(This message was edited by legerdemain on 06-21-12 @ 10:33 am EDT)

"Congratulations, you're the winner," said the dancing hologram (it resembled a NASCAR driver but I guess it was supposed to be an Astronaut), as its three dimensional visage jumped and ambled across the plain brown manila envelope I had just seconds before discovered in my mailbox. It was an invite to participate in a new kind of reality TV. At the time I was an out of work actor and even it's long shot histrionics seemed like a slice of heaven to me. Four years and Forty-million miles later I wish I would have followed my first instinct and pitched that godforsaken thing into the trash. But being unemployed was driving me and my live in girlfriend crazy and it was better than nothing.

Coughing, as the sulfuric acid continued to eat at my cracked helmet, the voice of one of the smarmy day-glow producers continued to drone in my ear about, " playing up the death angle. Just hang on," they continued, "And way to work up the drama." Supposedly a rescue ship was in route from the dome to where I lay and would arrive in minutes. That was just peachy but I seriously doubted I had minutes. Venus's surface is anything but forgiving and right now between the heat, the acid and lack of oxygen it was hard to marshal a convincing argument back to that voice in my ear or the other one in my head telling me I was a goner, other then, "in fifteen minutes prepare to evacuate, soul."

I tasted blood as I moaned and the harsh winds slid me a few more feet across the surface and up against a large well-worn boulder. Memories of my first day on set came flooding back. I absentmindedly wondered if this was 'having your life; flash before your eyes or just the shock of my injuries or even if there was a distinction that mattered.

"Hey there everybody," said Mr. Tan--that's how I think of him, his real name's a little fuzzy right now, dying will do that to your memory, I guess.-- the producer of Rocket to Venus, as he greeted the final forty contestants. We were all that remained of a process that had started the year before when I got that evelope in the mail. A year of vetting and market testing to get down to the 'live' and taped segment of the audition process. Already, I had already outlasted ten thousand wanna-bees. The forty of us, who would actually compete, just like the contestants had on our wildly successful sister show Mars One for the right to be space explorers.

He continued, not bothering to take off his aviators, " The forty of you are the cream of our contestant crop and will compete over the season for 'votes' from our viewing audience. Five of you will make the final crew and take the Rocket to Venus," he finished intoning in his fake Hollywood announcer voice. Then dropping his act for a second he continued, " Look, all of you are vets as to how the 'scripted reality' circuit works. You want any prayer of continued paychecks and guaranteed meals for the next half a decade then you know what I expect, and what the viewers expect. I want sex. I want blood. I want intrigue and heartbreak. Give me that and I guarantee you'll go down in history while making the trip of a lifetime. All of you could end up just like Sergei and Jen from Mars One did, instant household names. Capese?"

We all nodded excitedly and filed over to sign away our lives for a back-end cut and promises of a career as permanent D-Listers.

"Hey, Hey.... Bozo...." said the buzzing in my ear as I snapped to lucidity for a moment. " You stopped talking. What's a matter with you?" it continued. "Dead-air is a killer in live broadcasts. You know that, so get with it. Look, can I just be the first to say we're live globally, baby, globally. This is the big time. So pull it together and remember your character, baby. Hard nosed, heartbreaking hunk with a soft side. Now look, the ship is still at least five minutes out... goddamned Russian junk but we didn't have the budget for the good Chinese gear, so you gotta make due for a few more. Believe me, lesson learned kiddo and all but look, you're killing us with this silence. You gotta give me something. Talk about your father's memory giving you the strength to carry on, or try to claw up that bolder and strike a weary pose... Hey I got it, work into telling the audience you're carrying on for Amber ,who just told you she's carrying your baby. That would be gold. I can just see it now. Don't worry we'll work in the details to that retroactively...You here me? You hearing me? You almost dying, is going to be the ratings coup of the century. Me and you baby will be zillionaries."

My throat was so parched it felt like swallowing fire to even croak out mono-syllabic," sure," but I did. Then, I looked at my air-gauge, it read out, empty, zero and zilch. I only had what was left in my helmet and as I moved my head a sharp sting burrowed into my cheek as acid dripped down from my visor. It was at that moment I knew I was dead, but for the first time since I started this asinine f***ed-up trip, I was at peace with my lot. I struggled to my feet with the last of my air and started to unfasten my helmet (a no-no they explained from day one back in Astronaut training). I wasn't exactly clear on if i'd melt or explode or what. I mean I'm a shitty actor playing a real life Astronaut, not a fracking rocket scientist. But I do remember them saying it would be messy, real messy.

Well f*** them and f*** their ratings and their piss poor emergency planning, and even f*** me for thinking any of this cockamamie bullshit made sense for even a second, I thought ruefully. "Let's see how the suits back home edit this shit." I laughed as I marshaled the last of my strength, stood up and pulled my helmet off.