The Testimony of Robert Landridge

By trade I am a visual artist. I believe in art as a visual medium, and I prefer that those who see my work draw their own conclusions. It is for this reason that I try not to say too much about my work.

It happened while I was at an art convention. I had been scheduled to do a question and answer period where I talked to a group of art enthusiasts about my experiences as an artist. One man raised his hand and asked to know about a particular piece I had created. He asked what it meant. I gave him a vague answer, and he sat down.

Later that day I was outside, going to the parking lot to get to my car so I could drive home, when someone suddenly ambushed me from behind. I was bound and gagged and had a sack thrown over my head. The last thing I can recall was that I was stuffed into a cramped space, probably the trunk of my attacker’s car.

I don’t know how long I was in that trunk. I just recall the blinding light as the sack was finally removed. My limbs had been strapped down to a thick metal slab and lay in the middle of a brightly-lit room. I saw no windows and can only assume I must have been in a basement, only this looked more like a room where one would perform surgery. Around me there were shelves containing all kinds of surgical tools and other, very unfriendly-looking sharp objects.

I was finally able to glimpse my captor, the same fan who I had refrained from answering at the convention. “What do you want?” I asked.

“Simple,” replied the fan. “You’re going to tell me the meaning behind your art.”

“That would defeat the purpose,” I replied, though I knew I was in no position to negotiate. The fan smiled, and grabbed a large hammer which he quickly brought down on my arm. I could only scream in agony as I heard the bones crack inside.

There was still far worse to come, however. This fan, he took a very large scalpel, and walked toward me. “You will tell me what I want to know,” he said. I was almost ready to talk when he began the unthinkable. He started to cut off my index finger. I cannot describe the agony I felt as that scalpel ran through.

That wasn’t even the worst of it. “I’ll tell you,” I muttered in my agonized state, but by this point he was done. He was no longer interested in hearing what I had to say, but rather the sick torture he was ready to inflict upon me as he picked up that scalpel. I watched in horror as he began to slice open my chest. A small amount of blood trickled and the pain only increased as the incision grew larger and larger.

Finally, the door swung open and a group of armored men came running into the room. My captor tried to run but was gunned down quickly. I was brought to this hospital covered in casts and unable to work.