My name: Burnt Pepperidge.
My profession: winning.
I stand at the starting line and survey the obstacle course like a snake surveys a nest of bird eggs.
My body is the serpent. The Wipeout obstacles are my bird eggs.
Prepare, obstacles. Prepare to be gobbled up by my hungry snake mouth. My voracious mouth of serpent hunger.
I have come here to win, and I do not care what happens to my body.
I am an empty submissive vessel for the game show Wipeout to enter and fill.
Oh, with such alacrity will I be entered.
Oh, with such alacrity will I be filled.
Here, standing at the top of the course with manliness and anticipation, I feel reverent and erect.
I am full of pain and light. I am full of adrenaline and testosterone, chlorine and spit.
Buzz. The Buzzer sounds.
It is time.
Down. Down. Down. I’m running.
I’m running down the red-padded hill of the course.
My arms are swinging with speed. With such speed they swing.