Travelling so much took its toll. My diet mostly consisted of fast food and gas station hotdogs. I’d spent hundreds of hours driving the Cherry Red Hyundai Sonata, withering away the mobility of my arms and legs as they stayed in same position for hours. The hangovers were abominable, waking up confused where I was, needing to take multiple painkillers and Valium to face the day. I slept in motels. I slept in my car. The days were confusing, often I had no recollection what had happened before or what was to come next, my conscious would suddenly come to, panic, and then subside under the wave of chemicals I would add to my blood. There seemed to be no direction, no clear goal, or what I was supposed to do. I would drive through towns, absolutely amazed they exist, and leave within a couple of hours. Hyundai Sonata parked up on a rural road, I recline in the driver’s seat with the sunset cutting an orange line inside the car, sipping from a can of American Pale Ale, Slayer is on the radio and I’m watching a snake cross the road westward.
Droneboy had wiped out another squadron of killcels. There were also copycat killers, nicknamed Dronedrones, attacking buildings with explosives attached to drones, inspired by the dangerous vigilante. Drones had been made illegal, so the black market sold experimental, advanced drone technology, much better than what had been available at Wal Mart. It had become a TikTok trend to share schematics for 3D printing drones at home, as well as relaying instructions for making explosives out of household chemicals superimposed onto cat videos. This had also led to a certain way of speaking, what had started as censoring words like explosive to boomboom, that had made people double words for emphasis. Very good became goodgood, and so on. The overall cultural effect of this meant they were millions of teenagers speaking gibberish with specialist knowledge of domestic terrorism across the world. Droneboy himself had posted a video saying that there shouldn’t be a cult based on his actions, he just hated vigilantes. He had warned that any copycats using drone technology to attack people would personally be hunted down by him. This is, of course, how Droneboy got cancelled.
Somehow, this whole charade hadn’t captured the publics imagination as much as another ongoing event. Someone dressed as a cop had been entering people’s homes and forced them to watch some kind of video. After it had finished, he released everybody and left. The people seemed to have no recollection of what the contents of the video had been, though the experience seemed to have had a big impact on them. Entire families would appear vacant, hollowed out, all of their hair turning the same grey colour. It wasn’t clear if the man was a real cop or just wearing a uniform, and there was one other detail only I was privy to. He was wearing a mask of my face. On the news they showed footage from doorbell cameras, home surveillance systems, I watched somebody with my face enter people’s homes to show them something they couldn’t remember. They called him Video Cop.
The face of the Video Cop was my American face, the one I’d had plastic surgery for back in New York where they had peeled it off, sculpted my skull and made me a new man. I decided to call the surgeon. No answer. I lit a cigarette and went over to the hotel window, looking at the city around me. It had been a while since I had stayed somewhere nice, my body needed it. Though when I had got there and turned on Fox news, I saw the Video Cop had struck again. But this time there was something different.
Glen Elder, Kansas. This is a town where everyone knows each other, and is about as America as it gets. They serve coke the old-fashioned way, and it even has its own statue of liberty.
However, this piece of American paradise was tarnished yesterday night by a visitor from out of town. The infamous home invader called Video Cop had arrived.
“I noticed a beat up old police car cruise down North Center Street and I thought, I don’t know this fella.” Says Tim Bilroy. Tim is a 69 year old war veteran who has called Glen Elder his home for the last twenty years. When he saw the vehicle, he acted on his suspicions.
“So I called up the local sheriffs office and I says, have any of you fellas sent an officer down Glen Elder? And they says, no. So then I says, I says to ‘em, I think you better send a few guys then.” The news report then shows a re-enactment of Tim Bilroy walking to his lawn, the waistband of his trousers past his navel, and pointing to where he had seen the police car. The camera then cuts to the sheriff, a man with a very round nose.
“I’m just glad nobody got killed.” He says to the camera. The reporter then appears back on the screen and excitedly narrates a sequence of security footage:
Video Cop had knocked on the door and the family let him in, as usual. He had handcuffed them all and they were sat in the living room, as usual. That’s when the sheriff pulled up outside.
“I knew that something was wrong as soon as I got there.” We cut to the sheriff finishing his sentence, looking down. There’s a chime. The camera cuts again, quickly zooms in. Bodycam footage approaching the house. Through venetian blinds we can see the outline of the Video Cop in the living room.
“That’s when I pulled my gun.” Said the sheriff. We cut back to him. We cut back to the body cam. We cut to the doorbell camera filming the sheriff approach the house with his revolver drawn. We cut to the reporter standing in the living room. The family who live there are sitting on two different couches.
“I am standing where the home invader was yesterday evening. Can you explain to me what had happened?” said the reporter. There’s a boom mic in the shot, there are harsh shadows thrown from the furniture, coming from an extremely bright light just behind the camera.
“Like I said, there was this cop here and we heard the sheriff and the cop left out of that back door.” Said the father, motioning sideways. The camera then rushes through the house and out of the back door as the image fades to white. We go back to sheriff.
“He got away.” He says sadly. There’s a wide angle shot of the house in the daylight.
“But what didn’t get away was his car. The FBI are now in custody of Video Cop’s vehicle, a second hand police cruiser.” The reporter said as the camera panned to the 1978 Plymouth Fury, modified into a patrol car.
“Authorities say they have discovered several clues about Video Cop, and have launched a nationwide manhunt to track him down.”
“We know more about the suspect than we have before, this is a big break in the case. I’d say to him, if he’s watching, turn yourself in.” said an FBI agent in a press conference earlier that day. The camera cuts to a commercial for chewable steroids. I light a cigarette and pace around the room. I see myself in the mirror through the bathroom door. Though I’ve put on a significant amount of weight, I still looked like Video Cop. He looks like me.
A few hours later there is a knock at the door and I look through the peephole.
“Express Express Delivery.” They say. I open the door, accepting the package with one hand and hiding my face with the other.
“Here.” I say, throwing money through the door before
slamming it shut. I go over to the table by the window, ripping the cardboard
open. Inside it there is a normal man mask. After removing its clear plastic wrapping,
I pull the mask over my head and look around. Latex smell. Its hard to see, but I no longer
look suspicious. Sitting on the bed, practicing breathing in the mask, I begin
to meditate. All will be well. All will be well, will be well, will be well.
