Letters from Plastic Beach
By The Mauve Lantern
To whoever finds this letter:
My name is Daniel Blake. I am 31 years old, a reporter from London, and a graduate of Oxford. For the past two years, I have been on an investigation into the whereabouts of the world's most eccentric and enigmatic band. My research has taken me from Britain to the ends of the world, and I have discovered many wonderful and fantastic things, including the location of the band's guitarist and the reason behind the recent string of mysterious disappearances. But I am afraid that my profession has earned me the ire of certain parties, which leads me to my current predicament.
My name is Daniel Blake, and I have been kidnapped.
To understand what has become of me, you must understand what I have been doing for the past two years. I have been studying the band Gorillaz, a group that has become a world-wide phenomena with such hits as "Clint Eastwood," "Feel Good Inc.," and "Dirty Harry." The band consists of Stuart Potts, known as 2D by most, Murdoc Nichols, demonic bassist, Russel Hobbs, enormous drummer, and Noodle, a Japanese guitarist with a twisted history. A few years after the release of their ground-breaking album, Demon Days, the band split up after the supposed death of Noodle with no one ever finding the truth behind the break-up. As per my boss's orders, I embarked on a journey to learn the truth behind the band and what had become of them.
I still remember how I first got this assignment, still remember when I discovered I was in over my head. This was just after Gorillaz had released their final single, "El Mañana," and near everyone with a computer or television had seen the music video they released save for myself. I was never big on the music scene, preferring a good book and silence to all that noise, but when a coworker of mine showed me the video, I became curious and inquisitive about Gorillaz. It didn't help that the band refused to talk about the video and what went wrong. Suddenly, I wanted to know more about this band, find out what had happened in that video, and try to uncover the truth behind the band's lies. And as luck would have it, that's what my boss agreed on as well. So I set out to Kong Studios with a sense of adventure. This was not fiction…it was real.
I arrived at the dilapidated music studio some weeks later, only to find that there was nobody inhabiting the place. And how could they: one of the walls had all but collapsed, every single window was broken, and the building reeked of decay and, dare I say, death. Crows flew over my head and squawked up to the dark heavens. Hell, even the sky around the studio was a depressing gray, despite it being a beautiful day elsewhere. On the way up, I had wondered why there weren't many reporters sitting outside waiting for answers; one look at Kong told me right away why no one was there.
With much caution, I rang the buzzer once. No one answered, so I tapped it a second time a moment later. Still nothing there. A third time proved to be just as useless. There wasn't much I could do save knock down the door; I did just that after much careful thought. I would not be denied this story, even if it meant I would be arrested for breaking and entering.
When I rammed the door with my shoulder, an enormous shock ran through my arm. Not the electric kind, mind you, but the kind of feeling you get when you knock your funny bone. It hurt like a bitch, but the door got the worst of it. The bloody thing fell right off its rusty hinges and collapsed onto the ground with a great thud. And I was in.
If the outside was bad, the inside was even worse. In the room I walked into, the main foyer, the floor and furniture was covered in shit and muck, the window on the other side of the room was gone entirely, and everything else reeked of mildew and dust. Everything carried a horrible odor, something I could not place my finger on until much later. It was the stink of rotting corpses. But this did not put me off nor throw me out; I was determined to see this through. So with my nose covered by my scarf, I set out to explore the studio.
The rest of the studio wasn't much better than the main lobby, but that was only because there was the added benefit of having a ceiling I suppose. The walls were all covered from ceiling to floor with strange markings and chipped paint; the floors were so dirty, I could not tell what they actually looked like; every room I came across had giant doors that were coming off their hinges, much like the main entrance. I explored all over the place, searching rooms that probably belonged to the musicians and rooms that I didn't even want to think about what went on in.
Curious enough, I found that the room that belonged to Noodle, the Japanese girl guitarist of the band, had an enormous chunk missing from its wall, the wall that overlooked the landscape outside. There was a random assortment of animals and debris lying about the place and it stank of the filthy things. Upon close inspection of the room, I saw that the only thing that was untouched was a closet. When I opened it, I immediately regretted it. Inside was the head of a man, giant and hooked up to dozens of machines. I left without touching a single thing.
The rest of the search went about as well as could be expected. I found the entire place in a state of disarray, decay, and disorder, with not a single thing intact and solid. At one point, I discovered a lift that, presumably, went down into the basement, but the blasted thing was just as broken as the rest of the madhouse. Discouraged and left with nothing, not even the slightest of a hint, I tucked myself into my jacket and turned to leave. And that's when I saw HIM. Murdoc Nichols, servant of darkness and damned bassist.
