Reality Calamity Pat K e l ly It is a curious condition of modern man that he will fly halfway ‘cross the globe to eat something that looks like a boot Reality Calamity Pat Kelly Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Reality Calamity Reality Calamity Pat Kelly Pat Kelly An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Reality Calamity I reckon if you ever wanted to see the Devil laugh, you’d have to march a gaggle of befuddled tour- ists into a reality show filmed in a jungle, a des- ert, or worse, a studio with no air conditioning. It is a curious condition of modern man that he will fly halfway ‘cross the globe to eat something that looks like a boot, ride something that smells like it, and smile into a camera the whole while. And yet, none of that prepared our heroes, bless their uninformed little hearts—for Globe Trotters: Survival & Shame, the hottest reality competition on every screen from Boise to Bangladesh. The contestants thought they signed up for a lei- surely cultural experience: a guided trip through “picturesque villages,” “authentic cuisine,” and “mild, invigorating challenges.” What they received instead was forty cameras, a goat named Larry, and a con- tract that promised riches or rabies, whichever came first. Pat Kelly Our story concerns Team Dumpling, a name cho- sen by accident, democracy, and two bottles of warm sake. Comprised of four lovable misfits, they were: • Marjorie Wexler , retired librarian turned influencer, age seventy-two, motto: “Post or perish!” • Todd Hickenlooper , a conspiracy the- orist from Iowa with a peanut allergy and a drone. • Lulu and Carl , newlyweds from Kansas who’d never left their county and thought “To- kyo Drift” was a sushi order. This, dear reader, is their tale. * * * * * * * It all started with a yak. Now, I don’t mean metaphorically, like “the yak of fate” or “yakking up one’s breakfast.” I mean an actu- al yak, hairy, wide-eyed, and with the gall of a politi- cian at a buffet. It stared down Team Dumpling like it knew exactly how this show was going to go. “Don’t make eye contact, Carl,” Lulu whispered, Reality Calamity clutching her souvenir fan like it might deflect bo- vine violence. “I think it likes us,” said Todd, who had already named the beast Agent Clovenhoof and was film- ing it with his drone, muttering something about “deep-government livestock surveillance.” From the bamboo hut above, the host’s voice crack- led over loudspeakers. “Good morning, tourists! Today’s challenge: You must convince the yak to follow you across the river. No touching. No bribing. No yodeling.” Marjorie raised her eyebrows. “Is that a rule or a suggestion?” Carl scratched his head. “I didn’t pack any yak treats.” “You didn’t pack socks, Carl.” Marjorie adjusted her GoPro, already narrating to her invisible followers. “Day two. Still alive. Yak seems indifferent. Lulu has developed a rash.” “Do not put that on the internet!” Lulu cried, swat- ting at the camera like it was a hornet. Pat Kelly Down by the river, the yak began walking away on its own accord. “Quick! We gotta follow it!” yelled Todd, charging heroically into the mud and tripping over a suspi- ciously large toad. They followed. Or rather, they chased . Four woe- fully out-of-shape adventurers running after a yak while camera drones buzzed overhead like vultures with stock options. Marjorie waved a copy of The Collected Works of Emily Dickinson at it. “I offer you poetry, beast! Come back!” “Offer it some peanuts!” Carl shouted. “I’m allergic!” screamed Todd, rolling down a hill and taking out a small camera crew like human bowling. * * * * * * * Fifteen Minutes Later “So let me get this straight,” said the host, dabbing his forehead with a silk scarf that looked far too ex- pensive for this climate. “You lost the yak, frightened Reality Calamity the village chief ’s daughter with your ‘Team Dump- ling’ chant, and set the ceremonial canoe on fire?” “To be fair,” said Marjorie, “that canoe was made of very flammable wood.” “Is there a type that isn’t ?” Carl asked, covered in yak dung and regret. “I saw the yak