The King of Hip-Hop and a Cherry Candy
The scene was a staggeringly luxurious apartment in the heart of New York City, and I could barely contain my shock.
"……"
The man who'd ridden the elevator up with me was, of all people, the King of Hip-Hop himself.
Snoop-Duck.
He was smoking something that was very clearly not a cigarette, and all he did was grunt wordlessly while puffing away. Just standing beside him, you could feel an aura that made him seem untouchable.
"……"
I wanted an autograph. But I held back. He hadn't asked for one first, after all — call it a battle of pride.
Being a high-rise express elevator, the ride up took a while. Eventually, Snoop let out a sigh and looked at me from behind his sunglasses.
"Don't recognize that face."
"Uh, sorry?"
"You move in?"
"Oh, no! I'm a friend!"
"Right. A friend. Sure."
"……"
We shook hands.
No, that's not what that meant.
But he seemed so thoroughly out of it that I didn't feel the need to correct him. He kept striking up conversation in a voice thick with slang.
"Nice muscles, man."
"Thank you."
"Football?"
"Pro wrestling."
"Gigantor used to be incredible."
He's dead.
"Enjoyed watching back in the day, but it got kinda wack as I got older."
"How so?"
"Nothing but white boys on screen. Which, by that measure, you're gonna have a rough time too."
"Well, I'll just have to work hard anyway."
"Respect."
He flashed a wide, gleaming white smile.
"So how's it looking these days? Heard the Pay-per-views are back. Who's the hottest name right now?"
"Me."
"You? What's your name?"
"Shin."
I answered with an easy grin. Apparently that intrigued him, because Snoop-Duck nodded and tried to commit it to memory.
"Chin."
"No, Shin."
"Jim."
Completely gone.
Shaking my head, I stepped off the elevator first.
That's the kind of building it was.
Snoop-Duck was one of the hottest figures in the entire history of American hip-hop — a rapper who had been legendary since the days when the scene was split between East and West, and who would remain legendary long into the future.
Come to think of it, if I remember right, that man's a West Coast guy.
Is this place some kind of vacation home? He must have made an absolute fortune.
It was that jaw-dropping kind of apartment — one household per floor, meaning each entire floor was a single residence. On top of that, it was a duplex. The pinnacle of hyper-modern luxury: you couldn't even call the elevator without first announcing your name on the ground floor.
And the owner was Tiffany.
I'll say it again — it was Tiffany Maxen, not Bart Maxen.
Was I going to be okay?
"Oh, Shin!"
Tiffany, lounging in the cavernous living room, turned at the sound of my voice and rose from her seat. Then she ran over and threw herself into my arms.
I glanced sideways at the household staff who had been assembled to escort me.
"……Everyone's watching."
"So what?"
Tiffany showed no intention of letting go, snuggled against my chest as she was. With the staff all tactfully averting their eyes, I gave up and headed for the sofa. The far wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking view overlooking the city.
"So, uh, about work."
"Just a little longer like this."
"……At least the people—"
"Oh, they're all on break."
Fortunately, the staff took the hint and withdrew.
"I bought you cherry candy, you know."
"……"
"You promised me as many kisses as you gave that girl on the broadcast, remember?"
"I never promised that."
"Then hand them over in advance."
Tiffany, grinning up at me from my lap, showed me the candy already in her mouth before I could even answer.
And after a little while passed…
"Let's move on to business."
"……"
Having migrated to the other end of the sofa, Tiffany popped another cherry candy into her mouth. Watching her straighten her suit, put her glasses back on with a prim air — it seemed to perfectly capture that personality of hers, the one that drew a hard line between business and pleasure.
"Would you like a candy?"
"……No."
One "half" had already worn me out on this end.
"First of all, we've been invited to a party three days from now, in the evening. The venue is a hotel seven blocks from here."
"What kind of party?"
"A gathering of sports stars. To be precise, it's a vanity project and networking party for the patrons who sponsor them. My father is sending me, and you're my partner."
