This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Cynthia walked into her building, relishing the moment she could shut the apartment door, tear off her bra, and vegetate on the sofa. First, however, she made a quick detour to the mailroom.
She had a single small package in her mailbox. It didn’t have a mailing or return address—only a stamped silhouette of a blue rabbit.
“I guess bluebunny sent me something new,” thought Cynthia.
She ripped open the package and found an unbranded pair of wireless earbuds in a white case and a handwritten letter. It read: “Go to a loud, crowded place and put in these earbuds at exactly 10:30 PM. Leave your phone with a friend. Keep this letter and package with you at all times. Do not throw them away. Tweet something about wanting to go to Disney World right now.”
Cynthia furrowed her brow in confusion. Then she groaned. She really didn’t want to do anything other than putter around her apartment for the next few days, but she figured that if bluebunny was being so weirdly cloak and dagger about things, then they must have something good to share. The whole Disney thing threw her for a loop, though. Was that some sort of joke? Best not to think about it too hard.
She pulled out her phone, tweeted “Thinning abut going to Disney!” without checking her spelling, and texted Noah that she’d join them after all. She also messaged Carlos to see if he’d like to tag along. They’d flirted back and forth over the previous few weeks and made tentative plans to grab coffee or a drink. Carlos had showed interest in helping Cynthia investigate the Bulge, even maybe author a book about it, but their dates were always scuttled by a last-minute interview Cynthia had to attend. Also, he seemed allergic to the thought of lingering too long in public settings. It therefore came as no surprise that he demurred on joining her that night.
Cynthia showed up outside of Turnt at 9:45 because arriving anywhere in South Florida less than half an hour late was just inconsiderate. There she met with Noah, Sofia, Julio, MJ, Luis, his partner Mateo, and a few other weirdos.
This was not your typical Miami Beach club. There was no overzealous bouncer, no exorbitant cover, no one insisting on a ridiculous male to female ratio (for obvious reasons), and no promoters using high pressure tactics to sell bottles and tables for the equivalent of a full month’s rent. It was a come as you are establishment that welcomed everyone from socialites to leather daddies, drag queens, jocks, and circuit boys. Feeling no compulsion to glam up or impress anyone, Cynthia wore a floral romper with a V-cut and sandals.
Turnt’s interior was separated into multiple rooms on two levels that throbbed with reggaeton, hip hop, Top 40s, and EDM. Lasers and strobe lights pulsed across the whole menagerie of gay men: bears, otters, bulls, cubs, dolphins, wolves, silver foxes, and many other as yet uncategorized species. There were also many trans, cis, and queer women, men, and non-binary people of all descriptions.
Cynthia instinctually felt the swelling beat move her body in joyful harmony with hundreds of strangers around her. She also experienced an odd feeling she had trouble placing. As she watched men around her caress, rub, and grind on each other, Cynthia eventually came upon a realization. For the first time in years, she was in a crowded public setting with no fear of being grabbed, groped, or otherwise harassed without her consent. She laughed at the revelation and let the music take her.
On a break from the dancefloor, Cynthia made her way to the bar and ordered an espresso martini to help keep her energy up. She had just paid when the frattiest frat bro she’d ever seen in a chino pants and a polo rocked up next to her looking like he’d just escaped a pack of hounds.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed with no introduction. “Me and my boys are in town for the weekend, and we thought we’d check out the party scene, but we had no idea this was a gay club!”
Cynthia looked around at the hundreds of gyrating men and responded, “Seems pretty clear to me!”
“I’ve been manhandled by I don’t even know how many dudes!” he continued.
“Yep, that’ll happen here,” she replied. “Sucks you had to get a small insight into what it’s like to be a woman.”
“Please tell me you’re straight,” he pleaded, ignoring her comment.
“Nope!” she answered and took a sip of her drink to hide her grin. “And I’m not participating in this conversation either!”
With that, she raised her arms over her head and shimmied back to the dance floor.
Cynthia danced with Noah. She danced with Sofia, who still wore her elf ears but had swapped the leotard for a getup Cynthia could only describe as a high fantasy dominatrix. She even danced with Julio, who had donned a dress shirt but elected to keep the camo pants.
“I’m writing a new book!” shouted Julio apropos of nothing.
“What?” cried Cynthia, gesturing to her ear that she couldn’t hear him.
