The clip begins with a man grinning into the camera lens. “Tape number thirty three,” he says. “Subject’s name is Christine. I’ve had this girl on the go for a week now, and tonight’s the night. Enjoy the show!”

He ducks out of shot, and the picture sways as he carries the camera across the bedroom and secrets it between a couple of books on a shelf facing a bed. He re-enters the shot, getting onto the bed and removing his shirt. He looks towards the camera, smiles and gives a thumbs up.

A door opens and a tall dark haired girl saunters saucily into the bedroom. She is dressed provocatively in red lingerie and wears a matching feathered face mask. Christine looks down on the man, then crawls slowly toward him on the bed.

“I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this,” she breathes huskily.

The man eagerly reaches towards her. “I like the mask. We’re going to have a masked ball, eh?”

She giggles prettily. “Oh, we’re going to have a ball. At least, I am.”

He frowns. “Eh? Wha’d you mean?” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear a sudden onset of dizziness.

“Sounds like you’ve had too much to drink. You’re slurring,” the girl says.

“Nah, nah. M’ fine. Fine…” He sways a little, then collapses back on the bed, tries to push himself up but fails, slumping bonelessly down onto the mattress again.

 “No, you’re not fine. Your muscles are failing. That sort of thing can happen when you drink from a spiked glass. But you know that, don’t you?”

“Wha’ you talkin’… ‘bout? Dunno…”

“Oh yes you do know, you evil son of a bitch. Don’t worry though, you won’t pass out. I just gave you a little something that’ll stop you from being able to move.”

“Christine… please…”

“That’s not my name.”


The girl gets off the bed and crosses the room. She takes a handbag lying on the dresser. On the bed, the man writhes sluggishly, like a drugged upturned tortoise.

“I read about the disappearances in the paper,” she says, walking towards the bed again with the handbag, “and I saw the news. You see, I know from experience how ineffectual the police can be, and I knew that even if by some miracle they did find you, you’d never get the punishment you really deserved.” The girl, facing away from the camera, kneels on the bed again. You can see now that her back is marred with an extensive twisted patchwork of burn scarring.

“I saw the photofit they put in the paper, and then there you were in Club Velvet that very same night. I saw you talking to that blonde girl. Saw you drop something in her drink. And I knew. I just knew it was you.”

The girl reaches into her handbag and withdraws a candle and a lighter. She ignites the wick, then lays the lit candle gently on the bed next to the man, who can only look on in immobile horror as the sheets immediately begin to smoulder.

“I followed you for weeks,” says the masked girl, getting off the bed. “I’ve been in your house. Found the tapes. Found the body parts in the freezer in your cellar.”

The bed begins to burn in earnest. The man will never rise from it again, except as smoke.

The girl walks towards the camera. Looks directly into the lens. She smiles.

The screen goes black.

And cuts to an exterior shot filmed from a quiet residential street. The house is completely ablaze. The camera swings round, and there is the girl, still masked. She smiles again.

The clip ends.

The two teenage boys in front of the computer look at each other in bewildered shock.

“Dude, let’s never Google ‘sex tape’ again,” says one.

His friend agrees.