The Cosa Nostra took my dog by the nape, shot her in the head, then vanished off-screen. I vowed to slaughter an animal in front of them in response. Here, my friend turned pallid, more so than I had ever seen him. He knew of these men, academically and firsthand. Though he said nothing, his terror was plain. I had dug up the sex tapes of each of my peers and made a playlist online. We all sat together now, in a hateful silence, (them seething, me a pariah in spirit) in a darkened film theatre with red velvet seats. And we sat inside the film itself (a ceaseless blockbuster). We were poorly cast stars playing out each role, odd choices. As we watched ourselves being watched by ourselves, my Second Self chased a mythic strand of proof, one that would clear my name of all crimes, overturn my charges (voyeur, pervert, pornographer) and render my promise to commit honour-suicide null and void. I surprised myself, even, when I found this dancing hair of evidence, though I’d have to wait until the end of the film to present it to the jury.