The cripple didn’t wait for the producer to reply. “I became completely obsessed with my idea,” he said, “so obsessed that I overlooked some extremely important points. Mainly the legality of what I had in mind. Remember, this was back in the early eighties. Two presidents ago. No, three presidents ago. Something like that. I’m bad at math. Anyway, euthanasia wasn’t legal then. Funny when you think about it. Back then suicide wasn’t a crime, but assisted suicide was! Someone could take their own life and that was okay. But if some person helped the poor soul take his or her life, that was a crime! Anyway, it was stupid of me to think of such a show during those years, right? Of course it was. But oddly enough you stand to benefit from my stupidity.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“How?”

“By producing the program now that it’s legal. Sharing in the credit and the profits with me fifty-fifty. The profits will be tremendous. I would suggest you act as soon as possible before someone else thinks of this idea, which is sure to happen and which will deprive us of everything.” The old cripple smiled.

The producer said nothing.

“You see,” remarked the cripple, “I was ahead of my time. I was always ahead of my time, which, as far as I’m concerned, is as bad as being behind the times. Neither works. Neither is anything to be proud of. The thing to be is on time, right on the money, as they say. That’s what counts.”

“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”

“Anyway,” said the cripple, “other than the sick and dying, hardly anyone would do The Death Game. Not for the amount of money I could offer. And I really couldn’t blame them. Back then it was a dilemma. I couldn’t go anywhere for a loan. I couldn’t go to a bank or a network because the idea wasn’t legal. But today it wouldn’t be hard to raise that amount of money.”

The producer asked the cripple how much money he thought a show like The Death Game would have to give away today to make gambling on your life worthwhile. “I’m talking about a healthy person,” he said. “Not someone terminally ill.”

The cripple noted with satisfaction that the producer was asking questions. He’s interested, he said to himself. “How much? Fifty million dollars, perhaps.”

“Fifty mill…You think some healthy person would gamble their life for a paltry fifty million dollars?”

“In a New York minute. There will always be prospective contestants, desperate people willing to gamble their lives for that much money. Daredevils, supreme egotists, publicity freaks, people with desperate situa—”

“And you think the networks will put up that kind of money for this idea?”