Instead of a traditional welcome mat, Gerald's front door featured four big signs: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted, Beware of the Dog, This Property Protected By Zonal Security, and No Soliciting, Police Take Notice. There was no sculpted pineapple perched over the threshold, nor any other example of whimsical greeting to indicate gracious hospitality could be found inside. It was more of a fortress than a home. The kind of place where the basement was converted into a nuclear fallout shelter instead of a man-cave. Chez paranoia with two and half baths.
With some justification, you might describe Gerald's house as the domestic equivalent of a surveillance state, with closed-circuit television recording every nook and cranny. Visitors couldn't even escape his electronic eye by stepping into the backyard, as there were cameras hidden in the shrubbery, listening devices surreptitiously attached to the sprinkler system, and motion detectors triggered by every blade of grass. His neighbors called Gerald's garden gate 'Checkpoint Charlie,' and the mailman pretended to be a clandestine courier from some foreign power, delivering secret documents and fake passports to a dead letter drop.
'You can never be too careful these days,' Gerald declared, allowing his head to be scanned by facial recognition software, a necessary protocol before the reinforced steel doors to his living room would swing open. 'Take a seat. Drink?'
'Pepsi for me, please,' I replied.
'Sorry, I don't keep commercial beverages in the house. It's impossible to track the liquid's route from point of origin to final destination. Anything could happen to it during the journey: contamination, increased toxicity, even dilution.'
'Okay, I just have whatever you're having, then.'
'I only imbibe my own recycled urine, although I do risk adding a splash of aromatic bitters if I'm in a festive mood.'
'A glass of water?'
'Certainly, although it might take a while.' Gerald informed me. 'You see, I draw all my water by hand from a climate-controlled artesian well plumbed in a secret location on my property. I don't trust tap or bottled water. Nobody in their right mind would.'
'Oh, well, don't bother if it's that's much trouble. I'm fine.'
'Oh good,' he said with a sigh of relief. 'I have a contractor coming round in an hour with a quote to install barbed wire coils on my perimeter fencing. There is a block party on this street at the weekend and I want to make adequate preparations for any and all eventualities.'
It was not easy for me to gain admittance to Gerald's inner sanctum. Applicants were required to undergo a comprehensive vetting procedure that included submitting a written essay on their reasons for visiting, providing three forms of photographic identification, and be personally vouched for by two unrelated individuals known and trusted by Gerald for a period of at least five years, preferably longer.
In my case, the three IDs had been forged by council elders, two of Gerald's closest friends were bribed to endorse my application, and the essay was written by AI. It was a risky strategy but had worked. I had been allowed to gallop over Gerald's drawbridge and breach his defenses. Now it was time to get down to business.
'Your essay explained that you wanted to inquire about the Bouncy Prison on my lawn.' Gerald said, 'Well, it doesn't get much use because I have no children and other people's children are banned from the premises. But it's the same as a regulation Bouncy Castle except that you lock the kids in so they can't get out. I bought it on a whim in case the need should arise to incarcerate local brats while keeping them entertained until their parents arrive with the ransom money.'
'That is profoundly interesting. Thanks for giving me the lowdown.' I replied. 'But I do have one more question before I leave you to the barbed wire salesman. Have you heard the Good News of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ? This magazine The Watchtower has some really wonderful articles you might find particularly inspiring.'