Characters in The Running Man

Red Newsbreak Top. I’ve got a hostage. Her name is Amelia Williams. From—” He looked at her. “Falmouth,” she said miserably. “From Falmouth. Safe conduct or I’ll kill her.” “Jesus, I smell the Pulitzer Prize!” “No, you just shit your pants, that’s all,” Richards said. He felt lightheaded.

… lectern and said: “I’d like you to meet Arthur M. Burns, Assistant Director of Games.” “Huzzah,” somebody behind Richards said in a sour voice. A portly man with a tonsure surrounded by gray hair strode to the lectern, pausing and cocking his head as he arrived, as if to appreciate …

“Benjamin Stuart Richards. Age twenty-eight, born August 8, 1997, city of Harding. Attended South City Manual Trades from September of 2011 until December of 2013. Suspended twice for failure to respect authority. I believe you kicked the assistant principal in the upper thigh once while his back was turned?”

But this afternoon, Laughlin had been observed by two kids. He had been cowering in a Highway Department road shed. He had broken his right wrist at some point. The kids, Bobby and Mary Cowles, were shown grinning broadly into the camera. Bobby Cowles had a tooth missing.

This other fellow, as I’m sure you know, is Bobby Thompson.” Thompson, of course. Host and emcee of The Running Man. He wore a natty green tunic, slightly iridescent, and sported a mane of hair that was silvery-attractive enough to be suspect. “Do you dye it?” Richards asked.

Richards waited. “Now,” Parrakis said, when the sobs had died to sniffles. “Mr. Richards is Bradley Throckmorton’s good friend, and he is going to be with us for a couple of days, Mom.” She began to shriek, and he clapped a hand over her mouth, wincing as he did so.

Jesus, Molie, she must have come out for groceries. And the doctor—” “She sent Budgie O’Sanchez’s kid. What’s his name.” “Walt.” “Yeah, that’s it. I can’t keep the goddam spics and micks straight no more. I’m gettin senile, Bennie. Blowin my cool.” He glared up at Richards suddenly.

In the far bedroom, Cassie screamed, whooped, and was silent. Bradley had told Richards with a kind of angry shame that he should not mind her. She had cancer in both lungs and recently it had spread upward into her throat and down into her belly. She was five.

“Names and ages of children, if any.” “Catherine Sarah Richards, eighteen months.” Clitter-clitter-clitter “Last question, mister. Don’t bother lying; they’ll pick it up during the physical and disqualify you there.

He thrust two New Quarters at Richards, stuffed the rest of the money back in his pocket, and grabbed a handful of Richards’s tunic. “If you send anybody else over here because Charlie Grady is a soft touch, I’ll beat your sonofabitching brains out, maggot.” “Thank you,” Richards said steadily.

“Thass prime dope,” he said. “That ol man Curry ast me where I got two dollars and semney-fi cents to buy prime dope an I tole him to go shit in his boot and eat it.” “Doan swear or the devil will poke you,” Ma said. “Here’s dinner.”

“I’m Dan Killian, Mr. Richards. By now you’ve probably guessed why you’ve been brought here. Our records and your test scores both say you’re a bright boy.” Richards folded his hands and waited. “You’ve been slated as a contestant on The Running Man, Mr. Richards.

Hot damn!” The voice, pulled away from the phone, yelled distantly: “Dicky, open the national cable!” “I’m going to kill her if they shoot,” Richards said, simultaneously trying to inject sincerity into his voice and to remember all the old gangster movies he had seen on tee-vee as a kid.

Ma said Cassie was going to heaven to be with Dicky and the other angels. The boy thought that was bullshit. Everybody went to hell when they died, and the devil jabbed them in the ass with a pitchfork.

“No.” “Rich and Dink Moran built a pollution counter. Dink drew the picture out of the book, and they did it from coffee cans and some stuff they boosted out of cars. It’s hid out in an alley.

