Chapter 11 Season 20, Episode 1 “The Viper Room”
“The Viper Room”
Thus embarked the drunkest first class to brave the Atlantic. Even the Amish girl knocked cocktails back with the best of them. Only Jiamin refrained, hiding behind an iPad, while I nursed a rum and Coke beside Troy.
Somewhere past Greenland, however, the drinks were abruptly cut off.
When I asked Troy why, he briefly hesitated, gnawing his lip.
“The others have done this enough times to know what it means, so I’m not technically giving you information they don’t have.
Legally, contestants can’t compete with liquor in their systems, so we halt access to alcohol twelve hours before any competition. ”
“You’re saying we’ll film a Tribulation right after we’ve landed?!”
“No, I’m telling you a firm production rule everyone knows,” he replied. “Zara, my co-showrunner, is adamant about the drinking. She deals with the liability stuff.”
“Won’t we shoot the opening credits first?”
“We haven’t done opening credits for a while. Wasted airtime.”
“Ecklund’s still hosting though?” I hadn’t seen him in years, but now I craved the certainty of that beer-stained polo shirt come to life.
Troy only gave me a cryptic wink, returning to his emails.
An hour later, I crawled over him for the bathroom, crossing paths with Jiamin. “God, these kids can drink,” I whispered.
“Were you expecting something different?”
“I guess it’s more noticeable at thirty-four than at twenty-two.” I shrugged. “When was your last season?”
She sighed, indulgence already fading. “Four years ago. I did three in a row before I stopped.”
“Same!” I said, probably too eager. “Are you close with anyone else who’s coming?”
“I mostly focus on nonprofit work now,” she said flatly, and stalked back to her seat.
I’d encountered enough of Jiamin’s type over the years: folks too polite to admit they’d already formed their (unflattering) opinion about you.
If I was too controversial for sensible players like Jiamin and too old for Hartt’s rabble-rousers, I’d have to survive the first few episodes on athleticism alone.
Nonetheless, I was cautiously optimistic I still had some gas in my tank.
One of the perks of being a stay-at-home dad was I’d maintained my exercise regimen.
No matter what anyone said about the person inside, no matter how broken I appeared, my body was the one thing I still trusted to help me withstand this game.
Two other cast members were waiting at the airport when we landed in Rome, fresh from St. Petersburg.
“I spy some sexy commies!” Hartt cheered upon seeing Tatianna and Aspen at baggage claim.
They’d headlined the short-lived (and terribly titled) White Russians, which tracked the scantily clad scions of Russian oligarchs, partying in Miami until their visas expired.
The jaded Tati sported a blond bob with blue tips, while beefy vacant Aspen was pumpkin-orange in a mesh tank and white cargo pants, diamond studs gleaming in his ears.
I wondered if he was one of the gay guys Hartt alluded to.
His face was handsome in a pinched way, but I didn’t anticipate us connecting.
I attempted cursory conversation with Tati instead, though when I inquired what she’d originally moved to the States to pursue, she blankly replied, “Trolls.”
She produced her phone to reveal elaborate dioramas of little troll dolls in schools, cityscapes, even farms. “Trolls, yes? Modern art. I buy used on eBay and arrange little… how do you say, scenes? They sell big with people who collect installations.”
“It’s cool you still film Endeavor when you’re doing so well with your art.”
“Who said I do well?”
“… Didn’t you say they sell big with people who collect installations?”
She stared back, face terse. “The three people in the world who buy installations. What, you know somebody? I do commission for right price.” I shook my head, and she shrugged, unfazed. “I also design kaftans.”
“Separate from the trolls?”
“No, they have troll faces on them. Very popular in Midwest US.”
Our private bus drove north into the burnished hills of Tuscany, and I drifted off against the window, only shooting to groggy attention once Troy announced, “Welcome to Cortona!”
We disembarked into a tent village of production madness, the medieval town of Cortona cloistered on a hill a few miles off. Italian crew darted about, testing lights, assembling cameras.
“Remember, I want cameras rolling immediately after sunset!” a powerful female voice blasted in English from every walkie, followed by a maelstrom of Italian translation.
