Cashless Bail: A Meta Man Time Travel Thriller

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Cashless Bail

A Meta Man Thriller

Vincent Zandri

Y ou can bet that cashless bail will only embolden repeat offenders. These are the criminals who remain the greatest threat to public safety in the first place and letting them walk to victimize a community again is morally bankrupt.

— Patricia Wenskunas, Founder and CEO of Crime Survivors.

1

When Casey Smith woke up that morning in a big, comfortable, king-sized bed, he swore he never died in 2054. He never had to rob a bank for cash to live on, now that mystery writers or any writers for that matter, no longer made any money (or any meaningful-pay-the-bills kind of money, that is). They called it the democratization of the written word, and it put people like Smith out of business. 

Don’t ask him why, but as he lie in bed on his back staring at the ceiling, the writer was somehow keenly aware that he was living (if you want to call it that) during a time when the Steven Kings and the Gillian Flynn’s of yesteryear were still alive, still thrived as scribes, and attracted big crowds at bookstores (when brick and mortar bookstores still existed).

And even Casey Smith was a not an entirely anonymous writer in his day. He could still scrape his way through life writing mysteries and suspense stories without having to get a job or even without having to make his wife hunt down full-time employment.

The royalties were coming in monthly, and they were living in a nice house in the ‘burbs. Casey was lucky enough to be traveling to all sorts of beautiful and exotic countries like Italy and Vietnam to research his stories. The married couple laughed a lot, made love even more, and they never believed the world could come to a crashing end the way it had in the 2050s.

He’ll say it again. Don’t ask him how and why these were the thoughts that invaded his mind precisely when he woke up that morning, but there you have it. It was as if the thoughts or memories had been injected directly into his brain. Something that had been happening a lot lately now that he was convinced, he’d been living in the metaverse. But then, maybe he hadn’t been living in the metaverse but was instead the victim of some pretty bizarre but vivid dreams.

Whatever the case, on the morning that he woke up inside his home, his wife was already up and, in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. He knew this because he could smell bacon frying on the stove. Sitting up, he glanced at his smartphone phone. It was a heavier phone that he’d become accustomed to in the 2050s. A lot heavier and more rigid with buttons and icons that seemed quite primitive.

When he gazed at the date, Wednesday, March 10, 2020, a sinking feeling came over him. He was still the same man, Victor Casey—same middle-aged man, same five-feet-nine inch, one-hundred-eighty-pound build, same salt and pepper hair (or so he assumed) and same scruffy face.

But the reality of the matter was this: in 2020 he was only a twelve year old, seventh grade kid. He wasn’t an adult. Not by a long shot. He hadn’t killed anyone yet and been decapitated when he ran his car into the back of a semi during a cop chase immediately after robbing a bank.  

Who was he now, and why was he back in the metaverse? Did all those thoughts about writer’s still being rich and famous have anything to do with it? Only one way to find out.

He slipped out of bed and found that he was wearing a pair of boxers and a white short-sleeve Hanes T-shirt. He went to the bathroom without having to find his way (again, a memory most likely injected into his metaverse program), used the toilet, then brushed his teeth and washed his face. Gazing into the mirror, his suspicions were correct. It was 2020, but he was middle-aged Victor Casey. His receding hair was cropped, and it was more gray than black. He didn’t look anything like a twelve year old kid.

He didn’t feel like a kid either with his aching lower back.

Getting old sucks, my old man used to say, he said aloud.

He had no idea what his dad was talking about at the time. But now that he was getting on in years, even in the metaverse, he knew precisely what the old man was referring to. Exiting the bathroom, he noticed the smell of bacon was getting stronger. No, that’s not right. It smelled like it was burning.

Shit, Maureen must have left it on the stove while she went out to smoke, he whispered to himself while he threw on a pair of black trousers that were laid out on a chair set in the far corner of the bedroom.

How do I know her name is Maureen?

Speed-walking out into the corridor and into the adjoining kitchen, Casey Smith could see why the bacon was burning. Maureen was on the floor on her stomach. Sensing movement coming from a second person, he refocused his eyes on the dining room.

That’s when he saw the son of bitch who must have hit her. He was a home intruder and he was running for the back door.

2

First thing Casey Smith did was turn off the burner before the hot grease caught fire. Then, in his bare feet, he went after the intruder. He was acting on instinct. He was going for the sliding glass doors off the family room located just beyond the dining room. He pulled the door open (how many times did he tell Maureen to keep the doors locked. It was the age of Defund the Police and criminals were getting away with murder).

The intruder ran out onto the back deck, but Casey was gaining on him. Just before the criminal was about to jump off the wood deck, Casey made a leaping tackle like he used to do back when he played high school football, catching the intruder by the ankles. The intruder faceplanted on the grass. He was a white man dressed in jeans, combat boots, and a light orange turtleneck with the sleeves pulled up to the elbows. He was mostly bald and clean-shaven with a narrow face. He was above-average height but weighing maybe twenty pounds less than Casey. He was all tinsel strength. You could see it in his forearms. His veins were popping through the thin skin on his forearms, like a drug addict who preferred to inject his dope of choice rather than smoke it.

When Casey Smith flipped the bastard over, he looked directly into his blue eyes. The criminal tried to take a swing at him but missed. Casey positioned himself so that his knees were pressed against the criminal’s shoulders, pressing him against the ground, and rendering his arms useless. To say the rage had