Updated Mon. Nov. 10 2008 2:12 PM ET

Top 10

Sebastian chewed gently on the side of his thumb and tried to calm the raging tribes of plastic army men that he imagined were doing battle in his brain. This contest had gotten the better of him, if only for a moment and he had the urge to do something drastic. Like shave his head. Or take his pants off in a public place. He wondered aloud what the voters would think of public exposure. The old man behind him turned to look.

"Hey, you're on that television show," he said.

"Uh huh, uh huh."

"You were terrible last night."

"I ... Well, you know ..."

"My God, what were you thinking?"

"I ... I don't know. I wasn't ..."

The old man shook his head in disgust, stood up and walked away.

Sebastian wiped a fresh bead of sweat from his forehead and swore under his breath.

"I better get my poop together," he thought and turned around to walk back to the mansion.

-Sebastian

Top 9

As the contest continued Sebastian found himself more and more tempted to impale himself with sharp metal instruments. His collar seemed to itch him constantly and his pores would open up without prompting and pour sweat down his back and shoulders. Something had twitched at the center of him and for his life he couldn't figure out what it was. He was certain, though, that something had changed. There was a feeling of malice and hatred hanging in the air, choking the sleep out of his bedtime and the fun out of his lackadays, and now here he was, perched on a park bench, puzzling over his unexpected predicament.

"If only I had some sort of spaceship," he thought to himself. "Maybe Earl might know where I could find one." Sebastian raised his head on his sunken shoulders and looked around for his good friend, but Earl was off across the field making conversation with a shrub. Whatever it was they were talking about, Sebastian wished that he was privy.

Top 8

Pigott was losing his mind. It was clear to him now, and to everyone else. The girl with the pimpled face had started serving him his meals in a separate room from the others and giving him plastic forks and knives. He was also aware of a distinct change in the manner of the producers and handlers in whose care he'd been trusted. They spoke to him in slow half-sentences and were clearly making an effort never to mention his increasingly pathetic attempts at performance.

He picked again at the scab on his elbow and muttered something about the war.

"What'll you do for Monday?" The psychologist asked him. Nobody would admit that this was a psychologist, and the man himself insisted on being called Leon, but Pigott knew what he was.

"Pigott's not that crazy," he said.

Leon cocked his eyebrow as if this was profound. He pointed his pencil. "You only refer to yourself in the third person now. Why is that?"

Pigott shrugged. "Just so we're clear." He made brief eye-contact with Leon, the semi-therapist, and then quickly looked away. "It's all part of the plan."

Leon scribbled something in his notebook and checked the clock.