And the guest list also included reporters and editors-in-chief from all manner of sports magazines.
"Usually the chairman would—"
"That's the thing. Father got himself banned from attending after he had a real fight with Jaina White two years ago."
"……"
Jaina White.
Not pro wrestling's rival, exactly — more like the chairman of an MMA company, a business that merely looked similar from the outside.
He hadn't looked like much of a fighter, though. Bart had probably won in a landslide. That would explain the ban.
"Anyway, if you're going to that party, we need to get you dressed up first."
"How so?"
"You need a car, for starters."
"The camping bus?"
"Ugh, I could kill you."
"……"
It was a joke. And yet this was the first time Tiffany's beaming smile had ever felt remotely frightening.
Truthfully, this was my first brush with high society, so the textbook move would be to simply follow her lead.
As is the way of every capitalist nation, America had its own aristocracy. Unlike the old days, though, it was money — not kings — that conferred the titles.
Those with wealth built a world among themselves that ordinary people could never see, then put it on display through television. That was America's celebrity culture, and with it came an era where fame itself converted into money.
The most prominent examples — the Paris Hiltons, the Kim Kardashians, the Lindsay Lohans, the Donald Trumps — all belonged to that world. The masses consumed the celebrities they saw in the media, lived vicariously through them, and paid their taxes accordingly.
Tiffany was in much the same position.
"Nothing too expensive, either. You haven't been debuted that long…" She trailed off, thinking. "What would you like?"
"Whatever you think works."
"Actually, I've already found a listing. A Murciélago released last year. It just hasn't been painted yet."
"……A Lamborghini?"
"It's not much. Around four hundred thousand."
……Four hundred thousand dollars.
"What color do you want?"
"Hmm, red?"
"Tacky. We're going with black."
"F-fine then. About the money…"
"Don't worry about it. I've already paid."
"No, not this time."
I said it firmly. Tiffany tilted her head, puzzled.
"You've given me so much already, Tiffany. Taking anything more feels… I don't know, a bit heavy on my conscience."
"It's fine. This is Tiffany Maxen the businesswoman investing in you."
"Investing?"
"Yes. …I'll be honest with you. I'm going to push you all the way to the top. Entirely separate from whatever clingy arrangement we have going on."
Tiffany smiled seductively.
"You're my weapon for dragging my father down from his throne, after all."
"I-I'll do my best."
"Shall I continue?"
"Please."
I nodded.
After that, a tailor with an old-fashioned air arrived at the apartment. Following Tiffany's orders, he immediately set about taking my measurements.
What kind of situation was this, too?
While I stood there flustered, merely scrambling to keep up with the flow of things, Tiffany continued issuing instructions without pause.
"Make it as comfortable to move in as possible. Flexible enough that he could do ballet in it."
"The deadline?"
"Three days from now, by evening."
"The price?"
"Your call."
"Fifty thousand."
"Okay. In exchange, do it properly like you always do. If I don't like it, there'll be a breach penalty."
"Keh keh."
The hunched old man measured the body I'd stripped down to nothing but underwear with exquisite care, recording every last detail. You could feel the hand of a master craftsman at work.
"Shall I add ballistic protection?"
"That won't be necessary."
The tailor looked mildly disappointed.
Was I secretly training to become some world-saving secret agent here?
Anyway, once I'd ordered the suit I'd wear to the party, a hairstylist was called in as well, and I got thoroughly pampered. A neat haircut, groomed eyebrows, a face mask, plucked nose hairs, and a whole catalog of other indignities. I even received a massage, working loose all the fatigue that had accumulated in my body.
…Damn it all, it was so luxurious it made me want to go out and earn money somehow, no matter what it took.
Tiffany looked over my reborn (?) self and delivered her verdict:
"You were handsome to begin with, but a little upkeep really makes it shine."
I was quite satisfied myself. A pro wrestler who travels the world every single day rarely gets care this good — it's a hard thing to come by. Getting scrubbed down for the first time in ages left me feeling light enough to fly.
