I want to click it away, but it says For Liam Lynch, the Foundling Kid. I grit my teeth and open it. There’s an attachment. I open that as well. A video begins. The picture’s blurry. There’s a figure sitting on a chair at the center of a small poorly lit room. He’s wearing jeans and a striped shirt and there’s a black hood covering his head. His head’s tilted forward, like he’s asleep. Music’s playing: a beaten drum, a scratchy squeaky stringed instrument. There’s some chanting. None of the words are recognizable. Three figures walk into view. They’re small, with padded jackets on, with full face masks on, circles for eyeholes, slits for mouth and nose. They stand around the man on the chair—one at his back, one at each side—and they face the camera. They hold the man’s shoulders as if to restrain him. The figure at his back has a piece of paper. He unfolds it and begins to read in a grunty guttural weird voice. Again hardly anything’s recognizable: Jabber jabber jabber God jabber jabber jabber Allah jabber jabber jabber Blair jabber jabber jabber Bush.
