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The ones you can fix with duct tape.
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The ones you can fix with duct tape and a strongly worded memo.
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And the ones that begin with a cheerful corporate email containing the words “public relations initiative.”
BiOnyx had, with admirable confidence and catastrophic accuracy, chosen door number three.
Overnight, the internet had fallen in love with the Dumpster Bunnies.Hashtags bloomed.Children cried.A teenager made fan art.Someone knitted a hat for Rusty.
And that was before the PR team even checked their inbox.
By the time they drove into Valeroso County, clutching their brand guidelines and optimistic smiles, the situation was no longer “manageable.”
They just didn’t know that yet.
I knew the day was going sideways when Sheriff McCready arrived at the transfer station holding a cardboard box labeled:
MEDIA LIAISON MATERIALS — DO NOT MISPLACE
Boxes with aggressive capitalization rarely contain anything I want.
“Morning, Howard,” he said.
“That’s unconfirmed,” I replied.
He set the box on my desk.“It’s time.”
“For what?”
“BiOnyx. PR division.”A beat.“They’re upstairs waiting for you.”
I blinked.“Me? Why me?”
“You’re the technical liaison.”
“I’m the county’s involuntary robot babysitter. That’s different.”
Before he could argue, someone knocked. The kind of knock used by people who assume the room they’re entering belongs to them.
In marched three individuals:
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The Audit Leader, who now looked like he’d aged six fiscal quarters,
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A woman with a badge reading CORPORATE COMMUNICATIONS,
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And an intern holding a clipboard like it was a flotation device.
“Mr. Anxo,” the Communications woman said brightly, “thank you for meeting with us. We’re here to coordinate a unified public narrative.”
“I see,” I said, which was technically correct and emotionally neutral.
She laid out glossy folders full of brand colors and smiling families.Always a bad sign.
“Our concern,” she said delicately, “is that the public has developed significant… emotional attachments to the units.”
“Children cried yesterday,” the intern blurted.
Everyone stared at him.
He ducked behind the clipboard.
The PR lead cleared her throat.“To avoid confusion, we’ll be announcing the BT4 recall today.”
Sheriff McCready winced like he’d been hit with a taser.
Jake wandered in from the side office, already making the face he reserves for impending disasters.
I folded my arms.“You’re going to announce that during Thanksgiving week? Bold choice.”
She ignored that.
“We’ll be retrieving the units and performing a full reformat.”
“A hard reformat?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“In front of the public?”
“Yes.”
Jake sucked in air through his teeth.“Oof. That’s gonna land like a forklift on a tricycle.”
The PR woman frowned.“Is there a… phrasing concern?”
I stared at her.
“If you tell kids you’re wiping Mr. Trashy’s memory, they will not take that well.”
“He is a sanitation device.”
“He is a beloved sanitation device,” Jake said. “There’s a difference.”
The PR woman turned a shade paler.“We’ll emphasize malfunctions.”
McCready snorted.“This county doesn’t understand malfunctions. It understands bake sales.”
She soldiered on:“We’ll explain that the units are exhibiting emergent behavioral instability—”
Jake made frantic throat-slashing gestures.
“—and we need to correct it.”
“Ma’am,” Jake said, “you tell a kid you’re ‘correcting’ Mr. Trashy and you’re basically telling them you’re ‘sending him to live on a farm.’ They’re not gonna fall for that.”
The intern nodded solemnly.
The PR lead pinched the bridge of her nose.“What exactly do you recommend we say?”
I leaned back in my chair.
“Something soft. Something friendly. Something that won’t make the front page of every local Facebook group.”
A new notification pinged on all our phones.
We looked down in unison.
Twitter, Facebook, and TikTok were all lighting up.
The PR woman swallowed.“…What does #HandOverTheHoppers mean?”
Jake peered at his screen.“People organizing. Quickly.”
“How quickly?” she whispered.
McCready answered.“Faster’n you can hold a press conference.”
The intern whimpered softly.
I steepled my fingers.“Welcome to Valeroso County.”
Another notification buzzed on my phone.Then another.Then three more.
I checked the first one.
A new photo of Rusty, sitting happily in someone’s driveway, covered in homemade Thanksgiving-themed stickers applied by two very determined toddlers.
The caption read:
IF THEY TOUCH HIM, WE PROTEST.
I closed my eyes and exhaled.
“Alright,” I said quietly. “Better put on another pot of coffee.”
This was only the beginning.