Author's Note: Content warning for moderate sexual humiliation, sexual harassment and mild cursing. Also, this chapter is darker in tone and deals with claustrophobia and fears of suffocation/drowning, in case that would be disturbing to some readers.

Note: Rufus, Bill, Yasmin, Arjan and Felicia are Kiwimayotte's characters, used with permission.

*****

He'd really done it this time. Almost doubled over on the drop-away seat in the gunge dunk tank, Rufus tried not to give in to the panic and despair that battled for dominance in his mind, both threatening to overcome him. A single drop of perspiration among the many beading up on his forehead slid down his face and hung on the edge of his chin for a moment before falling off and landing with the slightest splash in the horrifying witch's brew of slop that awaited mere inches below his boots. The game show technicians had clearly not wanted to waste a fresh batch of gunge on him, so what appeared to be leftover sludge from the day's taping still festered in the tank, with splashes of various foodstuffs, none of which he could identify, remained, long since dried, on the walls around him. Somebody must have received quite the gunging earlier today, not that she would be the only one, he thought glumly, staring down the nozzle of what appeared to be a spray cannon directly across from him.

The smell was positively unearthly, as if he needed another reminder of his impending fate. Reaching out with a trembling hand, he placed it against the plexiglass wall of the tank, leaving a sweaty palm-print on the surface and realizing just how trapped he was in the tiny space.

Some guard I turned out to be, petrified of sitting in a lousy dunk tank, he chided himself, to no avail. Just don't let them find out...

...Please don't let them find out.

*****

Meanwhile, Cheyenne approached, her expression unreadable and her mind drifting back to an incident from high school.

Pushed against a locker by an upperclassman, she had tried to dart away as he had brought his horribly mocking face close to hers, his breath foul as he moved in, only to find her way blocked by his thick arms, one held to either side of her, leaning heavily against the lockers.

"You're not really my type, but you'll do for now," came the words she had never been able to erase from her memory. Moments later he was left clutching his eye where she'd punched him, and the resulting three-day suspension had been more than worth it.

It had been an unnerving experience, but unlike that school bully, the guy she had come to know over the last week had been able to change, even if she'd seen the ugly truth of who he'd been until recently.

And he needed her now.

Ascending the stairs to the tank, she eyed the comically large, bright red lever that would send Rufus into the sludge below him, then back at the small group of onlookers, nearly all of who were holding cell phones at the ready to capture their least favorite coworker's humiliation.

*****

"What the hell are you doing?" Rufus asked in a mixture of disbelief and hope as the plexiglass door to the tank was pulled open and Cheyenne swung a leg inside, shouts of protest echoing behind her.

"What's it look like? I'm joining you," she said with a grin, clambering onto the platform alongside him. "Is there room enough for two?"

Moving over reluctantly, Rufus found there was just enough space to accommodate both of them on the bench if she sat as close as she did, with her legs swung over his lap, and despite himself, he managed a small smile when he realized she had echoed the words he'd spoken when he had surprised her in the cafeteria.

"You don't belong here," the security guard said shakily, casting his gaze down to the muck again and still afraid to so much as put an arm around her waist. "I'm the one who ought to be getting it, not you, too."

"All is forgiven. I feel bad for Yasmin, but they already got even with you and enough is enough. And...that's not who you are anymore. I've already seen that." Just as Cheyenne was about to embrace him, she caught movement from the corner of her eye and discovered Bill had nearly reached the top of the stairs by the tank, his voice somewhat muffled on the other side of the plexiglass but clearly ordering her out. He was trailed by Arjan, his creative partner who had helped design the very contraption they found themselves in now.

"We don't have anything against you, so you have exactly ten seconds to get away from him unless you want to share his fate!" Bill shouted, clearly incensed by the unexpected alliance. As he reached for the door handle, Cheyenne noticed a second bar-shaped handle on the interior of the tank, no doubt a safety feature so that in an emergency situation, one could extract him or herself from the tank without relying on outside help. Slipping off the sandals from her feet that dangled over the slime, she wedged them tightly in the space of the handle, effectively jamming the door.

"...And that's a risk you're apparently willing to take. Well, crew, it appears we have a traitor on our hands," Arjan said as he and Bill stood fuming at the top of the stairs and rattling the door in vain, infuriated at having been outwitted when it came to their own invention.

"It's her choice," called out a familiar, icy voice that was immediately familiar to both individuals in the tank, and Felicia walked out from between the stage curtains, fixing them with a triumphant look. "If she wants to go down with this loser and make it a two-for-one special, so be it. But she's sadly mistaken if she thinks she's playing some Pocahontas role, saving him from all this because we'd never dream of gunging her as well." Leering at the couple in the tank, she took particular delight in seeing how visibly distressed Rufus appeared.

"Oh, cheer up," she reprimanded him sharply. "After seeing your little messy playtime video, one would think you'd be secretly looking forward to this." Rufus cringed at the sight of his attractive ex-girlfriend, and Cheyenne could feel his body, tight against hers, tense up even more.