Not bad at all.
I had a wonderful premonition that the party would be fun too.
And once I'd finished the excellent dinner the staff had prepared, drowsiness began to wash over me. It was nine in the evening.
But I had work to do.
"Ahem. A-hem. Mm, mm."
My fatigue had been washed away, after all. With my voice limbered up, I stood alone in the room I'd been given and got ready. In my hand: a voice recorder.
The plan was to record Jigsaw's lines in spare moments like this and send them to James Kwan. Today was the first session.
Better to work fast and get it sent off.
I had a rough idea of how I wanted to record it, so let's move quickly.
Holding the voice recorder to my mouth, I ran through my voice a few times.
The Jigsaw of my past life had been a raving murderer, dying of a brain tumor. But the Jigsaw of my present life — the one where I'd become an actor — was a raving murderer who had beaten that illness and reclaimed his health.
The desire to teach his philosophy to others was the same in both. But the core was completely different.
Past-life Jigsaw burned with rage at those who treated life as worthless. My Jigsaw was, by contrast, an even more insufferable and deranged character — one who wanted to enlighten them.
Tilting my voice slightly, I began reading the script's lines in order.
"…Let the game begin."
I shifted the tone by the subtlest of degrees from the Jigsaw voice people already knew. My Jigsaw wasn't a patient dying of a brain tumor. He was a psycho who had recovered his health and attained enlightenment.
The Jigsaw I'd performed at the table read had been that finished form — which was exactly why James had rated me so highly.
But I'd resolved to push my acting even further. And for that, understanding the character was essential.
A man who slowly goes mad as he discovers the violent urges that have been hidden inside him all along.
Fourteen scenes to record in total. The victim count: five.
Reviewing the script I'd received, I organized the record of the murders.
…No, thinking about it this way genuinely made me feel like I'd become a psycho myself.
From the first murder to the last — hadn't Jigsaw, scene by scene, been steadily consumed by sadistic impulse?
Which meant: the first "game" explained in a somewhat mechanical tone. From the second on, a faint note of excitement creeping in. And by the time he announced the final murder — the unmistakable sound of a man barely restraining his delight in the game of killing.
I started the voice recorder and laid down the lines one by one.
"…Let the game begin."
A pause.
"You are pinned where you stand. There is no way out, and in one hour, the room will flood with poison gas."
I was deep in concentration, recording line after line, when it happened —
A cautious, tentative knock at the door.
It came at the precise moment I'd finished recording the first victim's scene. I rose from my seat, made a reasonable guess as to who it was, and opened the door.
"Blue Mountain. Care for some?"
Tiffany stood there in a negligee, coffee cup in hand.
"…Apparently 'comfortable' means something different inside these walls."
With nowhere decent to rest my eyes, I let her in. The coffee was welcome, too — drowsiness had been creeping up on me.
"What were you working on?"
"Recording the movie."
"Ah, that James Wan project?"
"Kwan."
"Think it'll do well?"
"It's going to be huge."
"Wasn't the era of horror movies supposed to be over? You sure?"
"Trust my eye."
"Still so confident."
Tiffany gave a wry smile, then crossed her legs ever so slightly and went on.
"Setting aside your work, I have some things for you to do before the party in three days."
"Like what?"
"First, getting used to the Murciélago. You're the one escorting me, so you'll be driving."
"And?"
"You memorize the names and faces of all thirty patrons attending the party. Every single one."
"…Excuse me?"
"Since we're at it, I'll throw in the dossiers on the sports stars coming along too. You'll be escorting the patrons around the party, so linking them together in your memory will make it easier."
"……"
"It's essential in high society. Better to get used to it now."
"I'll give it a try."
I nodded.
Either way, it was a good opportunity. If I attended the party and made my face known, my stock would only climb higher.
The Sexiest Men list that People's Magazine published every year.
To make that list, first I had to break into high society.