Author: Scott Adamson

Every molded plastic chair was taken in the hazy, glass and steel arena, and those without a place to sit pressed against the aluminum rails separating the seating area from the concrete floor.

Shoving matches were already taking place in the stands as everyone packed inside was hoping to secure the best possible spot.

Time was when The People’s Arena in downtown New Mega-annum City was filled, basketball or ice hockey was the draw. Jamal Felker remembered the days of coming here with his father and watching the New Mega-annum Tarantulas of the World League of Professional Basketball play.

Part of the fan experience was the “T-Shirt Cannon”; each time the Tarantulas scored a 3-point basket, a crew of young people armed with pressurized cylinders would fire T-shirts into the crowd.

Jamal got lucky once – the night the Tarantulas beat the Ocean City Tsunami in a playoff game. Following a 30-foot bucket from team star Rod Arrington, a tee was fired right where Jamal was sitting.

Although there were a sea of arms reaching for the same prize, he was able to snatch the shirt out of the air and cradle it against his stomach.

On the front of the white garment was the team logo – a fierce black and gold spider – while on the back was a list of sponsors, including the New Mega-annum Pest Control Company.

Jamal always thought that was funny … a team with a spider mascot funded by a company that kills, among other things, spiders.

But the Tarantulas were long gone, just as organized professional sports were now nothing more than bittersweet memories. And the irony didn’t seem nearly as humorous these days.

Ever since the Cyber Wars and the formation of the Corporation of Nations, only the extremely wealthy could afford – and had access to – recreation and entertainment.

Jamal had heard there were still elite sports teams, although apparently only the elite knew about them.

But with food, housing and healthcare in short supply, “the little people” didn’t have the luxury of cheering for men and women playing a child’s game. Instead, three times a year they’d pack into arenas like this one hoping to catch a T-shirt – and catch a big break.

As the lights in each section of The People’s Arena dimmed, the spotlight glared on what used to be center court. Two people armed with T-shirt cannons were situated at each end, while three lined up on either side of the floor.

The hype guy – a man wearing a red fedora and oversized yellow sunglasses – stood in the middle, holding a microphone.

For the price of seven Corporation Credits, people could spend 30 minutes inside the arena in hopes of being on the receiving end of a launch.

This was the 17^th time Jamal had attended one of these events, and each was identical. Over half an hour, 10 shooters – known as the Launch Crew – would fire 20 shirts apiece into various sections of the crowd.

The hype guy would whip them into a frenzy with prompts such as, “The next shirt goes to the loudest section!” or “Let’s see your dance moves, beautiful people!”

Perhaps 18,000 were inside today, but only 200 would walk away with a coveted tee.

“Are you ready, New Mega-annum City?” screamed the hype guy who – as far as Jamal knew – had never given his name. “Show me your best dance moves!”

Everyone rose and everyone danced, some simply swaying awkwardly while others gyrated like they were possessed. The automated lighting moved across the arena, ultimately stopping to showcase some of the more enthusiastic performers.

The cannons then fired simultaneously, sending shirts sailing to every part of the arena.

One – propelled from the end of the floor closest to Jamal – hit a young girl squarely on her head. But before she could reach up to grab it a sea of adults pounced on her, hitting and clawing in an effort to seize the prize.

The “winner” was a tall, heavyset man in his mid-50s, who quickly pulled the tee over his head and raised his arms in triumph.

The barcode on the front of the shirt was scanned by one of camouflaged security personnel, who escorted him to the “ready room” while the young girl lay crying and bleeding.

The scene repeated itself for the next several minutes; T-shirts went flying, along with bodies.

Roughly 20 minutes into the event Jamal got his chance. He had noticed one of the Launch Crew members always seemed to aim between section 213 and 214, so he worked his way up to the area.

As one of the cloth projectiles came his way, he charged toward it, snared it with his left hand, and never broke stride as he deftly ran down the steps.

A youngster had caught his eye earlier – one who reminded him of himself during those simpler times when arenas were for sports and T-shirts were worn for fun.

He grabbed the startled child, quickly pulled the tee over his head, and forced a smile.

“Go, kid,” he said. “Be brave and good luck.”

The member of the security team charged with scanning the code looked at Jamal, shook his head, and then took the child away.

Jamal hoped he had done the right thing.

The T-shirt meant the kid would be transported to one of the space stations floating far above his dying planet. Yes, he’d be used as a laborer at a Corporation of Nations warehouse, but at least he’d be assured of food and shelter. He’d have a chance to grow up – and maybe even grow old.

But after seeing all the violence at The People’s Arena – and the increasingly grotesque nature of the humans who filled it in hopes of being shipped off to a “better world” – Jamal was unsure if he was helping or hurting the child.

All he could do was hope, even though any hope that remained for the residents of New Mega-annum City came at the end of a T-shirt cannon.