"Don't let them defeat you on this one," she urged in a low voice. "In a way Felicia's right, it's only gunge. No matter what they send our way, let's just laugh it off and-"

"It's not that," Rufus said, his voice breaking as he scrambled to devise a convincing if false excuse. "I-I just hate germy messes and I'm having flashbacks to that manure, even if that's about the only thing that doesn't seem to be in that nastiness below us right now."

"We'll be okay," Cheyenne tried to reassure him unconvincingly while gazing down at the vile muck.

Felicia tapped impatiently on the plexiglass, the draping sleeve of her one-shouldered top swaying as she did so, to gain her attention. "This could not have turned out better. As you may know, Arjan and Bill have a certain affinity for gunging beautiful girls, though in your case they'll have to settle for what they've got."

"Drop dead," Cheyenne hissed, and Felicia's smile only widened.

"We have far better things to drop," she said frostily, pressing a button on the controls for the tank. A torrent of freezing-cold water cascaded down over the duo in the tank, soaking both to the skin in mere seconds and leaving them gasping in shock, with Rufus gripping the edges of the break-away seat in a deep state of panic. The force of the water had knocked his uniform cap from his head, and it lay forlornly in the muck below.

"Hmph, a green bra under a yellow tank top? You don't win any fashion points for that one," sniffed Felicia, causing Cheyenne to cross her arms over her clinging and now somewhat transparent top, partly out of modesty but also to ward off the terrific chill.

"Consider that your warning," Bill said, trying to maintain some authority and somewhat unhappy Felicia had overtaken the controls to the tank he and Arjan had spent considerable time loading with slop. "It's not too late to get out now and leave him to his fate, and I've got to warn you, it's going to be beyond disgusting." He leaned in, slyly adding, "trust me, it's a lot worse than the porridge and treacle you two prefer. That's right, I saw your nasty little tape, not that I was the only one."

"While we're at it, you know what else is disgusting?" Cheyenne countered, her hair hanging limply down her back. "Using a mop to rub cow manure over someone's face. Especially one you 'borrowed' from my supply room. But no matter, I saved that one for your office. Just yours, Bill." Beside her, Rufus looked up suddenly, as shocked as Bill. "Yeah, you heard me right. I found it where you left it the next day, swished it in a little water and mopped the floor around your desk." Far from finished, she folded her arms across her chest, knowing what she was setting herself up for and caring very little. "...And the top of your desk, and your desk chair, and your locker--"

Her list of revenge she'd exacted on Bill was cut off abruptly as cold, viscuous gravy rained from the roof of the tank, spilling heavily over her hair and face. Felicia laughed mockingly as Cheyenne, at least momentarily silenced, cringed at the congealed mess sliding under the neckline of her tank top, and finally resorted to untucking the bottom of her shirt and flapping out the garment, sending lumps of the cooled gravy running over her belt and jeans.

"Yecch," groaned Rufus beside her, running his shaky hands through his oily hair and feeling more trapped and closed in than ever by the enveloping rush of gravy that had splashed over him. He glowered resentfully at the crowd of his coworkers as cameras flashed, documenting his embarrassment.

"Enjoy your gravy, turkeys?" Felicia taunted. Forget taking turns with the others to humiliate him, it's truly only Bill and I who really have a stake in this one, she thought, her finger hovering over the series of buttons on the control panel for the gunge tank. The rest can get their thrills by watching.

"Perfect!" she exclaimed, seizing a small toggle switch that almost looked like a component on a video game controller. Inside the dunk tank, Rufus's eyes widened in fear as the metal barrel of the spray cannon moved in line with his face, then dispensed a thick blast of something red and thick over him.

Tomato sauce? Oh, right, revenge for that sports gunging years ago, Cheyenne realized, already extending a leg forward and blocking the spray with the bare sole of her foot, sending the sauce everywhere but directly on her boyfriend for a change. Had she been alone in the tank, she might have laughed at defeating one of the gunging mechanisms, but she was growing increasingly concerned about Rufus, who was taking their shared fate very hard.

"I'm afraid you just earned a penalty for interference," Bill announced, joining Felicia at the controls. Before Cheyenne knew it, a mechanical clanking sound, like something chain-driven, could be heard and two more spray cannons surfaced from where they'd been concealed beneath the surface of the gunge, rising up on tracks along the walls of the tank.

"You've got to be kidding me," Cheyenne grumbled, moments before the cannons simultaneously unleashed torrents of the same tomato sauce over her chest and back with such force they knocked the thin straps to her tank top askew, sending the garment halfway down her chest and exposing her bra. Failing to notice under the thick layer of mess and giving an involuntary shudder of revulsion after the spray had finally ended, she was at least grateful she had redirected the worst of it from Rufus, who gripped her arm in a cold sweat.

"This is the worst possible time to tell you, but the truth is, I'm really claustrophobic and I'm kind of having a hard time right now." Having blurted out his secret at last, Rufus buried his face in his hands, trying to shut out the sight of the walls of the tank so close around him and imagining himself somewhere else. Yet that did nothing to dispel his grim reality, as the smell from the gunge pit and the food covering him still assailed his nostrils.

