Top Peeled Back

Seven

The fourth stream, occurring just days after the third, went live with a relentless struggle taking place in the dark. The frantic sound of Christopher Hayward, AKA Smokey the Human, rattled about the lightless room. Intense screams were heard despite being produced behind a taped gag. Wooden chair legs threatened to splinter as they popped against the dense concrete floor. A folding table clattered as it flipped onto its side. And although the revolt against his restraints was inaudible outside the walls of the darkened room, the entirety of Christopher's struggle was broadcast loud and clear through millions of computer speakers and headphones across the world.

After a raucous half hour, the light was switched on and Smokey, framed by growing collection of blood splatters, was revealed to the viewing audience. Social media feeds, message boards, and group chats instantly lit up as the Internet wasted no time in its reaction. Prop bets were won and lost, his captor's song choice was hotly debated, and speculation on his eventual cause of death began to take place. All the while Christopher's family, friends, and fans watched in horrific disbelief.

Back in-frame, Smokey's resistance persisted within the bask of the bare light bulb overhead. In what was likely the last spotlight of his life, he thrashed like a caged animal. He worked his wrists within the zip-tied binding, scouring the skin underneath. He gained more and more air as he hopped within the chair, knocking the folding table to the ground once more. Anything to free an arm. Or a hand. Even a finger.

Apprehensive to remove the duct tape gag, the man in blue stood behind his latest victim, monitoring the hysterical display.

"RESISTANCE WILL NO—"

Smokey cut his captor's monologue off by screaming as loud as his immobile mouth would allow, drowning out any instruction.

"YOU WILL STOP THI—"

He yelled again with all he had, determined to keep his last rites from being dictated by the shadowy figure.

But that was enough for the masked man in blue. He swiftly struck Smokey's head with the butt of his gun and the primal insurrection was silenced. Smokey's eyes couldn't help but flicker as he fought the dizzying pain. His intense shouting faded to a weak grumble. And with his captive now subdued, the captor took control. He propped the folding table upright once more and slapped Smokey with an open palm.

"WAKE UP!"

Smokey fought to lift his head from which a sluggish trickle of blood began to ooze.

"ANOTHER OUTBURST AND YOUR LIFE WILL END," the cold sound of a gun cocking routed around the world. Smokey perked up alongside the viewing audience. "YOU ARE HERE BECAUSE YOUR WORDS DISTORT REALITY. NOW YOUR REALITY WILL BECOME YOUR OWN. IN YOUR SONG CHORUSLESS WORDS YOU CLAIM, AND I QUOTE, 'But these other rappers CAN'T clean up a mess, So YOU kill em all, I'LL cannibal the FLESH.' I HOPE YOU'RE HUNGRY."

Aw hell naw.

The man in blue then crossed the frame and unlocked the deadbolted door. As he exited the red-and-white-streaked cell, a savory smell entered in his place. Into the room came wafting a buttery aroma, rich with sinister notes. Smokey sniffed, investigating the air. Quite unlike anything he had smelled before, his nose was skeptical, yet his stomach growled. He found that he was absolutely starving.

I mean, just eat the mu'fuckers and force his bullshit hand, right? Just do what he says. Eating them won't kill you...

Smokey was alone in the frame, taking account of the dried blood. Criss-crossed about the room, each splatter represented a fellow artist.

...faster than a bullet, anyhow.

In a fever, the detainee went back to work on his wrist restraints. Smokey picked at the zip ties that connected both arms, blindly probing behind his back in search of a weak spot. He stretched and twisted and yanked. All the while his hands throbbed in revolt. He worked up a frustrated sweat, scratching and clawing until he noticed his fingers beginning to slip against the plastic. Panic set in and he was soon unable to get a grip at all.