When I stepped back into the VCIM office, Jake looked like a man waiting for the results of a medical test he knew he’d failed.
“Howard,” he whispered. “It’s… uh…”
“How bad?” I asked, setting down my tools.
He swallowed. “Six thousand.”
“Views?” I said.
He nodded vigorously. “And climbing. Fast.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay. We can still fix this. Maybe the algorithm sneezes and forgets about us.”
He refreshed his screen. “Eight thousand.”
I took a deep breath. “Maybe—maybe it plateaus.”
He refreshed again.
“Nine-point-three.”
“Jake,” I said slowly, “stop refreshing.”
“I’m not refreshing,” he said. “It’s just doing that on its own.”
I stood there a moment, processing the situation. Rusty had become the internet’s new favorite blue-collar folk hero, and the algorithm had decided to feed him to the masses like a snack pack.
“Tell me,” I asked, “did anyone comment anything legally actionable?”
He bit his lip. “Define actionable.”
I held out my hand.
He handed me the phone.
The comments were a mixture of emotional instability and high enthusiasm.
PROTECT HIM AT ALL COSTS.HE HAS A FLAG. I HAVE A FLAG. WE ARE THE SAME.THIS LITTLE GUY IS DOING MORE FOR AMERICA THAN CONGRESS.DUMPSTER BUNNIES NATION RISE UPOMFG I WANT ONE.
There were already remixes. Someone had synced Rusty’s movement to a patriotic ballad. Someone else had cut together footage of raccoons doing people things and captioned it “Rusty’s cousins.”
One user had posted:
Commission your own Rusty plush for $80 — DM me.
I rubbed my face. “Of course the grifters got here before the county did.”
That was when my phone buzzed.
A text from Sheriff McCready:
MEETING. NOW. ADMIN. BRING JAKE.
Those three words meant one thing:
I was about to lose brain cells in the conference room.
The admin building’s conference room looked exactly like the place where ideas went to die. Pale walls. Pale carpet. A table built in the 90s by someone who hated legs.
The commissioners were already seated. So was Sheriff McCready, who held a spiral notebook with grave determination.
Commissioner Hertel cleared his throat.
“We have a situation,” he said.
Jake whispered, “Understatement of the year.”
“Rusty has gained… attention,” Hertel continued. “More than expected. More than desired.”
“How much is more?” Bonilla asked.
Hertel turned his monitor around so we could all see.
The video had crossed 22,000 views.
In under two hours.
Jake made a noise like a squeaky drawer.
I said absolutely nothing, because sometimes nothing is the only safe option.
Bonilla clasped her hands. “So—what exactly is everyone saying?”
Jake opened his phone again. “Well… hashtags.”
Bonilla frowned. “What are those?”
“It’s like… um…” Jake began.
I cut in before he could dig a deep, fatal hole.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Hashtags are metadata labels,” I said. “They group content. They do not summon demons or start riots.”
“They can start trending events,” Jake added helpfully.
“Jake,” I warned.
He winced.
Commissioner Hertel clicked through the trending tag summaries.
#DumpsterBunnies was climbing. Steadily. Alarmingly.
“Why are they calling them bunnies?” Bonilla asked.
Jake raised a tentative hand. “Because… they’re cute?”
“They’re robots,” I said.
“Cute robots,” he countered.
McCready interjected. “Our primary concern is liability. The last thing we need is the impression that county equipment is—”
His eyes flicked toward the screen.
“—organizing.”
“They weren’t organizing,” I said immediately. “Rusty was pushing trash down a hill. That’s what robots do. They push trash.”
“While carrying a flag,” Hertel said.
Jake said, “It was rebar.”
“That is not better,” Bonilla replied.
McCready cleared his throat and spoke with the tone of a man reading from the Gospel of Legal Defensibility.
“I have drafted a preliminary statement.”
He handed out copies.
It read:
There has been recent public attention regarding Maintenance Unit BT4-07 ("Rusty"). We would like to clarify: no operational deviations, emotional behaviors, or autonomous intent should be inferred or implied from recorded footage. The actions observed were within normal parameters of County Sanitation Asset Movement.
I stared at it.
“This,” I said slowly, “is the least helpful thing I have ever read.”
