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“Alright, guys, so we have about four geodes left to open!!” Jerma gestures at the makeshift rock display, shimmying his hands and grinning wide. “Do you think we should go for the big one now?” As the cameraman focuses in on the large geode, baking under the Las Vegas sun, Jerma picks up his iPad, dusting off the rock debris and desert sand that found its way into the device’s crevices. His eyes pick out one message among the “YEAH”s and the “that’s what she said”s in chat: “Put your arm in the rock crusher.” He reads the message aloud, immediately whipping his head up to give the camera guy a shot of his comically disturbed face. On cue, and as always, chat has immediately lost interest in the remaining geodes, erupting in “DO IT”s and OMEGALULs.
“Chat, I’m not gonna— Are you insane! It’s for science only!!” His screen only starts to fill with more aggressive begging, a few Madges sprinkled in. One message reads “what is wrong with you guys.” Clearly a new viewer.
But he licks his lips and stares over at the pipe cutter, the sun stinging his eyes. It would be kinda funny if he did. It would be really funny. Although the aftermath would sorta suck. “I’m not gonna do it,” he says, a laugh creeping up in his voice, “That’s— I’m not gonna do that. But.” He takes a step toward it, almost cautiously, as if it would bite. It would bite. “I’m not gonna do it.”
He doesn’t even need the iPad anymore; he can practically taste what chat’s begging for in the back of his throat. Another step forward. “I-I mean, it would kinda be— No, I’m not gonna— Chat.” Another step forward. “Hey, um, hey everyone! Let’s bring over Community Jake!!” And he waves Jake over from production with a grin.
Jake comes into frame, and the camera focuses in on the sweat of his brow. He waves at the camera before Jerma directs him to the pipe cutter, which he stands beside.
“Do you mind helping me out with this one? I don’t think I can, y’know, with only one hand like this. It would be a weird angle,” Jerma says, beginning to wrap the metal chain tightly around his left forearm. He winces at the metal teeth. “Ow.”
Jake pauses for a second, meeting Jerma’s eyes. He winks. “O-oh, yeah, sure, of course!” He grips the top lever of the pipe cutter, carefully not to put any pressure on it.
“Alright, here we go!” Jerma announces almost flamboyantly as the camera zooms in on his face, waiting for the eventual dramatic scream to top off the bit. It doesn’t come. “…Jake, c’mon!”
“W-Wait, you actually want me to—?”
“Yeah, give ‘em a show!”
Jake blinks, readjusting his grip. It was surely some fake arm bit that he was left out on; at least that’s what the audience would think. Yet, he can see Jerma’s fingers wiggle. Must be a pretty fancy fake arm.
When Jake puts down the slightest pressure, Jerma’s face contorts in pain. Then, he giggles. “C’mon—!” And with more pressure, his mouth gapes open. A trickle of blood slides down his forearm to his wrist, where it drips on the ground. The chain grinds through his skin. “J-Just a bit more!”
With a final push, a splintering crack cuts through the air. Jerma sputters out a moan, and the arm on the other side of the chain goes limp. Despite shaking, he looks over at his arm with a giddy smile. Then, the sharp push of breath through his nostrils, his sealed lips. When he loosens the chain, a large spurt of blood gushes from the arm, and it hangs limply past the point of the chain, gravity dragging it straight down. Beneath the cheap torn black fabric of his costume is a layer of yellowish fat, red meat, and the bloodied sheen of stark white bone. His arm is only held to the rest of his body with a few slivers of torn skin and muscle.
The laugh finally escapes Jerma’s lips, and he falls back on the desert floor, the sand kicking up into the bloody wound, stinging him. “Wow, do you see that! Man, science is so cool!”