“Hello, Mr. Richards,” the pilot said. He glanced at the bulge in Richards’s pocket before he looked at his face. “Pardon me if I don’t shake hands. I’m Flight Captain Don Holloway. This is my co-pilot Wayne Duninger.” “Under the circumstances, not very pleased to meet you,” Duninger said.

They would be leaning hard on everyone he knew, from Jack Crager to that bitch Eileen Jenner down the hall. Heavy heat. How long until somebody, maybe a head-softie like Flapper Donnigan, let it slip that Molie had forged papers on occasion? And if they found Molie, he was blown.

The door opened, and Elton Parrakis walked in. He was immensely fat, and his lackluster blond hair was combed back in preposterous waves from his forehead to show a round baby face that held an element of perpetual puzzlement.

He was not surprised to find that it did strike fear into his heart. Evan McCone was the Chief Hunter. A direct descendant of J. Edgar Hoover and Heinrich Himmler, he thought. The personification of the steel inside the Network’s cathode glove. A boogeyman.

He’s got a envelope for your ol lady. He came in a Black Wagon with about six buddies. Flapper Donnigan was standin on the corner pitchin nicks with Gerry Hanrahan when it transfired. Flapper tells me everythin. The boy’s soft, you know.” “I know Flapper’s soft,” Richards said impatiently.

The police watched them, hands on either gun butts or move-alongs. They smiled anonymous, contemptuous smiles. —That one look like a half-wit to you, Frank? Looks like one to me. —Guy down there ast me if there was a place where he could go to the bathroom. Canya magine it?

“Frankie? You in there, Frankie?” Richards said nothing. Frozen with fear, he played a statue. “You eat shit, Frankie-baby.” There was a chortle of drunken laughter and the footsteps moved on. Pounding on the next door up. “You in there, Frankie?” Richards’s heart slipped slowly down from his throat.

“Mr. Richards, this gentleman on my right is Fred Victor, the director of The Running Man. This other fellow, as I’m sure you know, is Bobby Thompson.” Thompson, of course. Host and emcee of The Running Man.

He’s got a envelope for your ol lady. He came in a Black Wagon with about six buddies. Flapper Donnigan was standin on the corner pitchin nicks with Gerry Hanrahan when it transfired. Flapper tells me everythin. The boy’s soft, you know.” “I know Flapper’s soft,” Richards said impatiently.

His blood had smeared on her smart green and black-striped blouse. The old man, Gilly, cracked the screen door open and poked out a very old Polaroid camera. He clicked the shutter, pulled the tape, and waited. His face was painted with horror and excitement and delight.

No union affiliation due to your refusal to sign the Union Oath of Fealty and the Wage Control Articles. I believe that you referred to Area Governor Johnsbury as ‘a corn-holing sonofabitch.’ ” “Yes,” Richards said.

Harris, maybe. The fat one who drank illicit beer on the job. It hurts in the belly, Harris had said. It takes a long time. And all of them nodding and agreeing solemnly, with no conception of Pain. Richards lurched up the narrow corridor, holding both sides for support.

They would be leaning hard on everyone he knew, from Jack Crager to that bitch Eileen Jenner down the hall. Heavy heat. How long until somebody, maybe a head-softie like Flapper Donnigan, let it slip that Molie had forged papers on occasion? And if they found Molie, he was blown.

… sake —Treadmill to Bucks, gosh, I didn’t know my heart was— —I was hoping I’d get it but I didn’t really think— —Hey Jake, you ever seen this Swim the Crocodiles? I thought— —nothing like I expected— —I don’t think you can— —Miserable goddam— —This Run For Your Guns— “Benjamin …

Victor frowned and lit a cigarette. “He comes on after you, at six-fifteen. We run two contests simultaneously because often one of the contestants is, uh, inadept at staying ahead of the Hunters.” “With the kid as a back-up?” “Mr. Jansky? Yes. But none of this concerns you, Mr. Richards.

Richards and the man with the sour voice, whose name was Jimmy Laughlin, made wary conversation. Richards discovered that Laughlin lived only three blocks away from him, on Dock Street.

