According to the Daily Mail, “Game of Thrones writer George RR Martin offers to ‘kill off’ one of his fans for $20,000.
“George RR Martin will name a character after a male and female fan and kill them in a future A Song Of Ice And Fire novel as part of a fundraising campaign.”
The man himself says, “You can choose your character’s station in the world (lordling, knight, peasant, whore, lady, maester, septon, anything) and you will certainly meet a grisly death!”
Truly, I had no idea people were so enthusiastic about seeing themselves ushered publicly and painfully into the Great Beyond. But, hey, who am I to judge? Especially when there’s the possibility of wrapping my paws around some necessary needed lucre?
Martin’s is such a good idea I decided to adapt it at WMBriggs.com. And I’ll go one further than Martin, too.
At the $10 level or $1/month level, you have your choice of character name and “station in the world.” I pick the way you hand in your dinner pail. But those who double the suggested amount—and here I top Martin—have the privilege of choosing the method they trip down their final staircase. (Use the comment box at the links provided to specify your names and choices.)
Think of the possibilities! Admire Utopian purges? The guillotine’s for you. Feeling nostalgic? Go for a hanging. You’re an academic? Starvation by gulag is just the ticket. Computer geek? Bashed on the head by your Twitter handle. Somewhat squeamish but still want to play? How about being at the center of a nuclear bomb? Painless, that. The sky’s the limit—including being dropped from a great height by an over-sized vulture who mistook you for a three-week-dead ferret.
Here’s the topper. If nobody donates by a week from today, 14 June 2014, I’m killing all of you off. Probably by some banality like stroke or myocardial infarction. As dull, non-noteworthy, and as undistinguished kinds of deaths that I can think of. As far as station in life, everybody is a junior bureaucrat named Jayden in a sub-sub-basement of the NSA tasked with sorting through typed transcripts of college girls’ cell phone calls (“And then I was all like, ungh. Like she didn’t, like, get it?” “Like, I was like, yeah, but, like, not that I liked it”). Nobody will even be allowed a suicide.
It will look something like this:
SCENE ONE SETTING: A bright and clement day. A line of gray lumpen non-smiling polyester-slacked people with Supercuts hairdos line up at the NSA entrance to pass through the metal detector. The line extends to the parking lot where a MAN is exiting from his faded gray 1998 Toyota Corolla.
SCOTIAN: Excuse me, miss. Is this the IRS?
SHERI: No, the NSA.
SCOTIAN: I’m from Canada and I always wanted to visit it.
SHERI: Many people do.
SCOTIAN DROPS TO THE PAVEMENT CLUTCHING HIS CHEST
SHERI: Too bad he’s so far from his national health insurance.
SHERI RESUMES HER PLACE IN LINE, PECKING AWAY AT HER CELL PHONE LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE
SHERI: I feel a headache coming on—
That’s right—this is blackmail. I won’t put the pretty on it. There’s only one way to stop this excruciating drivel from being exposed to public view. Pay or suffer.
Update You have been saved! Next Saturday, I’ll give everybody the details, thanking all involved. I’ll also let you know when the mini-play will run.
I had thought you could enter details (name, life station) into the donation form, but apparently not. So if you donate, either put them in the comments or send a separate email. Thanks!