Project Purple

5 - The Detective

The next evening at home, Rigor got the second video through his Face Book page, labeled 'The Death of The Cowleech'. Someone had written on his wall again, and it was even more disturbing than the lashed Goatwench:

The date stamp read: 6/16. The man, this Cowleech, with an inflamed, bulbous face; his skin, everywhere-face, neck, hands shining with the gloss of juices and creams.

The Goatwench standing over him, inspecting the runny bumps and lesions. "I've never seen a reaction like this."

The Cowleech fellow smiling through the thin slits in his swollen eyes. "You sound like one of the doctors on TV."

"Sports medicine. Did some dermatology in school."

His eyes gleam; a smile cracks across his blusterous face. "I knew there was something off about you," he rasps through puffed up lips.

The Goatwench frowns, as if regretting the disclosure. "You wanted out of log splitting this badly?"

"They didn't bite my eyeballs." But his eyelids are red and bloated.

He softly grabs her wrist; even his palms are swollen and bloody.

"What?" she asks, measuring his body temperature, all business.

"Good girl?"

She nods, "I don't know what's worse, two hours in the pillory, or three hours of Sabbath with Bob."

***

Rigor took notes: another name on the paper in front of him-Bob-just to keep tabs on all the charactrs in the nasty scenes they kept sending him. Under Bob he wrote the word Sabbath, and under that he wrote Priest?

Under Goatwench he jotted the word Pillory.

***

The Goatwench pouring some water, and the Cowleech's voice uncracking a little as he drinks. "I always knew you liked this cowboy," he mumbles through the bloated lips.

She gives him her most officious nurse look: "If your condition doesn't improve, we're getting you out of here."

He manages another grin, "Got a connection with the almighty ... Why the ice princess act?"

"It isn't that." Their eyes meet and pet, and he's still holding her wrist, but she says no more.

"Ask Bob something for me." It's hard for him to talk; a small sentence is an effort; he has to rest before the next one: "Ask him if wet dreams are a sin."

"Ask him yourself," she chides gently, heading to the door of what looks like some kind of small hut.

"Last chance to return a little affection, or I'm throwing myself at the Matron." She treats him to a tickled smile, and then softly closes the door.

Black for a few seconds, then:

New scene: the date stamp says: 6/17

Now, the people in the play are panicked. They're outside at some kind of table; unique angles on them, from above or ground level, like an experimental film, but with dozens of different camera shots, hyping the drama of the moment.

"There's way too much toxin in his blood," the Goatwench tells the encircled group of about eight others, all dressed like Pilgrims in some gory Thanksgiving play. "Something happened last night, his system isn't dealing with it."

"How do you know so much?" another woman snaps at the goatwench, a cold, younger woman with thick, blond hair that's forced up into her cap, but is determined not to go up, and steals out like angry fingers. "You're a P.E. teacher," she hisses at the Goatwench, her words dripping with contempt.

The Goatwench doesn't get a chance to reply ... Instead, another man makes a move to his shirt pocket, pulling out a tout smoking pipe. But then he thinks better of lighting the pipe under the gravity of the situation and the concentrated stares from the troubled gathering.

"I've raised the white flag as instructed to do in emergencies," the pipe guy says, but his words don't seem to comfort everyone.

"Something happened last night," the Goatwench stresses. "He was recovering from the bites ... Why relapse?"

Her question hangs unreturned in the heavy silence of the large table they've gathered around.

Cut to:

Twenty seconds of a man lying dead in a bed-the Cowleech-a fish-eyed silence, with the same massive welts and gaping sores.

Plenty dead. (Rigor knew a corpse when he saw one.)

Again, the statistics on the left side in that boxy white font:

Handle: the Cowleech

Status in colony: Free Man

attributes: unassuming, decisive

flaws: head-strong

Romantic interest(s): goatwench

Health: failing

Odds for Survival: 02/1,011

***

Rigor stared at the date stamp-June seventeenth. Did the guy really die three weeks ago?

Rigor went to his refrigerator and poured himself more of the cold tea he had brewed, and then chilled. His one-bedroom place didn't see him very often-The shiny cooking ware, the tame paintings, everything had the look as though no one really lived there; that the apartment was just some Ikea showroom with the face of occupancy.

"Meow!"

The robotic cat, in a jerky little march, followed him back to the table, and the detective watched the video again, jotting more names on the paper-the Matron, the bitchy blond, middle-aged guy with the pipe-looking for more clues, noting things: the unpainted walls; a different room from that of the goatwench in the first video, but of the same raw woodworking style.

He sipped his glass of Ceylon Gold, pursing his lips in thought. His instincts screamed at him: This was no joke! -There were real people out there being subjected to some monstrous horror movie-like torture; the next installment of Saw, and the only thing he could do about it was try to trace the IP address, just like Doogan did yesterday...

But he knew it would be futile; the thing would be squeaky clean and homeless. That bothered him a lot. Why would they go through the trouble to wipe themselves, yet send evidence of what appeared to be horrific bodily injuries, maybe animal bites?

But another part of him spoke up, knowing the answer-They were boasting, taunting ... Taunting him! ... Why?

Rigor had nothing to do with violent crimes; they were on an entirely different floor. Why load all this on him? What were they after?

Now that the Cowleech was out, maybe it was another contestant they wanted ... So was this some twisted recruitment drive?

Was this an invitation to play?