Top Peeled Back

Three

Muffled cries could be heard echoing in a dark room as the second stream began like the first. After a time, a bare lightbulb was turned on, and a bound man wriggling within restraints was revealed. Behind the struggle was the same gas-masked figure in coveralls – the blue jumpsuit now dotted with dried, browning blood. For this stream, however, a plastic folding table had been placed between camera and captive. Also different was the rapper presently secured to the chair.

Jacob Miller, lyrically known as Miller Heavy, had just wrapped up his latest cross-country tour. Although saddened by the news of his fellow artist, he and his management team had chalked Trevor Watkins' death up to an isolated incident. Perhaps stemming from some contained grudge, they thought. There are crazy people everywhere, they believed. And despite his tour culminating in the same city in which Big Tricky went missing, Miller Heavy had declined to further bolster his security detail. But now tied to the same chair in which Watkins met his demise, his mind swirled with regret.

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No way man, no fucking way.

Staring ahead in shock, his eyes adjusted to the newly illuminated room and he found a bulky camcorder staring back. And while its buttons and joints were clogged with congealed blood, the lens and red recording light had been thoroughly cleaned. Blink.

Fuck. I mean, there...there were so many people around after the show. So many fucking people. I mean, I came off stage, shook a few hands, went to the bathroom, and...I...I didn't leave the bathroom. At least not on my own...fuck!

Behind the camera, Jacob observed a grisly spray of textured red on the previously all-white wall. As he did, he couldn't help but follow the path of a large housefly making its way through the bits and blood. The fly seemed to be enjoying the buffet until it reached the center of the gruesome array where a perfect silhouette of the camera and tripod was imposed in unscathed white. He hadn't watched the assassination live, but like most of world, Miller had seen the uncensored video several times over. He knew how it went down, the angles and carnage of it all. Blink. With his mind on the splatter, he also realized that bleach and a fresh coat of paint could have hidden the mess, but—

It's not time for covering up yet.

His wriggling took on a fresh sense of urgency with this realization. He surged back and forth, nearly flipping the folding table behind which he sat. But the shadowy figure steadied the chair, and when the duct tape was angrily removed, Miller's disposition matched.

"Goddammit man, you don't have to do this. Look, please don't do this, I've got a fucking family!"

"YOU DO NOT KNOW THE MEANING OF FAMILY. WHAT YOU DO KNOW IS HOW TO SPREAD EVIL WITH YOUR INFLUENCE," a familiar voice boomed throughout the room.

Miller's mind began to sprint. He thought back to his most controversial lyrics. His attempts at edginess. The downright profane. All of his curses, threats, and declarations came boiling up to the surface of his memory.

"Look man, it's all just wordplay. Just working up a persona. You understand. Sticks and stones, man, come on! You've got to understand," he pleaded, "look, why don't you take off that ridiculous gas mask and we can talk face-to-face? Man-to-man. Assuming you are a man? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm the first to tell you that women can do anything a man can do, even...this. C'mon, let's talk."

The hooded figure ignored the line of questioning and unlatched the heavy locks. He then abruptly left Miller alone in the all-white cell. The door was snapped shut behind him, but in the brief moment it was ajar, Miller had taken account of the adjoining room. Thanks to the light provided from the naked bulb above, he was able to make out what appeared to be a small recording studio with a microphone stand in the corner and egg crate foam lining the walls.