“We sure are. Through Kippy Friedman, our communications man.” “Give me something to talk into.” Holloway handed him a microphone with infinite carefulness. “Get going on your preflight,” Richards said. “Five minutes.” “Will you want the explosive bolts on the rear loading door armed?” Duninger said with great eagerness.

But this afternoon, Laughlin had been observed by two kids. He had been cowering in a Highway Department road shed. He had broken his right wrist at some point. The kids, Bobby and Mary Cowles, were shown grinning broadly into the camera. Bobby Cowles had a tooth missing.

“Miss Jones? Ready for you, sweets.” He stood up and offered his hand again. “Makeup next, Mr. Richards. Then the lighting runs. You’ll be quartered offstage and we won’t meet again before you go on. So—” “It’s been grand,” Richards said. He declined the hand. Miss Jones led him out.

… (cutting one hand) and he was rapping on Molie Jernigan’s back door—which is to say, the main entrance. Molie ran a Dock Street hockshop where a fellow with enough bucks to spread around could buy a police-special move-along, a full-choke riot gun, a submachine gun, heroin, Push, cocaine, drag disguises, …

Really. They can’t cut many more guys because there’s too many shows. There’s got to be enough cannon fodder to go around. And they give advances, I think. Mrs. Upshaw—” “She looked awful in black,” Sheila broke in tonelessly. “Never mind that. You stay with Cathy, Sheila. No more tricks.”

Richards got two of them and sat munching, listening to a pal named Rettenmund as he regaled Richards and a few others with a seemingly inexhaustible fund of dirty stories. When the whole group was together, they were shunted into an elevator and lifted to the fifth floor.

“Stacey’s got one. I made it. Ma and Rich Goleon an some other people got em, too.” “You’re shitting me,” Richards said. “No, man.” He stopped. Richards was suddenly sure that Bradley was weighing what he had said already against a great many more things which he might say.

“Sit down, please,” she said, “I am Rinda Ward, your tester.” She held out her hand. Startled, Richards shook it. “Benjamin Richards.” “May I call you Ben?” The smile was seductive but impersonal.

Richards looked around, startled. It was Donahue, the navigator, looking colder and deadlier than ever. His greased hair gleamed in the cabin’s indirect lighting. He was holding a wire-stock Magnum/Springstun machine pistol, and it was trained on McCone. “Robert S. Donahue, old-timer. Games Council Control. Throw it on the floor.”

… close, seemingly in his left ear: “Come on, Rolf!” There was a sudden volley of barks that made Richards jump violently and he had just time to think: Police dogs, Christ, they’ve got police dogs, when something huge and black broke cover and arrowed at him. The gun was knocked …

Clitter-clitter-clitter “Name and age of spouse if any.” “Sheila Catherine Richards, twenty-six.” “Names and ages of children, if any.” “Catherine Sarah Richards, eighteen months.” Clitter-clitter-clitter “Last question, mister.

“Any pig grunts at Bradley, he make ’em shit in their boot an eat it,” Stacey said, wiping his mouth. When he looked at Bradley, his eyes glittered with the flat shine of hero worship. “You’re dribblin on your shirt, Skinner,” Bradley said. He knuckled Stacey’s head.

He had spent the years between five and sixteen hustling, he and his brother Todd. His mother had died of syphilis when he was ten and Todd was seven.

“I’m Virginia Parrakis,” she said flatly. “I’m Elton’s mother. Come in.”

Jesus, Molie, she must have come out for groceries. And the doctor—” “She sent Budgie O’Sanchez’s kid. What’s his name.” “Walt.” “Yeah, that’s it. I can’t keep the goddam spics and micks straight no more. I’m gettin senile, Bennie. Blowin my cool.” He glared up at Richards suddenly.

“Hello, Mr. Richards,” the pilot said. He glanced at the bulge in Richards’s pocket before he looked at his face. “Pardon me if I don’t shake hands. I’m Flight Captain Don Holloway. This is my co-pilot Wayne Duninger.” “Under the circumstances, not very pleased to meet you,” Duninger said.