He felt awkward to be the subject of a television show, but at least there wasn’t an audience pelting him with excrement here. Although muffled, he could hear the whoops of the crowd outside. There seemed to be applause and some shouting, as well as laughing. He could hear the Game Show Master’s voice over a speaker, but couldn’t understand what he was saying. The audience were screaming ‘Croc munsi!’ repeatedly in time to the blast of his whistle.

Tancredi moved to the first barrel, mounted the steps, and swung his arm over the edge. There was a crescendo of excitement from outside, frenzied cries of ‘Croc munsi!’ rang in the air, but he found nothing inside the barrel. He heard what he thought was crying from the collective masses, then the calming voice of the Game Show Master interceding as he moved on.

He could again hear him winding up the audience as he approached the next barrel. An electric organ thrummed a series of chords that rose with the screams of the crowd as he ascended the steps to the barrel. Again, it was empty. Once more there were groans of disappointment from outside. He examined the next few barrels, nothing, just inky blackness. Each time he approached and leaned over a barrel he heard the same cries of anticipation, then anti-climactic groans and the mollifying interjection of the Game Show Master.

Tancredi began to suspect that maybe this was an elaborate joke. He guessed his viewers knew what his reward would be. He stopped to rest his torch arm over the edge of a barrel when he heard a thrashing sound below. He thought he could hear screams of hysteria outside, there was an incessant howl of ‘Muns! Muns! Muns!’ A white hot pain shot up his arm, then darkness descended.

All the outside noise evaporated, Tancredi screamed the scream of a man falling to certain death. It seemed the world was howling with him. He clutched his arm, fell backwards off the step ladder and hit his head on the floor. He was conscious of the crowd whooping outside. Unable to stand, he crawled on one side using his free arm for propulsion, quite where he had no idea. He bumped up against a barrel, immediately the thrashing started again. Tancredi squirmed backwards in horror, crying out in panic as well as pain.

He began to feel faint; his arm was gushing blood from a diminishing well. He again became conscious of sounds from outside the room, more hooting and shouts of ‘Munch! Munch! Munch!’ Then he heard the Game Show Master shout:

‘Jackpot One! Jackpot Number One!’

He knew this wasn’t for his benefit. He touched his wound. Something hideous had happened. He tore off his pink cloak and wrapped it around his arm, the flow of blood extinguishing its luminescence. Tancredi realised that the only means of escape was the door through which he had entered.

He groped his way along the line of barrels hoping to find it, but it was taking too long. A wave of nausea curled up from nowhere and shook him. The Game Show Master’s whistle had been replaced by the regular thump of a bass drum. He retched, convulsions racked his body. Dizzying lightness descended as he heard the groan of voices outside.