And he was drunk as a skunk.
"Ah, whoozat?" he jeered.
The two of us were in the hallway leading to the lobby, I blocking his path and he blocking mine. I stood as still as possible and used this moment of silence to study the man before me. His skin was a strange shade of green, something I could make out even in the darkness of the hallway. The eyes in his head were yellow and sickly, one iris a different shade than the other. His black hair was matted down on his head; he reeked of something, I couldn't quite place it. It was something like…salt water.
"Who's there? Answer me!" he growled. There was a sort of drunken insanity in his voice, meaning I had to talk my way out of this and fast.
"Muh-muh-mister Nichols," I stammered at first, "my name is Daniel Blake, reporter for the Herald, and I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions. I, uh, tried calling earlier, but the operator said the number had been disconnected."
"That piece of shit phone's been dead for weeks, mate, mostly because I shot it after I got sick of it ringing all the time. Ah-ha-ha," he chuckled.
Thinking he was lightening up, I took a cautious step forward towards the man followed by another. I didn't want to tempt him into anything crazy, after all. "Sir, I came seeking some answers about…" I tried to finish my sentence, but I was distracted by the serpentine tongue that flicked out from behind yellow, crooked teeth. Was that real?
"Answers about what?" he grimaced.
"Oh, uh, about what happened with your guitarist, about the recent video, about the rest of the band's whereabouts and, well, everything," I answered. "It would just take a moment of your time."
"No. Get the hell out; I'm not doing another bleedin' interview, you understand?!"
His temper was flaring again. I had to do something to calm him down. "Mr. Nichols, we don't have to talk if you don't want to. No interview, fine, but I need some answers. What happened to Noodle?" I would not be deterred by scare tactics. At least, that's the feeling I wanted to portray. In reality, I was about ready to shit my pants with fear.
The brave façade did not work, as he took a few steps closer to me and came into the dim light of the hallway. Now that I could see him better, I saw that he was wearing no shirt, no shoes and a pair of white pants. What had he been doing and where had he been that could need that sort of odd attire?
"I am not at liberty to speak about Noodle's whereabouts at the moment, officer. Now, I highly recommend you get out of my studio before you wind up in my pit. And trust me, you would not last five seconds in the pit," he snorted. When he walked past me, he bumped my shoulder and deliberately knocked me out of his way. Murdoc began to grit and grind his teeth, cuing my exit.
I damn near bolted for the door and practically ran to the road. For I knew that if I were to stay in that place, I would most certainly wind up dead.
After that incident, I dropped the assignment. I told my boss about what had happened, and he seemed to be fine with it. Apparently, I was the only reporter to actually get up close and personal with Murdoc Nichols ever since the El Mañana episode, so he commended me and even gave me a raise. That journey haunted me and plagued my thoughts and dreams. Why was there a head inside a closet? What was in that basement? Where had Murdoc Nichols been? I never got the answers to those questions, which I suppose was a good thing.
Two or so years passed after my fateful trip to Kong Studios and I had all but forgotten about it. I no longer cared about what Murdoc was doing, nor did I seek anymore answers about the Gorillaz. I didn't, that is, until I received a most distressing call one day.
One night, I found myself stuck in the office after hours trying to edit an article that was due the next day. There had been a string of disappearances around the world, of celebrities, musicians, and even just random people off the street. Sure this happens all the time, but there were people claiming that there was always a tall man dressed in a black coat and gas mask around the scene of the vanishings. I did some research and found nothing save for an advertisement on Craigslist for some carnie named Sun-Moon-Star. He mentioned setting up game stands any place willing to pay a certain fee, and that was about it.
I was about ready to wrap up when I heard the office door click open. No one was supposed to be here at this hour, so I popped my head up to see what had come in, but there was no one there. The door was still shut and locked. I got back to my work, but that's when the odor hit me. It smelled of death. It smelled of decay. It smelled like…salt water.
And that's when I blacked out.
I do not know who will find this bottle and this letter, but I sincerely hope that whoever does will take the time to read what I've written and lend their aid. I will continue to write more letters in the hope that my story reaches more people in the world. People need to know what's happening on this island of plastic, this plastic beach. Someone needs to know the truth.
Sincerely,
Daniel Blake