There’s a serial killer on the loose. (Why is everywhere I go always dark and cloudy grey misty dark and staticky skyward?) Buildings packed in close and crowded. Slums but too nice but not comfortable. Bricks and mortar and glass and edges. Not as much graffiti as you’d expect. (Isn’t this the same city as where I stole the mummified head of Rod Stewart?) The killer preys on actresses from adult films. Porn starlets, to call a spade a spade. There’s fear in the town. He’s not taking trophies. Not that anyone knows. I’m involved in the investigation not because I work with the constables but because I happened to notice a pattern in the data (a la Gibson’s Laney) and how each murder was precipitated by a flurry of rentals featuring that particular Her. (The constables only ever call a given actress “Her”.) Somehow in the course of all of this I become a suspect as well. I’m taken for questioning. Held over night. Another murder. They let me out. Now it’s personal. I’m checking data streams looking for rental patterns. The evidence leads me to one particular Her. We invite a few of her closest friends and associates over for the night. (Strictly in the interest of safety, despite the many jokes: “How many of my films have started like THIS!?!?”) Her front parlor is a sitting room (a la Stephenson’s Diamond Age) but more so a storefront complete with cash register and product displays. (The impulse items leave something to be desired but whatever.) This is where I wait, setting up my trap for the killer. As the night wears on, the walls seem to grow decorations. Portraits spawn other portraits. Landscapes expand and distend. Still lifes reproduce and multiply. It’s very Haunted Mansion meets Russian Orthodox church. Until the lights snap out. At first I think it’s just the power getting cut. But my ears ring too. I’ve been knocked out. And when I awaken, it’s in the arms of some blonde, petting the knot on my head and assuring me it’s all going to be fine. They caught him though it was a bit too late for Her.