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The Great Race - Prologue By Jeremy Spencer
   The old man wheeled himself in front of the fireplace, seeking warmth
for his tired bones.  He sighed, the muscles and sinews in his arms and
back creaking in protest as he stretched his hands toward the blaze.  The
old man closed his eyes, imagining again the events which would transpire
over the next few weeks.
   The man had lost track of how many contests he had participated in since
the game's inception, although he knew the number to be in the dozens.  It
had begun as a bet between fraternity brothers, and had grown through the
years.
   How many women can you fuck in one week?  It was the question he had
been asked, a question which had ultimately led to what he thought of as
The Great Race Across America.  At first the game had been nothing more
than a chance to brag, an opportunity for spoiled rich boys to strut like
peacocks, preening proudly in front of eager sorority sisters.  It had been
simple at first, and the game had quickly grown tiresome.
   As time passed and these young fraternity brothers became graduates,
then young lions in finance, enterprise and government, the men changed the
competition, molding it into something more suited to their new stature in
the world.  The old man laughed, a raspy hacking that echoed through the
immense library.  He remembered the first time anyone had suggested the
game become mobile and a new world had opened up to them as the friends
fucked their way across the country.
   Eventually the prominent positions many of the contestants held in their
communities as lawmakers, elected officials and corporate leaders had
mandated yet another change.  Men who had once been participants were now
reduced to watching the game.  Controlling the game.  The thrill was still
very much a part of the competition, but now each of the roughly dozen
remaining fraternity brothers became an unknown sponsor to a new generation
of competitors.
   As age and prestige had set in, so had the fear.  Fear of exposure,
embarrassment and bad publicity had forced many of the man's former
compatriots to an even more passive role in the game.  Where once each man
had selected one or two potential contestants and wooed them into competing
against the representatives from the other former schoolmates, now only the
old man contacted the potential players.
   At first this new task had been daunting until the man realized it
didn't particularly matter who participated - as long as someone did.  And
so for the last few years the man had amused himself by picking names at
random from national phone directories.  A myriad of enticements were
always offered the unwitting participants and more often than not they
accepted the challenge, although they would never know the true nature of
the contest.
   The excitement of the illicit and hurried sexual encounters remained,
but as the years passed the overseers of the game grew bored and the game
once more changed.  New technologies allowed for a close watch over the
contestants by those holding the pursestrings and allowed for many a large
wager to be placed between old friends.  Gone were the days of a pure
contest, the winner selected by a simple criteria of "how much sex." Each
contestant still received a mysterious communique detailing the strict
guidelines to be followed but in truth the guidelines mattered little.
   The old man laughed as he thought of it.  The pure gall of his little
competition, which really wasn't a competition at all.  There was no level
playing field.  The contest's rules varied from contestant to contestant.
Different variables, each rule particular to only one player, requiring
different sexual acts, various partners, and strict adherence to the old
man's ever-changing rules.
   "Carter," the old man bellowed.  "Read me the last letter."
   "Yes, sir.  Of course, sir," the staid butler said, walking into his
master's private library.  Carter cleared his throat and read aloud the
letter.  It was one of a dozen similar letters, all sent to men and women
along the east coast of America.  The potential contestants were unaware of
exactly how many other people were involved, and in fact the number changed
yearly.  The number of contestants had never been less than five, although
it had mushroomed during some years to upwards of twenty.
   The letter Carter held in his hands would be sent via private courier to
a man living in a suburb outside of Atlanta, Georgia.  The man had a wife
and two children, and a job he was longing to leave.  As Carter read the
letter, the old man listened to the conditions of the contest.  If this man
chose to participate, he would be provided with a motor home, video camera,
cell phone, personal computer with mobile Internet access, and a credit
card with no limit as were all contestants.
   "Stop," the old man barked, realizing his mind had been wondering. 
"What are his rules?" he asked, waiting while the butler returned to the
letter.
   "Ah, here it is," Carter announced as he read from the letter.  "He will
be required to stop at each town with a population in excess of ten
thousand people.  Should he choose to spend the night, he will be required
to provide video proof of a minimum of two sexual contacts.  Should he
choose to advance to the next town, only one will be required."