“It avoids admitting fault,” McCready said.
“It also avoids admitting Rusty exists,” Jake whispered.
Hertel steepled his fingers. “Is this going to cause… problems?”
“Define problems,” I said.
He gestured helplessly at the screen. “Public interest. Questions. Maybe news outlets.”
Bonilla shuddered visibly.
“People are requesting tours of the facility,” Jake said quietly.
Everyone looked at him.
He held up his phone. “A lot of people.”
“Define a lot,” Bonilla said.
“Like… several hundred.”
I sat back. “No.”
“We could monetize it,” Hertel said brightly. “Tours, photos, maybe—”
“No,” I repeated.
Jake bit his lip. “It might not stop on its own.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I said.
The commissioners squabbled for a while about public messaging, brand positioning (Jake perked up at that part), and crisis response strategies, which would be hilarious if they weren’t paid to do it.
Bonilla asked if hashtags could be trademarked.
Hertel wondered if the county could license Rusty as a “regional mascot.”
Jake quietly asked me if Rusty could be made into a plush toy without violating procurement policy.
I said no.
He said, “What if it’s not official merch?”
I said, “That is worse.”
It was around this time someone pulled up live comments, which was a mistake. A user had posted:
I will drive to Valeroso County and shake Rusty’s hand.
Another replied:
Does he have hands??
Someone else answered:
METAPHORICALLY.
Several more debated whether Rusty should run for office.
Jake whispered, “He’d win.”
“No he wouldn’t,” I said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do.”
He refreshed again, winced, then turned his screen to me.
43,000 views.
I felt something inside my brain deflate.
“We need to take it down,” I said.
“It won’t stop it from spreading,” Jake said. “People have already downloaded it.”
He was right. Once something hits the bloodstream of the internet, it has no owner.
Eventually, all four commissioners stared at me simultaneously.
“Howard,” Hertel said, “you understand… technology. What should we do?”
I looked at the ceiling.
I considered my life choices.
I briefly imagined setting myself on fire.
Then I said, “We do nothing.”
Bonilla blinked. “Nothing?”
“Yes,” I said. “Nothing. No statements. No denials. Do not try to control the narrative. That will make it worse.”
“So we just let this… spread?” Hertel asked.
“Like wildfire,” Jake offered.
“Like an unfortunate breeze,” I corrected.
McCready tapped his pen thoughtfully. “We’ll have to file something.”
“You can file a non-statement,” I said. “Use vague language. Use passive voice. Say we are ‘aware of recent public discussion’ and ‘monitoring the situation.’ Do not mention Rusty by name.”
Jake raised his hand. “Too late for that.”
I groaned.
We were wrapping up when Jake startled, stared at his phone, and said in a very small voice:
“Oh no.”
Everyone froze.
“What now?” I asked.
He swallowed.
“Rusty… is trending.”
Bonilla gasped. Hertel swore softly. McCready looked like he wanted to lie down on the floor.
I took the phone from Jake, looked at the screen, and accepted my fate.
#DumpsterBunnies
#FlagBunny
#LilTrashHero
#LetHimSpeak
“Why ‘let him speak’?” I asked.
Jake shrugged. “People think he has something important to say.”
“He doesn’t,” I said.
“You don’t know that,” Jake said.
I closed my eyes.
Eventually, the commissioners settled on the worst possible action:More meetings.
They told us to “monitor engagement,” meaning I would have to watch the internet in real time while losing brain cells.
Jake tried to reassure me as we walked out.
“At least they like him,” he said.
“Jake,” I said calmly, “this is not liking. This is worship.”
“Well,” he said, “who wouldn’t worship Rusty? He’s brave. He’s round. He’s shaped like a friend.”
“He is shaped like a trash bin,” I corrected.
“Friends come in all shapes,” he said.
I didn’t have the energy to argue.
As we reached the VCIM office, Jake checked the video one more time.
His eyebrows climbed.
“Howard?”
“Yes?”
“We passed sixty thousand.”
I walked straight to the server room, closed the door, and quietly rested my forehead against the rack.
Somewhere outside, the world was falling in love with Rusty.
And I still had to fix a breaker panel.