Dumbfounded, Cheyenne gaped at him, realizing that he had willingly climbed into the tank anyway, bravely accepting his fate just as he'd said he would if it meant Bill might have agreed not to target her as well. Finally she settled for placing a hand on his trembling shoulder, but in a wild panic he threw it off.

"I've got to get out of here, I can't stand this," he whimpered, no longer caring about his job. Attempting to lean over her to force open the jammed door, he scarcely heard Cheyenne's shouted warning, nor did he notice the way his frantic motions to escape had left the drop-away seat that held them both suspended above the gunge perilously swaying. As he wrestled with the hatch, his knee slipped on an oily area of the plastic seat and he pitched headlong into the vat of slop below.

The thick filth invaded his clothes, clinging to him and pulling at him as if it had a mind of its own and was reluctant to release him to the surface, where he would find air once again. Still deeply submerged, his arms windmilled wildly against the slime, while his legs treaded against the floor of the tank, his boots unable at first to grip the ground. His head broke the surface of the gunk once and he opened his mouth to scream, only to get a vile mouthful of the sludgy mixture that surrounded him.

Finally, he pulled himself to a stand, gasping raggedly and dry-heaving with his back to the tank, his arms clawing at the smooth plastic walls as if he really had a chance of emerging from the mess that reached his chest. Every shallow breath he took seemed a fight against the thick mess pushing against him, and he abandoned his fruitless attempt to scramble out of the muck, instead shoving violently with his arms against the slime. Hearing a cry from somewhere above, he looked up, finding Cheyenne kneeling on the edge of the drop-away seat, extending a hand to hoist him upward.

A final deluge of chocolate drenched them both, even striking Rufus where he stood against the wall of the tank, cringing. Feeling the eerily warm flow run over the back of her tank top and, more horrifyingly, down her jeans, Cheyenne straightened up on the seat in shock, pawing at the back of her clothing.

"Just dunk me, Bill, and let's get this over with," she ordered once she'd recovered enough to speak again. "Might as well have your fun now, because whatever Felicia promised you in exchange for giving her that tape, don't count on her paying up. She has a great track record for making empty promises."

Felicia's eyes widened at the frank accusation. "You two were truly made for each other," she said, before swinging the enormous red lever beside the dunk tank, sending Cheyenne to join Rufus in the disgusting blend of messy sludge.

Hearing a profound snapping sound as the seat folded beneath her, Cheyenne struck the surface with a splash, disoriented and violently struggling to right herself. Then a tug at her wrist drew her out of the foul slop, and her arms were around Rufus's shoulders.

"Let's get out of here," he begged, his voice weary.

*****

Once Cheyenne had retrieved her sandals from where they had been jamming the door handle, Felicia reluctantly allowed the bedraggled couple to emerge from the tank, to great applause from the audience.

"Thanks for being such good sports, and we'll have to do this again sometime," said Bill in an overdone announcer's voice, adding more quietly, "unless you'd rather have a 'private movie night' with the crew instead. That tape of yours is a real keeper." He relished the sight of Rufus's throat moving when he gulped.

"But we wouldn't dream of letting our contestants go without a parting gift!" cried Felicia gleefully, seizing a pie she had found earlier in a backstage cooler and had been saving for this very moment. Grinding it into her ex-boyfriend's face, she lost no time in seizing the nearly-empty tin and clapping it over his girlfriend's head.

"It's been a real pleasure," Cheyenne snarled, glaring at Felicia from under the chocolate pie filling slowly dripping from the tin. Her flashing eyes, and Rufus's downcast ones, were the only parts of either victim not covered in a monochrome sheen of mess. "Are you about done now?"

"Hold on, you forgot your hat!" Bending over the edge of the tank he was about to drain and flush with water, Arjan had retrieved Rufus's forgotten uniform cap, and deposited it over his head, sending the large scoop of gunge inside it spilling over his hair and face, accompanied by another burst of laughter from the gathered audience.

*****

"Well, I guess I'll see myself off to the gents' showers," Rufus said dejectedly once the crowd had dispersed. "I'll try not to leave too much of a slug-slime trail along the way for you to have to clean up."

"You're sure you're going to be okay?" Cheyenne asked, receiving an unconvincing nod before she headed to the women's locker room for a shower of her own.

*****

"Y-you're not supposed to be here," Rufus said, crouched in a fighting stance and fumbling, for the first time since he had found employment with the studio, the night-stick he was authorized to carry on his belt. The man he had confronted in the hallway, easily twice his age, threw back his head and laughed.

"You're the first line of defense?" he scoffed, eyeing the young twenty-something he regarded as little more than a kid, now wielding a weapon he probably had received little training in how to use. "What the hell happened to you, anyway? In normal circumstances I'd respect authority, but I'm not even convinced you've got a uniform under all that crap on you."

"I told you," Rufus snarled, ignoring the insult, "you're not authorized to be in this studio so you're leaving now. And the 'real authorities' are being notified immediately." Regretting his words as soon as they'd left his mouth, he fumbled for his two-way radio, only to remember he had hastily unclipped it from his belt when he had realized his messy punishment was imminent.

His frightened, wild eyes met the intruder's eerily confident ones.

Help.

*****

To be continued...