The following story is a work of speculative fiction. Any resemblance to real Pat Sajaks, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.
Only a month had transpired since Pat Sajak sat down at his computer and wrote of his disregard for global warming, but already his countenance had started changing. He used to be affable in the green room of his television show, commenting to passing contestants about the miserable quality of the deli platter. “Just like nobody’s mother used to make,” he’d say as he took a bite that he would always carry to his dressing room and always spit out in a trash can. It was a stock joke but he thought it made him seem more common – in a good way. “Like Andy Griffith. People from the sticks have to think I tolerate them,” he explained more often than he needed, to anyone who would listen.
He didn’t tell the joke this time. The first bad omen. “I don’t need to pander to these assholes,” he wearily sighed to his assistant after shaking a few hands. He ducked out of the meat-and-greet at the first opportunity and went back to his dressing room. Normally he would down a shot of tequila and skim the contestant bios but this time he just burned them. “Global warming. How the hell do they all give a shit?”