The voice approached: a severe middle-aged woman with a Michigan State ball cap fixed tight to her head.
She’d donned a hunter-green plaid work shirt over faded jeans, piercing eyes rigorously scanning us.
The rest of the cast volunteered greetings of varying enthusiasm but all deferential, even Vanessa.
Before this power player reached me, Troy promptly appeared with a sweating iced coffee, fresh from craft services.
“Luke, meet Zara Norris, my co-showrunner and the law of the land.”
Zara eked out a frigid smile. “Hi, Luke. I know this was a last-minute ask, so thanks for joining us. I’m sure the fans will be excited you’re returning.” Before I could blunder a response, she pivoted to the others, opening a sleek gray sack. “Time to surrender.”
As a production assistant distributed pre-printed adhesive labels, people dutifully turned off their phones and dropped them in the bag. “Per usual, these will be in a temperature-regulated safe during your tenure on the show,” Zara explained, then came to me, bag extended.
“Oh, sorry, I don’t think this applies to me,” I whispered sheepishly. “I get calls every day with my kids.”
Her eyes flashed ever so briefly, but she remained granite. “Your contract states you’re entitled to a daily video call, not what device you make it from. You’ll be using a production computer under our supervision.”
I felt the other contestants’ eyes, blood in the water. “That’s… not what I thought.”
“Zara, it’s my bad. I should’ve been clearer,” Troy interjected. “Luke, I’m sorry it feels like we’re springing this on you. Call your sister to explain, then we’ll take the phone?”
My hands were shaking, and I didn’t know if it was from rage or fear, the control already slipping away. I prayed the kids hadn’t already left for school, the rings tolling their merciless monotone, until: “We’re almost out the door, they won’t be late,” Jenny answered.
I heard Wallace call for me in the staticky cavern of our hallway, and my lower lip began a war to plunge to my chin. “Jen, it’s not that…”
“Wait—what’s wrong?”
I inhaled. If I was going to cave, it wouldn’t be five minutes after arriving. Not when I only had to endure one episode for the biggest check I’d receive any time in the near future. “Everything’s good. Just put the kids on.”
Stripped of my phone, I joined the others in a walled tent amid crunched water bottles and two sputtering fans, the Italian sun broiling us until filming began after dark. Eventually Vanessa knelt beside me, unhappily sober and basking before the lazy propellers of the fans.
“How much longer do you think?” I asked.
“Long enough to guarantee we’re pissed and sloppy on camera.”
I offered her a water from the nearby cooler, which she accepted grudgingly. She’d been fully ostracized by the other women, so maybe I had a fellow loner. “So… where’s home?”
“Can you not?”
“Look, I realize people expect me—”
“I don’t give two shits about your politics. I just don’t care. I’m not interested in being your friend,” she muttered. “There are no friends here.”
“I had friends when I was on the show before.”
She eyed me blankly. “And how’d that work out for you again?”
The flaps of the tent parted, and in breezed Drew Ecklund, face considerably more tucked than when I saw it last. “My people!” he proclaimed before spotting me. “There’s the man I wanted… Luke the Duke, back in black!”
Drew swallowed me in a hug, and a smile escaped me, grateful for any known quantity. He nodded at Vanessa with an exaggerated wink. “I see you’ve met my favorite little firebrand.”
“Eat my ass, you human doughnut,” she replied, slinking away.
“She’s a charmer.” Ecklund’s hands flew to his face dramatically. “And God, I’m so sorry about you and Barnes. Totally thought you boys would go the distance.”
“What can you do?” I shrugged, quickly steering the conversation elsewhere. “It’s so great to be back, though! I can’t wait to see how the show’s changed.”
“The Tribulations are insane now. Can you believe that Swiss kid lost his toe last year?”
Before he could elaborate, Troy returned. “Who’s ready to get Season 20 rolling?”
The guys would stride into the Arena shirtless wearing only black compression shorts, while the women donned black leggings and sports bras.
Production assistants lugged in privacy screens, and we changed in shifts while local makeup artists did stray touch-ups.
“Don’t get used to this. HMU’s just here tonight for entry looks,” Zara warned.
A silent sound guy belted a microphone pack on me while I changed, the device snug on my sacrum, the surreal metallic reminder that every word was on record.