   Like all the participants, this man, should he choose to participate,
was given one week to report and record as many of his exploits as
possible. Or rather, that was his belief.  In truth, men and women from all
over the country would be participating, attempting to win a prize they
believed ranged anywhere from one to twenty million dollars.  They would be
competing against an unknown number of other men and women, all with a
different set of requirements in their letter, but all assuming each
contestant was playing the game with the same set of rules.
   In fact, the only thing similar about each contestant's set of rules was
a point system, grading sexual activities based on difficulty.  Seducing as
many sexual partners as possible during any given span was a difficult
proposition, and a player ought to be rewarded for receiving something more
than oral sex, the old man thought.  But after the point system, the
similarities ended there.
   The point system had been a wrinkle the old man had introduced a decade
ago, a move made from boredom.  There's only so many ways a man can fuck a
gas station attendant or a woman can seduce a police officer, he laughed,
the sound echoing through the cavernous library.  The participants involved
in the contest had no need to know they were all playing under different
sets of rules, just as they had no need to know that ultimately there was
no grand prize, as the letter claimed there to be.
   "Very good," the man muttered.  The difficult part of the contest, the
planning and worrying, was nearly at an end.  The letters had been sent out
and the old man was pleased.  He enjoyed variety and took great pleasure in
the writing of each contestant's rules.  Whereas one man might be under
strict order to have sexual relations only with women sharing the same
first name as his mother or sister, another participant might be required
to have sex once for every three hundred miles traveled.  Or any number of
different possibilities.
   The man motioned to Carter and the butler nodded and retreated from the
room, leaving the old man alone.  He knew the letters would be delivered
shortly, leaving their recipients one week to decide if they would
participate.  A special phone number had been set up for their responses,
although they would have no idea who they were contacting.  The old man
preferred it that way, and what he desired he found he generally received.
   Three more weeks, he thought, and then the fun begins.
   Anthony's Story Begins
   Anthony looked at the letter in his hand.  It had come via registered
mail, but had contained no return address.  He had inquired, but the
courier had been unable, or unwilling, Anthony thought, to tell him
anything regarding the letter's origins.
   Dear Mr.  Martin,
   You are cordially invited to partake in a most confidential and
lucrative endeavor.  Copies of this letter have been sent to various others
such as yourself: those who crave daring, passion, and above all... 
adventure.
   The adventure placed before you is this:
   Beginning on September 20, and continuing through September 26, a period
of exactly one week, your goal shall be to work your way across the United
States, from your home in Virginia, through the Midwest, eventually
reaching the finish line at an undisclosed location in Washington state.
   This will not be a race in the general sense of the word.  You will not
be rewarded for reaching the destination first, nor penalized for being
last to arrive.  In fact, the longer your stay on the road, the more likely
your potential reward.
   The real challenge to this race lies between the beginning and finish,
at each stop along the way.  The goal of this race is thus: during the week
of the race, you will be awarded points for engaging in various sexual
activities.  Enclosed you will find a scorecard with which to tally your
daily point total.  Various sexual activities are of course worth more
points than others, but may take longer for you to achieve.  It is up to
you to determine the best course of action for you.  Quantity of encounters
or quality of a few select trysts now becomes your concern.
   There is, of course, a catch.
   You have one rule which you must follow on this trip: Every time you
stop, whether it is for food or gas or to sleep the night, you shall be
required to engage in sexual activity with at least one other person.  More
activity is, of course better, but at least one instance is required of
you. So plan your mileage carefully, and study your maps.  You have one
week to reach your destination.
   You will be provided with a motor home (which shall be equipped with a
GPS unit in order to track your progress and to make note of each and every
stop), a laptop computer to transmit your daily scores, credit cards with
no preset limits, and most importantly, a digital video camera.  You will
be required to have video proof of each sexual encounter, whether this is
testimony from the woman in question or a simple video document of the
activity.
   Anthony choked back a laugh as he read the letter.  It certainly
appeared...  legitimate, but he had never heard of something so crazy in
all his life.  Maybe this is a practical joke, he thought, imagining the
guys at the office laughing behind his back, but all his instincts told him
it was real.  I'm the last guy in the world you'd want in a contest like
this!
