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Poor Arvid Cumpston. Twenty-six years old. Unemployed. Unemployable. With a ruptured disk in his back. A dog-like devotion to pain pills. Total erectile dysfunction—like a fricking banana slug. No money. No friends. His mother’s dead. His father hates him. But he’s still living at home. Otherwise, it’s all good.
At least he has a way out, and it’s telegenic. He’s picked up a genuine Confederate rifle, complete with period ammunition. Except he can’t call Willis, his father, to tell him off one last time, because he keeps getting interrupted by telemarketers. And then it gets worse. Wouldn’t you know it, Willis has decided to end himself that very same night, and in much better style-—with a vintage straight razor in the hot tub. That upstaging son-of-a-bitch! And Willis has to add one last joke: He invites the telemarketers to come over and maybe get blamed for murder. So, how to decide who gets to die and who gets stuck cleaning up the mess? Make it into a reality show called “Suicide Live.” The telemarketers can be the jury.