to begin."
I'm mostly focused on Hayden, who has a wicked pensive grin on his face, so I don't quite hear what Brayden says. I mean, I still hear it, but I don't process it. So I ask.
"Excuse me, the game of what?"
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the game of Panic!" yells the surprisingly deadpanned voice of an awkward husk of a teenager with a megaphone. He sounds like he's afraid of his own voice, which I would too if I looked like Randall from Monsters Inc had the gout. "My name is Diggins, and I'll be your MC throughout this year's games!"
About a hundred teenagers of average looks are standing around at the edge of a lake with cliffs surrounding it. Eveyone is exited, drunk, and being generally dumb teenagers.
"This year," says the tall mole-person with the megaphone, "the winner will get fifty thousand dollars, the greatest prize pool so far! Whoever has the most points at the end of the summer is the winner, but remember the most important rule..."
"Don't Panic!" yells the mob in unison.
Us four are to the very back of the mob, not mingling, and very annoyed. It's hot, warm, and worst of all, moist. I hate that word most of all. Moist. I don't wanna be here. Brayden looks impatient, thumping the briefcase in annoyance. I don't know how Okayden can stay calm with a full moon and a full coat, but he seems to be content in smelling a lonely deviled egg.
Hayden, however, is paying deadly attention to the instructions the big lizard baby is spouting.
"The first game is...the jump!" he says, motioning to the cliffs overlooking the lake. "Since it's the first game, let's take it easy. If you jump from the cliff, you get 100 points. If you jump from the High Jump," he says while pointing at a relatively higher jump point, "you get an extra 25 points. Jump from the Suicide Jump," he punctuates by pointing to the highest point, a real "screw you" point, "you get an extra hundred points and immunity on a challenge of your choice, if you still have knees after that. To enter, please go to the sign-up sheet up front and someone will help you with the next steps."
This is all cool and all, but I can't be in another death game. Not again. You win one, you win them all. And the prize is regret. No, all I wanna know is why I'm here in the first place.
"Why are we even here?" I ask after figuring out that Brayden can't read my mind.
"easy: insurance. if i came here alone, i would've been swept up in the plot. together, we have plot immunity. speaking of plot."
As kids come and go, signing up for the game, or just being dumb teenager, the MC, Diggins, begins to walk towards us. Or shuffle. Or lumbering.
"Hey, guys, you..." he mumbles with the poise and elegance of an injured moose, "are you Brayden Messina-Park?"
"mayhaps," answers Brayden. "are you dingus?"
"Eh...I'm Diggins?" says/asks the disgruntled troll.
Brayden shoves the briefcase on his hands. I gotta say, a briefcase for 25k is an overkill. "that's for you. tell the organizers daddy brayden says, whazzup."
The guy is dumbfounded, but I think that's his normal existence. "Hey, thanks, bros. Eh, you can stay if you want. We got booze, some snacks. You can stay and watch the game."
"nah, brah. gotta go to the motel and recharge me tesla. gotta help the environment and stuff."
The man looks at Brayden in the eyes as if he was straight vomiting rainbows. If you're vomiting rainbows, no matter what Tumblr says, please go see a doctor.
"You know Teslas pulls electricity from carbon-based grids, right? And you gotta mine for lithium and other rare metals in the car. You're still pumping lots of pollutants out there."
Brayden doesn't say anything. And he continues to not say anything. Even now, as I speak, he continues not to say anything. Anybody would say he was shocked beyond belief, but we know better, don't we? He is monologuing.
Diggins takes it as a cue to leave as the first contestant seems to be going up the cliff to jump.
And Brayden continues to monologue.
He should be finished right about...now!
"dang it, dingus!" yells Brayden as he slams his feet on the ground. "you went up and destroyed a dream of mine. guys, let's roll. i have a car to return. hey, where is hayden?"
Hey...where is Hayden indeed? He was here a moment ago. I think. Maybe he went to get a drink or something. My man likes his juices. He is sure to be back anytime soon. It's not like he would be dumb enough not to recognize that we are in front of a very dangerous plot and that any false movement would spiral us into a game of danger, intrigue, and secrets, right?
Right?
The megaphone comes alive again, and the very much dead-willed person behind it starts to speak at the lonely figure standing at the top of none other than the Suicide Cliff, which I will asume is not called like that because of how many people go up there to have picnics.
"Contestant number one, state your name!" says Dingus. I mean, Diggins.
My bad boy senses are tingling.
"My name is Brayden Messina-Park, and I want to win the money to go to culinary school!" says the lonely speck of a man on top of the cliff in a voice I could recognize in my sleep. God dangit, Hayden. He is using the fact that nobody knows who Brayden is and took his spot. He can legally play since Brayden is enrolled at the school.
"Just asked your name, not your life story," says Diggins, eliciting a chuckle from the audience.
"Jesus Christ," I say. "Brayden, do something!"
"i aint screwing with heights," says Brayden, who, truth to his word, sat on the ground. "you do you, boo."
Soon, the crowd begins to chant "jump, jump, jump" as Hayden peers over the drop. I mean, I'm not worried about him, he has plot armor, but c'mon. This is a one-shot. He should know he's not gonna make it.
And, oddly, he does. He takes a running star, goes to jump, but chickens out at the last second. Instead of jumping down, he slides off the ledge and does a nice Smash Bros-esque ledge grab, much to the horror of everybody.
"Come on man, just let go!" yells Diggins.
Hayden, in response, says something we can't repeat here, but it was funny at the very least. "I'm afraid of heights!"
"No, you're not," says Diggins. "You're afraid of falling from heights. Two different things."
I turn to Okayden. "Can you get him down from there? I'll let you smell my shoes on the ride over if you-"
I don't even get to finish the sentence. His coat is discarded near my feet as a pair of leathery wings take off a full speed into the night. The force of them is so strong that it creates an anime streak on the water. Ojayden grabs the cowardly quarterback in the blink of an eye and drops him over his own coat before anyone can tell what happened.
"C'mon, brother!" yells Hayden as he composes what little shred of dignity he has. "I was gonna do it! Just had to work up the courage to do it."
"admit it, you panicked," says Brayden, looking down on the beefy sportsman. "besides, it would've been for nothing. i'm technically a sponsor, so i can play but i can't win. sorry m8. told ya: play silly games, win silly prizes."
Hayden looks at Brayden, then at me, then at Brayden again, and I can feel his raw monologue power seeping from every pore. Probably asking himself how can he murder Brayden without landing him in jail. Maybe baking him into a cake? Probably.
But he knows better and composes himself. "Let's get out of here. I already lost enough of my dignity in this Carp of a town."
"and i lost my respect for musk daddy," says Brayden.
And needless to say, I lost my shoes as well which stay with Okayden the rest of the trip.
Brayden should've Venmo-ed the money and we would've been spared from the embarrassment.
At least Okayden is happy.