“I said I’m writing a new book!” he repeated.
“Oh, OK,” she answered.
“It’s going to be a feminist eco-satire!”
“What does that even mean?”
“It’ll tackle human folly and hubris through a woman-centric environmental lens!”
“Cool!” she answered with a shrug. “You’re a dude, though. How are you going to pull that off?”
“I don’t know yet!” he said with a concerned look. “I’m just going to lead with empathy, do my best, and ask a whole lot of people for feedback. I might even write myself into it!”
“What?”
“I said I might write myself into it!”
“Why?”
“Because it’s funny!”
Cynthia shot him a skeptical glance.
“Is it? Writing yourself into your own book sounds a bit self-indulgent!”
“Maybe,” he responded. “But I think I can pull it off if the readers think it’s amusing and not just self-referential ego!”
“Do you think you can do it?”
“I’m not sure! I’ll have to wait until people read it!”
“Ok!” she cried, growing bored of the conversation. “Good luck!”
Cynthia danced away into the crowd and just happened to glance at her watch. It was 10:28. She’d better find a quieter place to listen to whatever blubebunny had to say. She handed Noah her phone for safekeeping and made her way to the bathroom, which was full of all sorts of folks chatting, applying makeup, and swapping gossip. Cynthia entered the corner stall, lowered the lid, sat down, inserted the earbuds, and waited.
Steven Hawkings’ familiar voice soon filled her ears.
“Are you somewhere secure?” they asked.
“bluebunny?” asked Cynthia.
“Who fucking else?” Came the reply. “Are you safe or not?”
Cynthia smiled.
“Definitely more so than usual.”
“OK, good. Look, I’m going to tell you some stuff and you need to promise me not to freak out.”
“Telling people not to freak out is the best way to get people to freak out,” said Cynthia, apprehension quickening her pulse.
“OK, well, just don’t, OK?”
“I’ll try my best,” answered Cynthia as a growing sense of dread crept into her voice.
“OK, uh, look. There’s no easy way to say this, but your apartment is being surveilled by three different teams.”
Shock and fear ran down Cynthia’s spine like cold water.
“My apartment is what??” she cried.
“Keep your voice down! Yes, you’re under surveillance.”
Cynthia cupped her ears and put her head between her knees.
“Also, I don’t mean to alarm you…”
“You’ve already alarmed me plenty!” replied Cynthia hoarsely.
“Well, I don’t want to alarm you further, but Santos went on this huge alt-right podcast and called you out by name. Some of its crazier listeners have doxxed[1] you. They might start messing with you soon.”
A wave of dread rolled over Cynthia. She felt like she was drowning.
“How will they mess with me?”
The words barely pushed past her dry lips.
“They might leave you hate mail, vandalize your car, harass you on the street. At worst, they could break into your apartment.”
Cynthia felt lightheaded. She closed her eyes and leaned against the side of the stall to keep from slipping to the floor.
“But we have to get back to the people bugging your place,” said bluebunny.
“Who is bugging me?” asked Cynthia, her eyes shut tightly.
“Well, like I said, there are three different groups. One’s a fucking clown car. They’re going through your trash and installing listening devices in your apartment like it’s the Cold War. They’re Santos’ people.”
Cynthia sat up as a knot of rage tightened in her stomach.
“Of course they are,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “Pieces of shit.”
“The second group is super high-speed. They’re in all the same systems I am—all the cameras and microphones in your appliances, phone, and computer. These guys know what they’re doing so I’m guessing they’re Elzos’ goons. They’re also using high-powered microphones to listen to your conversations. That’s why I asked you to go somewhere crowded.”
“How do you know all that?” asked Cynthia.
“I picked up their signals on my drone.”
“Wait, what?” Cynthia paused. “What drone? Does that mean you’re close by?”
“It’s a military grade SIGINT drone. You should see the specs. It’s freaking awesome. But, yes, I knew the assholes you ticked off would retaliate, so I decided I’d need to keep a closer eye on things.”
“OK,” said Cynthia, trying to take it all in. “What’s the third group?”
“Oh, that’s Florida Power & Light.”
“Why on God’s Earth is my electrical utility spying on me??” whisper-shouted Cynthia. “Could they have something to do with the Bulge?”