again,” Todd offered. “It was dis- guised as a nun.” The host blinked slowly. “Right.” They were docked fifty points, given a new yak (named “Backup Larry”), and warned that the next challenge involved fire dancing, minimal supervi- sion, and a hedgehog named Steve. “Steve is sacred,” the host said ominously. “Can we pet him?” Lulu asked, ever hopeful. “You may pray to him,” he replied, walking off with the swagger of a man who has seen many contestants cry in jungle latrines. * * * * * * * Pat Kelly And so, with swollen ankles, suspicious rashes, and the scent of yak clinging to their every fiber, Team Dumpling trudged toward destiny, or doom, or pos- sibly both, because in Globe Trotters: Survival & Shame , the real prize was not survival... ...it was the ratings. * * * * * * * (As narrated by someone who never met a hedgehog he didn’t trust more than a reality TV producer.) The morning began, as all reasonable days on a televised survival competition should: with a cere- monial chant, a flaming hoop, and a hedgehog in a tiny velvet robe. “I thought this was supposed to be a cultural expe- rience,” said Lulu, eyeing the flaming hoop with the same look she gave Carl when he tried to microwave a raw egg last Thanksgiving. “It is cultural,” Todd replied, tightening a bandana around his forehead. “The cult part is just more pro- nounced.” Steve the Hedgehog sat on a carved pedestal at the center of the village square, his expression inscru- Reality Calamity table, his spikes perfectly symmetrical. A garland of marigolds had been laid around him. He blinked once. Slowly. “Is that... makeup?” Marjorie asked, squinting through her bifocals. “He’s wearing eyeliner,” Todd confirmed. “I trust him.” From somewhere behind a shrub, the host leapt out in a cloud of glitter and ominous pan flute music. “Welcome to Challenge Two, tourists! In honor of Steve, Guardian of the East Winds, you must each perform a fire dance to prove your courage, dexterity, and basic coordination. Bonus points if you don’t set your shoes on fire.” Carl looked down. “We don’t have shoes anymore.” “Then try harder,” the host replied, vanishing just as dramatically as he arrived. * * * * * * * A large circle had been drawn in the dirt. Around it stood locals with drums. In the center: a rusty flamethrower, four half-burnt tiki torches, and a sus- Pat Kelly picious-looking fire extinguisher held together with string and hope. “I did community theater in Branson once,” Mar- jorie said, tying her scarf into a sort of interpretive toga. “We did Cats . This is the same energy.” “Do you know how to not die in a circle of fire?” Carl asked. “No, but I know jazz hands.” The drums started. Carl went first. Now, Carl had many strengths: decency, politeness, and the ability to cry when he saw bald eagles. But rhythm was not one of them. He waved the torch like he was swatting bees, spun around twice, screamed “STEVE ACCEPTS ME!” and tripped directly into a ceremonial soup pot. It took two villagers and Lulu’s lucky spatula to get him out. Next came Lulu. She did better. She managed three twirls, an accidental backflip, and only minor eye- brow singeing. “She’s majestic,” Marjorie whispered. Reality Calamity “She’s on fire,” Todd corrected, calmly patting out her leg with a coconut. Then it was Todd’s turn. Todd insisted on du- al-wielding torches, wearing night-vision goggles, and setting the drone to record from above. He yelled, “This one’s for liberty!” and did what can only be described as aggressive interpretive warfare . The drone caught a fantastic angle of him catching his pants on fire. “THERE’S A GOVERNMENT CHIP IN MY SOCKS!” he screamed, running full-speed into a shrubbery. Steve the Hedgehog blinked again. No expression. Just judgment. * * * * * * * When it was Marjorie’s turn, she borrowed the flamethrower. She said she wanted to “add gravitas.” “Gravitas?” Carl asked nervously, watching her pump it like she’d done this before. “I taught fourth grade during the Cold War, Carl. I am gravitas.” Pat Kelly She ignited it. A thirty-foot flame shot into the sky. Children screamed. Goats fled. The