Light. Kip's grinning face. "Three stars, Nigel! In record time! But also a record for most creative swears per second! Tell us, how do you feel?"
And the jungle exploded inside his head.
Nigel blinked. He looked down at his shaking hands. He was crying. The sound of his own pathetic whimper, still echoing in that perfect AC-3 mix, had been the scariest thing of all. i'm a celebrity, get me out of here! season 01 ac3
Nigel was strapped to a board. The lid of the faux-sarcophagus closed. Absolute dark. Then, a low, mechanical hum. The sound system clicked on.
His career had cooled to a gentle simmer of nostalgia conventions and sad-lunch-pail commercials for erectile dysfunction medication. This show was his "big comeback." So far, his comeback had involved sleeping on bamboo, eating a fermented duck egg, and being screamed at by a former pop star named Trixie because he’d accidentally used her allocated three squares of toilet paper. In record time
He walked to the trial clearing, a middle-aged man in khaki shorts, his chest hair greyer than he remembered. The host, a grinning Antipodean menace named Kip, welcomed him with sadistic glee.
He fumbled in the dark. His hand touched something wet and writhing—yabbies? leeches? He didn't wait to find out. He flailed. His fingers closed on a cold, plastic star. Then another. The third was under a weight—something furry and unnervingly still. Nigel blinked
He screamed. Not for the show. For his mum.