   He was intrigued, however and continued reading.  The letter went on to
catalog the various types of sexual activity permitted, and other facets of
the competition.
   Coercion of a female partner is not condoned, the letter continued. 
This being said, any sexual activities stemming from force or deceit are
valid and will be tabulated on the contestant's total.  This should only be
seen as a last resort, for should a participant be detained by local
authorities as a result of any forced sexual activity, the player will be
afforded no legal counsel.
   One last note: any sexual encounter resulting from an act of payment
shall be immediately disallowed.  There shall be no traveling to Las Vegas
in order to use your credit card at a brothel.
   Anthony re-read the unsigned letter, once again attempting to figure out
who this might have come from, but the only clue was a toll-free number
which the letter said would reveal more information regarding the race.
   What the hell, he thought as he punched in the digits.  After two rings,
a recording of a man's voice came over the phone line.
   "Thank you for calling, whoever the hell you are.  If you've dialed this
number, you've received my letter and are at least mildly interested.  I
commend you on your choice, and offer this as further incentive.  There is
no entry fee for my little contest, all your expenses are paid, and the
prize for the lucky son of a bitch who wins is a cool one million dollars.
   "You might ask yourself why I'm doing this, and it's a good question,
but you'll have to pardon my French, but you can just fuck off.  I have my
reasons, and they're mine.  A week of fucking ought to be enough to get
your pulse going, but if it's not, I think the money should do the trick.
   "If you're still interested, punch in your phone number and someone will
call you back.  If not, just hang up and you'll never hear from me again.
   Anthony hung up the phone quickly.  He knew he had a decision to make,
but wasn't sure how to go about it.  He laughed as he looked around his
messy, one-bedroom apartment.  There was certainly nothing keeping him at
home...  no wife, no girlfriend, no family to ask questions, but did he
want to do this?  Suppose it was some elaborate practical joke, what then?
He didn't think he would be able to live that down.  Not in this lifetime
anyway.
   One million dollars.  Assuming that wasn't a hoax as well, it was
certainly incentive enough to get him to at least consider it.  You're not
that kind of guy, Anthony thought, and he knew it was true.  How will you
ever pull off something like this when you couldn't even ask out Denise
Roberts?  Anthony sighed, remembering the agony of high school and the girl
everyone had a crush on, including him.  She liked you!  his conscious
screamed, but you were too much of a pussy to make the first move.
   It was true.  He had watched from the sidelines, teased by his friends,
as Denise turned down date after date with the rest of his friends.  She
likes you, his friends had told him, but he was too damn shy, afraid of the
embarrassment of being turned down.
   It's time to change that, he thought to himself.  I don't have to be
afraid like that now.  Picking up the phone, Anthony again dialed the
number and when the message ended, punched in his phone number.
   He sat nervously by the phone, wondering how long it would be until...
whoever it was called back.  The shrill ringing of the phone startled him,
and Anthony picked up the phone nervously.
   "Hello?" he said.
   "Who is this?" a voice asked.  Anthony recognized it as belonging to the
old man from the phone message.
   "Anthony...  Anthony Martin," he stuttered.
   "Yeah?  Do I know you?" the voice demanded.  "What do you want?"
   What is this?  Anthony wondered.  Some kind of test?  If so, it was a
test he knew how to pass.  Anthony took a deep breath, holding in it for a
count of five before slowly exhaling.
   "I want..." he said slowly, scarcely able to believe he was about to do
this.  "I want you to tell me about the race."
   *****
   Holy shit!  Anthony thought as he hung up the phone.  How unbelievable
is that?
   He sat down momentarily, unable to believe what he had just heard.  The
letter had just been the first part of it, but there were rules and
regulations and points and Anthony wasn't sure if he'd heard them all
correctly, but the old man he had talked to had seemed sure that everything
would become clear once the game had started.
   And what a hell of a game it is!
   Anthony had been hesitant to agree to participate, but the old man had
been persuasive.  Besides, Anthony thought.  There's nothing really illegal
about the game.  Immoral perhaps, possibly dangerous.  But still...  what
fun it could be!