“I wouldn’t put too much stock in that. They surveil all the most bothersome journalists in the state as a matter of course. Think of it as a sign that you finally made it.”
“OK…,” said Cynthia. “What can these spies do to me?”
“At the lower end of the spectrum, track all your movements, intercept and intimidate your sources, fuck with your head, turn off your lights, delete or alter your documents, and generally make your life miserable. The medium risk scenario involves them sending fake emails and texts from your computer and phone, wiping out your bank account, deep faking your voice to make calls, and uploading fucked up posts to your social media.”
Cynthia’s stomach dropped. She felt woozy, like she might pass out if she weren’t sitting.
“OK,” she said once she’d regained some of her composure. “What’s the worst-case scenario?”
There was a pause on the line.
“I’ve seen people like Elzos’ guys kidnap reporters and other targets. There’re rumors of faked suicides, people falling out of buildings, stuff like that.”
Cynthia rubbed her temples, slowed her breathing, and tried to take it all in.
“Alright,” she said at last. “Do they know you’re tracking me too?”
The computerized voice laughed.
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they obviously picked up that I was also in your system and queried me.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told Elzos’ spooks I was with FPL.”
Cynthia blinked hard and pursed her lips.
“You what?” she demanded.
“Yeah, and I told the FPL guys I was with Santos.”
“What did you tell Santos’ people?” asked Cynthia slowly.
“That I was with Elzos.”
“Isn’t that a great way to get caught?”
bluebunny chuckled.
“Nah, I’m basically playing telephone operator. They’re really just talking to themselves through me. They even made plans to get drinks.”
Cynthia’s head felt like it would explode with the absurdity of it all.
“Are people really that stupid?”
Another laugh.
“Oh, absolutely. But don’t worry, that means we can outsmart them. We can shake them off your tail so they can’t hurt you while you continue your investigation.”
“How?”
“By making you disappear. You’re probably safe for tonight, though I can’t speak to what Santos’ army of alt-righters might do in the future. So, you’re going to go home right now and buy a Brightline ticket to Orlando on tomorrow’s 9 AM train.”
Brightline was what Florida got after Santos’ marginally less conservative gubernatorial predecessor canceled a $2.4 billion federal grant to build a high-speed rail network that would’ve connected the state’s largest cities. Instead of efficient public bullet trains, Floridians could now purchase outrageously expensive tickets from a private company to travel the country’s killing-est locomotive from South to Central Florida. Brightline’s construction was so poorly managed and crossed so many streets and other rights of way that its annual death toll was three times higher than the next-closest rail network. Luckily, the company installed modern-day cow catchers on the front of all their engines, cutting that gruesome statistic by a whopping 12%.
“That’s why I asked you to send out that tweet,” continued bluebunny. “So there’s a public record and it doesn’t look like you’re doing something completely out of left field.”
“What am I going to accomplish in Orlando?” asked Cynthia.
“You’ll see. I want you to put enough clothes, toiletries, everything else you need in a backpack for one week. No computer, smartwatch, AirPods, electric toothbrush, vibrator, anything connected to the internet, or anything electronic they could possibly track.”
Cynthia tried not to think about the metadata her sex toys had collected on her.
“Also—this is critically important,” continued bluebunny. “You need to pack a pair of combination pliers and a folding Allen wrench set. Do you know what they look like?”
“Of course I do!” she replied indignantly.
Cynthia had no idea how to identify either a folding Allen wrench set or combination pliers, but she figured Julio probably did.
“And another thing.”
“What?”
“Make sure you do exactly what you usually do when you get home. If that’s take a shower, then take a shower. If it’s prance around naked for half an hour, then do it. We can’t change any of your usual behavior. These guys need to think everything’s copacetic. Got it?”
“Yes,” replied Cynthia with a groan.
“OK, good,” said bluebunny. “Get a seat in Car 3. Don’t forget. Car 3.”
“OK.”
“Alright. At 10 AM, you’re going to go to the bathroom with your backpack after leaving your phone at your seat. Then you’ll put these earbuds back in. Make sure you bring the letter and package I sent you so we can dispose of them properly.”
“What do you mean by ‘we’?” demanded Cynthia.
“You’ll see tomorrow. Go home. Get some rest.”
[1] Publicizing private information such as addresses, phone numbers, and financial accounts to harass and intimidate victims.
