Top Peeled Back

Five

Word spread at an exponential pace when the third stream went live. Hundreds of thousands of viewers raced to the feed in a matter of moments as people from around the globe huddled around their screens to bear witness. Calls were made, messages were sent, and by the time the bare light bulb was switched on, over a million were tuning in.

But what the audience found within the third stream differed greatly from the first two. The illumination revealed not one, but a pair of bound men. The chairs in which they were restrained faced the man in the blue, flanking him the center of the frame. Learning from his previous mistake, the now infamous captor had taken further precaution to silence his captives, and yards of duct tape had been applied around the heads and jaws of each man. Even more out of the ordinary, both men were both completely naked.

On the left was James Curtis, better known as Cold Perm.

Aw fuck, thought James.

On the right was Nick Brady, aptly known as Nick Brady.

Aw fuck, thought Nick.

On only the third leg of their joint university tour, the up-and-coming artists found themselves bound and gagged instead of en route to their fourth campus. They were only miles away from the disappearing points of both Big Tricky and Miller Heavy so security at their show had been tight. Metal detectors were installed at all entry points and a perimeter of campus police had been stationed directly outside of the venue. Pre-show, only their personal set-up crews and managers were allowed inside. Throughout the performance, a unit of security guards lined the front and back of the stage. It was all the same post-show. Just their crews, their managers, and...

University personnel, James thought.

Fucking meet-and-greets, Nick thought.

With their mouths heavily covered, desperate looks of disbelief were the only form of communication to be had. At present, the bound men simply stared at each other across the open space of the stark white room – doing their best to keep their eyes above the belt. They ultimately broke their hopeless eye contact and examined the walls and floor now patched with dried blood. Several busy flies scoured the ground between them.

Cold Perm looked to the splattered wall behind the camera.

RIP Trick, he thought.

Nick Brady's gaze followed the stain leading towards Cold Perm's chair.

RIP Heavy, he thought.

Brady continued to trace the blood back to Cold Perm's feet when he noticed something peculiar happening above. Unbeknownst to its owner, Cold Perm was in the process developing an erection. With a head nod, Brady caught Perm's attention and motioned downward toward the emerging situation. Now fully aware, Cold Perm's eyes widened, and he shook his head in utter confusion. Both men began asking each other pertinent questions that were easily blocked by their robust gags.

As Cold Perm's hard-on was reaching full mast, the masked figure in the blue coveralls rattled a bottle of pills to clue-in his hostages along with the audience members at home. Then he spoke.

"YOU KNOW WHY YOU ARE HERE," the distorted voice boomed. "YOU ARE HERE FOR A RECKONING OF YOUR OWN CREATION."

"If we knew why we were here then why did you have to explain it, bitch?" Cold Perm inaudibly muttered into his mouth tape.

"YOUR PROFANE WORDS ARE A SCOURGE ON SOCIETY"

"Mu'fucker you a scourge," Nick Brady muttered into his.

"JAMES CURTIS, IN YOUR SONG LOCK UP YOU SAY, AND I QUOTE, 'THEY EVER COME AROUND AND STICK MY ASS IN THE JOINT, I'LL FUCK A...N-WORD...IN THE ASS JUST TO PROVE A FUCKING POINT'."