Like a bashful toddler, I emerged from the screen, unsure whether to shield my scarred chest or mask my crotch, the shorts not leaving much to the imagination. One of the HMU ladies moved to pat my scars with concealer, but Troy intervened. “Unless you want the makeup?”
I recalled the fateful night I’d first been advised to powder up, the old impulse to shield my deformities. No, we were doing things differently this time, so I shook my head.
Troy patted my shoulder approvingly, unable to resist gawking at my torso. “I mean this as professionally as possible, but you’re going to be worth every penny.”
I conceded an awkward smile, drenched in humiliation now as much as sweat.
“You’ll walk in one by one to hit your marks,” Zara explained, arranging us in a single-file line. “Then we’ll announce teams and go straight to the Tribulation.”
I stood behind Jiamin as we processed toward a circular walled fortress, the glowing white light inside escaping only through its roof-less orifice. This would be our Arena, a far cry from the sherbet-orange jungle gym that hosted the Trials in Season 1.
I heard benign cheers when Amish Winston entered first. The other contestants were already inside; our group was the one designed to provoke the reaction. And that’s when it hit me: I was the grand finale. “We’re last,” I said to Jiamin.
She glanced over her shoulder, unsurprised. “You might want to brace for impact.”
Reactions grew increasingly vocal—boos for Hartt, gasps at Vanessa.
Chrissy provoked a female voice shouting something that distinctly ended in “big bitch” before Jiamin sailed into the cacophony.
A chorus of “ooooh,” “no way,” and applause greeted her right before Troy gave me a thumbs-up. No turning back now.
I winced as my vision adjusted under the glaring lights, the entire space abruptly silent.
My eyes danced to Ecklund, who presided like a minister from the observation deck that was mounted into the Arena wall about ten feet above the sandy floor, a rusty iron staircase leading up.
I approached the two lines of contestants, facing each other on either side of a massive rectangle in the center of the Arena.
The walls of the rectangle were three feet tall, all draped in thick chain mail, and covered an area the size of my bedroom back home.
A lone spot waited by Jiamin, a small X of black tape on the ground indicating my mark.
Across the way were faces I didn’t recognize, though they all knew me.
A petite white woman slathered in makeup, bone-straight platinum hair down to her waist, chuckled low.
A lanky young man with pouty lips and floppy brown hair instantly looked to the ground when our eyes met.
Next to him was a lithe South Asian woman, gymnast’s build, all muscle.
Her face maintained an unwavering intensity, and then I realized. She was trans.
Of course. The network wanted to see what this trans woman would do when the henchman-turned-husband of her biggest political antagonist appeared—and what I’d do in return.
I swallowed dryly, but my feet persevered.
I refused to provide the starving cameras any reaction, and then I finally found a face I knew.
Greta Hendricksen, as expected. Barnes’ old gal Friday. A manicured hand clutched metaphorical pearls as she whispered to the tall Black woman on her right, and I stopped dead.
Imogen.
How had I not noticed her? In the old days, I knew as soon as she entered a room. She looked so different. Gone was the girl who spun in my arms when we won in the Caymans. Her hair was now shaved tight to her scalp, and her eyes were filled with a cold, relentless fury.
I turned to stare straight into a camera lens, one soldier in the army, unforgiving opaque pinpricks trained on me like guns as I hit my mark.
And so we began.
“After twenty seasons, you are the icons America can’t stop talking about!
We’ve been riveted by your romances and heartbreaks, your alliances and betrayals!
” Ecklund proclaimed, the cast trading grimaces.
I dared another look at Imogen, but she was locked on Ecklund, refusing me any acknowledgment. This was going to be pure hell.
“You’ve made choices that have transformed you into saints and sinners, into heroes and villains, into the teams you now become…”
On cue, hangers with our uniforms descended from the grid of lights and rigging above.
I squinted at the red tank top approaching me, my name emblazoned in letters that could only be described as…
horned. I realized with sinking dread the season’s theme was nothing Troy had pitched me, but I was right about one thing: this would indeed be pure hell.
“Welcome to Endeavor: Angels vs. Devils!”