Lesley thought I was just joking about the sombrero. But here I am, wearing it while sat on a train. Despite sidewards looks and titters from my fellow passengers, the ticket inspector says nothing.
Outside, the sea now left far behind, rural landscapes shoot across the carriage window as I hurtle towards Nedburgh, Scallyland's largest city. That is where my friend Lesley lives. I'm feeling pretty relaxed.
Oh, why the sombrero? Same reason I put pebbles in my shoes before putting them on this morning. Same reason my clothes are covering up pretty much all of my skin. I want to maintain anonymity outdoors, to avoid the surveillance matrix.
-
Nedburgh's Big Z consists of three shop-lined streets that make up a popular feature of the city's commercial heart. It hosts countless CCTVs and other surveillance tech, mostly run by Police Scallyland but installed by a very different Big Z - those entities behind the Epstein Class currently orchestrating wars in Europe and across the Middle East; those apparently determined to destroy what remains of Western civilization.
And so, now at Nedburgh and exiting Central Station, I cross the pedestrian precinct. I'm heading towards a smaller station quite nearby where I will take another train out towards Lesley's suburban home.
Given what I just said about the Big Z it's perhaps no coincidence that surrounding me today on the city streets are thousands of protestors. They've gathered for some anti-war, anti-genocide rally, according to their placards. These souls are against the very Epstein Class I'm talking about.
But I'm hugging the shopfronts, keeping away from the kerb. I don't want to get caught up in the crowd. I just need to reach my destination unnoticed.
-
Two officers from Police Scallyland block my path. Above my sombrero I hear the whir of at least one hopefully unarmed surveillance drone.
"Please stand still and take off your hat," says the largest of the two uniformed men, a particularly thuggish-looking character.
I note that neither of them wear any obvious identification tags on their armour - no names or numbers - only the familiar chequerboard patch and Police Scallyland legend.
"What is your business in the city today?" he continues in a thick East European accent. His silent partner looks on with a blank expression.
"I'm visiting a friend," I say, sombrero by my side.
"Are you taking part in the demonstration?"
"No. I didn't even know it was on. I'm just paying a social visit."
Both officers press index fingers to their ears, presumably receiving instructions through hidden earpieces. They look at each other with expressionless faces then turn back to me.
"You are Ross Christian. You are a writer and a suspected political dissident," says the lead officer. His mute friend now stares hard at me. Such is the power of AI.
"You speak very good English," I say. I can't think of any other response.
"Why are you trying to conceal your identity?"
After a brief pause I say, "It's my maternal great-grandmother's 160th birthday today, though of course she's long dead. She was of Mexican heritage and the sombrero is my mark of respect."
"You are lying," says Plod, still holding a finger to his earpiece. "You have no record of Mexican ancestry." AI is apparently still at work in the background.
"Look, I'm just visiting a friend, a purely social call. I've absolutely no interest in what's going on today."
"It is an offence under national terrorism laws and illegal under local statutes to hide your face or otherwise try to conceal your identity in a public space," says Plod, "Why exactly would you wish to remain anonymous today Mister Christian?"
"I have a God-given right to my privacy," I reply, knowing that the creatures standing in front of me draw their authority from darker powers in this world. They enforce the values of the Epstein Class, and are certainly not following the God of the Holy Bible.
"Why do you need rights if you are doing nothing wrong?"
How do I answer that?
"Again, for the last time, explain why you are hiding your identity, and tell us your purpose for being here."
"Why do you need to see my face?" I shoot back. Now I'm getting really worried.
"You might be on our watch list," says Plod, finger back up to his ear. "Indeed, as of this moment you are considered a suspect on our National Threat Database."
Jolted by this news I say, "So you need to see people's faces in order to check whether they are on a watch list? Don't you realize how absurd that is?"
"We have a politically sensitive event to police today, Mister Christian. You have travelled here bizarrely overdressed and wearing a sombrero. You are an anomaly that we must clear up."
Just as Plod says this, a passing protestor shouts across, "Pig scum out!"
-
Realizing my friend Lesley might get dragged into this, assuming she isn't on their radar already, I try to de-escalate the situation.
"What if I just turn around and go right back home?" I suggest. I'm hoping Plod has enough on his hands not to concern himself any further with me.
As both officers take further instruction through their earpieces, I begin to wish I'd worn a skullcap instead of the sombrero. Then I might have received a very different welcome.
"No," says Plod as he and his colleague take an arm each. "That is not an option. You are coming with us."
Revelation 13 - KJV