local shaman applauded. “Steve appears pleased,” the host noted from be- hind his camera crew, eating a mango with smug de- tachment. Marjorie performed an elegant, slow-motion waltz while trailing fire in perfectly symmetrical arcs. She closed with a curtsy and a small fireball. “BOOM,” she said. The crowd erupted. Steve lifted one paw and gave what may have been a thumbs-up... or a curse. The host reappeared, smiling like a man who’d just watched a very profitable lawsuit form in real-time. “Team Dumpling, you somehow survived the Challenge of Fire and earned... three sacred marbles, a pineapple, and first pick in the next challenge: The Temple of Regret.” Reality Calamity “Is that a real temple?” Carl asked. The host laughed. “Oh no. It’s more like a hallway full of bees and disappointment.” * * * * * * * And thus, Team Dumpling walked off, smoke trail- ing from their sleeves, dignity singed but intact, and Steve the Hedgehog watching silently from his perch. Somewhere in the distance, a flute played a single dissonant note. In Globe Trotters: Survival & Shame , there were no winners, only survivors, edits, and inexplicable hedgehogs in formalwear. * * * * * * * Weeks later, after the jungle had cooled, the torch- es extinguished, and Steve the Hedgehog returned to whatever dimension he hailed from, Team Dumpling found themselves seated in a hotel conference room, sipping lukewarm tea from paper cups and blinking at a man in a beige suit named Martin, who claimed to be their agent. “You’re viral in four continents,” Martin declared, “five if you count aggressive memes in Antarctica.” Pat Kelly Marjorie peered over her glasses. “Does that mean I can publish my memoir?” “Already optioned for a limited series. Cate Blanch- ett wants your role.” Carl and Lulu sat hand in hand, unsure if they’d won something or accidentally joined a cult. Again. Todd was fashioning a hat out of hotel napkins and muttering, “Steve will return when the stars realign.” The producers offered each of them a plaque shaped like a yak, a year’s supply of mosquito repellent, and fifty-two free therapy sessions (only redeemable on Tuesdays in Des Moines). They’d technically lost the competition by a margin of 400 points, a disqualified canoe, and “the incident involving the ceremonial gong and the interpretive limbo accident.” But oh, how they won the people. Millions had tuned in to watch four clueless tour- ists yell, dance, scream, and set things aflame with cheerful confusion. Children imitated Carl’s scream. Teens wore “Team Dumpling: We Tried” shirts. An elderly woman in Copenhagen mailed Marjorie her wedding tiara and a note that simply said: “Fight on, queen.” Reality Calamity And Steve? Some say he was adopted by a Norwegian death metal band. Others claim he entered politics. Todd insists he ascended * * * * * * * As the group boarded a plane bound for nowhere in particular, smelling faintly of citronella and spir- itual growth—they looked out over the clouds and smiled. “I still think we could’ve won if the bees hadn’t unionized,” Carl muttered. “We did win,” Marjorie said proudly. “We found the truth.” “What truth?” Lulu asked. “That life,” she said, pulling out her phone to go live to her 3.2 million followers, “is just one absurd challenge after another and all you can do is show up, wave a flaming stick, and hope the hedgehog likes you.” Steve blinked, somewhere, as the credits rolled. THE END Pat Kelly Reality Calamity Pat Kelly Ovi eBook Publishing 2025 Ovi magazine Design: Thanos Reality Calamity Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Pat Kelly Pat K e l ly It is a curious condition of modern man that he will fly halfway ‘cross the globe to eat something that looks like a boot Reality Calamity Pat Kelly , a ginger beard hardware salesman whose charisma could sell a rusty nail to a hermit, navigates the labyrinthine aisles of life with a wrench in one hand and a witty anecdote in the other. His customers, from the seasoned DIYer to the bewildered novice, become unwitting characters in his ongoing chronicle of human folly and hardware hijinks.