Prologue
Destroying the lives of ten people is surprisingly easy when they’re the ones who signed the consent forms.
“Sir, we have a problem,” said Martín, the intern, as he stepped into the control room, which looked more like a cramped bunker, packed with screens and filled with the smoke of four cigarettes burning at once. All belonging to the same person.
“What problem? Have the alligators chewed through one of the cables in the swamp?” asked the executive producer, who also happened to own the cigarettes. He didn’t even bother looking at him, far too busy watching the monitors to make sure the hidden cameras were getting the coverage he wanted. “Tell the crew I want more shots of the river, and throw in a few more alligators, even if they’re props.”
“No, well, hopefully not… You see, sir, there’s a bit of an inconsistency. Olympus belongs to Greek mythology, whereas Hell is a Christian concept. The opposite of Olympus would be Tartarus… I think we’re going to get absolutely slaughtered online for being so ignorant,” Martín ventured, clutching his tablet tightly against his chest so Mr. Saavedra wouldn’t notice his trembling hands.
The producer carried on with his work. He needed to make sure the cameras were capturing the filthiest locations, the places where influencers would end up crying because their thousand-euro trainers had gotten covered in mud.
He took a sip of coffee and another drag on his cigarette.
“Have we finalised the cast yet?” he asked, gesturing towards the tablet with his eyes.
Martín, who had been hoping to press the point about the theological inconsistencies, decided to keep quiet and turned on the screen to show him the five selected couples.
“Sandra and Javi. Seven years together. They met on another reality show, and their relationship is more toxic than Justin and Selena’s. Álvaro and Bárbara. Two and a half years together. They met at the gym and call themselves Barbie and Ken. Gala and Thiago. One year together, two months living together, and they practically hate each other. Claudia and Ferrán. Six months together. They haven’t even had time to get to know each other. And Leo and Amaia. Five years together, although they did break up for a while because she was too toxic,” Martín rattled off, quickly swiping through the photos.
“Send this one straight into the mud on day one,” the producer ordered, tapping Bárbara’s picture with his finger. “No moisturisers, no makeup, no hair products. Nothing.”
“But, sir, the show's rules state…”
“I make the rules,” he snapped, cutting him off. “Talk to the writers. Barbie goes straight into the mud from minute one. I want him living in luxury. Let’s see how long it takes those two to start stabbing each other in the back over it. They look like the most superficial ones.”
“Understood. I’ll talk to the writers.”
The producer fell silent, studying the faces of the ten people he was about to put through hell over the coming weeks.
“Kid, take a look at him,” he said suddenly, pointing straight at Álvaro’s picture. “Almost three hundred thousand followers, and he wouldn’t know a machete from a tin opener. Do you honestly think the people who watch this kind of show give a damn about theological inconsistencies?”
“Well, there’s always the odd smartarse…”
“This show's audience couldn't care less,” he interrupted again. “‘Olympus’ sounds VIP. Champagne, ego, expensive things, gold-plated everything. Money. Status. They’re the Gods of Olympus. How many gods do Christians have?”
“One.”
“Exactly. And we’ve got ten little idiots who want to be gods. That’s too many for your Christian paradise. ‘Hell’ sounds like fire, fear and shit. It’s pure marketing, and this is television. We’re here to make money, not publish encyclopaedias. Forget the Greeks. Let’s talk about things that actually matter. Have we got the hotel permits?”
“Approved, for the price we agreed on,” Martín replied, finally giving up on the whole mythology argument.
“Sponsors?”
“We’re having a bit of trouble with those. We’re still two or three short.”
“That’s because you’re pitching the idea all wrong. Any brand should be fighting tooth and nail to be part of this.”
The producer took another long drag on his cigarette.
“Any news on Sandra?”
“Sandra Barneda?” the intern asked, playing dumb.
“Obviously.”
“Her agent turned us down. She’s busy filming Temptation Island. But the agency has suggested another presenter, the only one with good references and an available schedule. She has quite a following on social media, and a fresh face might give the show a new edge… Well, that’s what the casting people said. I’m not sure if you know her. Her name’s Alejandra de la Torre.”
The producer’s expression remained unchanged, cold as ice.
“I know her.”
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes. She’s my daughter,” he added, completely unfazed.
Martín’s eyes widened as he struggled to contain his astonishment.
“Oh… I didn’t know that, sir.”
The producer exhaled a thick cloud of smoke towards the screens.
“Neither does she.”