   Eventually, after much prodding from the old man, Anthony had acquiesced
and agreed to be in the competition.  The prize money, or at least the
chance to win all of the prize money, was certainly a factor.
   But I really just need a break, Anthony thought as he dialed into work.
   "Platinum Video rentals, how can I help you?" asked the voice on the
other end of the line.
   "Hey Jamie," he greeted his coworker who answered the phone.  "Is Don
working now?"
   "Anthony!" Jamie answered.  "What's up?"
   "Um...  nothing.  I just need to talk to Don."
   "Sure, hang on a second."
   Jamie set the phone down and Anthony fought off an involuntary shudder
as he heard the busy sounds of a video rental store early on a Tuesday
afternoon.  It sounded like a madhouse, and Anthony wasn't surprised when
the manager sounded frazzled as he picked up the phone.
   "This is Don," he said quickly.
   "Hey Don, it's Anthony."
   "What's up?"
   "I just called to let you know I'll be taking a week of vacation time."
   "When?" Don answered quickly, and Anthony heard his boss rifling through
the desk calendar.
   "Um...  next week, if possible."
   "Next week?" Don sounded exasperated, not that Anthony could blame him.
"How do you expect me to get your shifts covered so quickly?"
   "Well, I thought...  I...  I thought that..."
   "Did you even think this through?  God dammit!"
   "It's not like we're that busy in the fall.  I thought that maybe Jamie
could pick up some of my hours."
   "Jamie is already working full-time.  I'm not paying overtime."
   "Well..."
   "Did something happen?  Are you okay?" Don asked.  "Are you in trouble?"
   "Trouble?"
   "You're normally my most reliable worker, very steady...  this isn't
like you at all."
   "No...  I'm okay.  I just...  I have to take some time off."
   Don sighed before answering.  "I just...  I don't see where I can get
your shifts covered," he finally said.
   "But I have to take the week off.  I have the vacation time coming,"
Anthony said.
   "I know you do, but...  but you just need to give me more time!"
   "I just found out myself," Anthony said, trying to defend the short
notice.
   "I'm sorry.  There's nothing I can do."
   Anthony paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.
   "Are you sure?"
   "Yes I'm sure!  I can't work all day, every day you know?  I need one of
my assistant managers here to open or close once in a while!"
   "I'm sorry," Anthony said.  "I have to take the time off."
   Don cut off a grunt of frustration.  "I'm sorry too," he said shortly.
"I'll expect to see you Monday morning, or not at all.  Are you listening?
Monday or never again." Before Anthony could reply, Don hung up the phone.
Anthony grimaced as he put down the receiver.
   Well, shit, Anthony thought, that didn't turn out like I'd hoped.  He
was surprised when the phone rang again and hurried to pick it up quickly.
   "Don?" he asked hopefully.
   "Anthony?" the voice on the other end replied.  "This is Jamie.  What
the hell just happened?"
   "Why?"
   "We could hear Don screaming from his office.  What did you do?"
   "I told him I needed to take some time off, and I think I just quit.  Or
got fired, I'm not sure which."
   "Thank God!" Jamie laughed.
   "What?"
   "You don't belong here," Jamie said.  "A bunch of us had a bet going to
see when you'd get fed up with renting Barney videos to kids.  You lasted a
lot longer than some of us thought you might."
   "I suppose you won the bet?" Anthony asked.
   "Nah," Jamie giggled.  "I had you figured for a real short-timer. 
Congratulations, though."
   "For what?"
   "Getting out."
   "Thanks, I guess," Anthony answered, unsure of what to say.  "Hey, I've
gotta go, okay?"
   "Okay.  We're all going to miss you," Jamie said before hanging up.
   Anthony laughed quietly as he again put down the phone.  She'll miss me?
he thought in wonder.  In the eight months he had been working at the video
store, Anthony didn't think he had spoken more than six sentences to any of
his coworkers, other than Jamie.
   Oh well, at least that's over with, Anthony thought.  Putting aside all
thoughts of his job, Anthony hurried to his closet.  In addition to dealing
with everything around the apartment he needed to start thinking about
packing.
   The letter had said the contest was scheduled to begin on September 20.
   Anthony had less than a week to prepare.
   End Prologue
  
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