The next door opened without any hassle, any drama, any frustration.
It closed equally admirably.
Props to whoever installed that door. Give credit where credit is due. Yagmur appreciated good craftsmanship, and he showed that to the camera by giving an appreciative nod, his emotions once again in check.
Until he saw something else in this cabana.
A fully-stocked liquor cabinet.
Well, fully-stocked was a bit of an exaggeration. Even from a distance - a distance that was soon closed as he sprinted towards the cabinet within a couple seconds and with a barely suppressed childish giggle - he could tell there were only four bottles with anything notable in them, but that was more than enough for his purposes.
If he was going to die, he was going to die with a smile on his face. Fuck his pretensions. He wasn't going to change anything. He wasn't going to win.
A bottle of Jack Daniel's. An unimaginative whiskey choice, far from the most luxurious or obscure whiskeys, but that wasn't an insult to the product. It was a perfectly cromulent drink. No complaints.
"You guys clearly did your research well..." Yagmur replied. He had to give credit where credit was due. He respected the people behind this show. It was a grudging respect, one given to a political adversary, a great villain, or a smart rival, one whose bastardy knows no bounds but possesses respectable skills. "I mean, the invasion of privacy isn't appreciated, but that's just the fecal icing on top of the shit cake."
He chuckled, as he opened the bottle, and took a quick gulp for quality. Ah, that was warming him up already. He'd eaten a Slim Jim or two, but otherwise had an empty stomach, and had barely slept on top of that, so he knew it wouldn't be long before he got sufficiently drunk. "In fairness, you probably left this here because of neglect and apathy. It's kind of a self-centred assumption to assume you put it here to disarm my anger, but it worked."
He took another swig. Another bottle of Jack Daniels. Two bottles of cheap convenience store tequila. And a couple of beers, but those were cheap American shit, and in the words of a great comedian, American beer is like having sex in a canoe.
He muttered the joke out loud as his eyes rested on the bottles, but left the punchline to the audience's imagination.
None of his favourite drinks were there. No taste of home, no delicacies from abroad, nothing to sate his true cravings or complement the shitty food he had remaining. Just a few empty bottles, the labels ripped off, and some stains that represented wasted drink. Shame. He coulda done with a bit more. But this was more than satisfactory for his purposes.
Placing the opened bottle on the ground by the door outside, he slid the other bottle of whiskey into his jacket.
He chuckled at how low the alcohol content of the tequila was. Only just above 30%. That had to be the lowest tequila could be. It was quite depressing.
"You know," he started, talking to no-one in particular, as he placed all the remaining bottles on the ground, within easy access, popping their tops off with a strong grasp. "I was wanting to be an economist when this happened to me. I won't bore you with my views. I'm not an open-minded guy, I admit that's a fault, but I know people don't like to be lectured. I'll save that for when I'm drunk." He winched and stifled a yelp. He had grabbed the second tequila bottle too forcefully, crushing the glass of the neck of the bottle as he ripped the top off, cutting his good hand.
Hopefully the alcohol would kick in and clean that up. Nothing too deep, barely worse than a few paper cuts, he thought, spending no more than a few seconds examining his hand.
"I was hoping that...well, hopefully someone at home will see this and think well of me." Yagmur continued, finishing his alcohol-opening ritual. "I was hoping to destroy this show, reincarnate the true entertainment industry, using the good ol' laws of supply and demand." He climbed to his feet, a strange absentmindedness in his eyes, as if his actions were on auto-pilot. He moved to the desk, and with a few strong kicks, had reduced it to a few planks of lumber. "People need to realise there are better shows out there, old and new, than this boring government-backed childkilling circus bullshit. We're not ancient Rome, after all. Make people realise that, get rid of the demand. Supply will follow."
Truthfully, his even more unrealistic plan for supply had been to fuck this place up so much no one else would give their locations up for filming.
Chucking the desk remnants in a pile in the middle of the room, he moved to the bed. The mattress went first, moved to the side, connecting one plank to the painted wall. Dismantling the bed wasn't difficult. Beds had been a specialty of Yagmur's, during his carpentering days. He scattered the wooden remnants across the room, hoping to get a good coverage. "But, too many people are dead. I'm not an activist. I don't know how to do this shit. Hell, I had bigger fish to fry myself until I got abducted. Ideological battles, foreign policy, deficits, my mundane day-to-day crap, shit I don't give a fuck about anymore because of...selfishness. I admit it. I wanted to be selfless and end this fucking show, but you know, I give up. That ain't me. I'm no fucking hero."
Blankets and curtains were added to the pile. He had to jump across it to get the next thing, the drinks cabinet itself. The same dismantling show. "But now I have alcohol in me, I can stop lying to myself. Die the way I want to fucking die. Drunk, and going down fighting." The tequila went on the pile first.
Then, as useless as it was, the beer.
It was spread out pretty well.
Opening his bag and going to the first aid kit, he opened the lighter and threw it on.
It took a few seconds for Yagmur to realise this was quite disappointing. Maybe the bathroom had-
As he opened that door, he noticed absinthe. Arak. His two favourite drinks. Very random, very lucky. Quite tragic they were wasted on this alcoholic tasteless slob. He also immediately lost all respect for the TV producers again. If they had any sense, they'd have taken them away. Instead, they left them here. He was grateful, but shocked at their negligence.
Ignoring everything else, he opened them gently, and took a few swigs. All he needed. These bottles had a higher purpose.
And as he stood above the weak fire, poorly constructed and growing far too slowly, he decided to do one last thing, before the fire grew exponentially and consumed the whole shoddy building. "My parents are pretty well-off," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the fire. "You guys are in it to make money. Can't you make a deal with them? I'm sure they'd compensate you well. They're good people. They're good parents. Hell, I'm sure they can strike a pretty good bargain. For a lot of people. For most of us still here."
No. Too ambitious. Mission-creep.
He was no hero.
He couldn't save everyone.
Don't be stupid, Yagmur.
Blinking back a few tears of frustration and irritation, the fire beginning to pick up speed, he continued, speaking up slightly as the crackle of the fire began the path towards a roar. "Those guys. In the other cabana. The people I'm with. My parents can pay for them all. They're good people. They don't deserve this shit. I'm sure other people will chip in."
The poor logic of his decision began to dawn on him. People had obviously tried this before, both inside and outside. His parents weren't rich enough. There wasn't enough time to set up a KickStarter, or handle the paperwork. Hell, scrupulous editing might remove his plea, his soapbox, any chance at explaining his motives. And the people behind this show would play the long game. If they just became a kidnapping ring, sending the poor and unloved kids to fight on TV, their long-term revenues would disappear. No. They needed every kid to stay in for the long haul.
But he wouldn't stop now.
He couldn't rebut their arguments, but he'd been wrong before. Let's hope he'd be wrong again.
"Just...give it a few minutes of thought. I know it's not your typical modus operandi, but..." He gulped, stooping to their way of thinking. "It'd be a ratings grabber."
With that, he threw the drinks onto the fire, immediately turning away as the flames began licking up the walls and consuming the house, only stopping to pick up his whiskey.
Sitting against the fence outside the Cabana, he waited until the flames became visible as well as audible.