Thank you. I tend to like the oddball/creepy ones!

Let me tell you about my favorite case ever.

These people were the worst. Whole rich ass family went down on their luxury yacht somewhere off the coast of Malibu.These people. Quite deserving of the tortures of hell. Sweatshop owners. Human exploiters. Republicans. And don't even get me started on their personal lives.

Anyway they were filthy rich and imagined themselves tasteful, but in fact they had no taste whatsoever. Which is to say they had very bad taste, But could occasionally pay someone with taste to provide them with certain kinds of advice. I promise, it's relevant.

You see what they demanded was high society. They wanted a whole bunch of rich asshole friends to socialize with. And they wanted everyone. To have "immaculate, elegant" taste and style.

You know. Like they imagined that they had.

So. For once I made something exactly to order. Exactly. A whole glimmering set of stylish erudite jet setters. Power brokers with money and taste. For my victims to pal around with.

And I'm sure you can predict what happened. They found themselves wildly inadequate. They found their own dilettante level of exploration of art and taste and culture to be an embarrassment. They were shunned from this group they created for their enjoyment. Forever humiliated. Forever outcast.

They have spent decades plotting and scheming, trying to regain entry into the popular social group. So far they have failed every time.

Honestly, with a few tweaks I feel like I could license this one to HBO. Because they are STILL going at it. I will admit, I check in on this one more than the job requires.

Don't get me wrong, there's plenty of work I've done here that I'm very proud of. But this one. Chef's kiss!

I

"Okay. Explain this to me again. You think that your mailman proves that we're all living in a simulation."

"Yes."

"And that your mailman was a non-player character."

"Yes!"

"And that's why you killed him?"

The man laughed. He looked terrible under the harsh light in the "interview" room. Tired. Greasy. And yet his laughter sounded genuine.

"Don't worry. I've killed him lots of times. He won't stay dead."

"He won't stay dead? How do you-"

"Look, I know it sounds crazy. Ok? So, you know, spare me that part. Fast forward? Half of me hopes that I really am crazy and that he really is actually dead this time. If he is, go ahead and put me in the loony bin or jail. Or do whatever you want with me I guess. I just can't take it anymore."

"But you think. What? He's going to be resurrected? I've seen the man's body. He is dead."

"I don't know. Whenever I have killed him before it's always ended up being Sunday."

"You killed him on a Sunday?"

"I don't know. But no I always end up killing him on a Saturday. It's hard to explain. I've killed him before. And stayed awake. I watched his spot. And he didn't reappear all day and I thought that I had finally killed him for real. But then it turned out it was Sunday and the mail just doesn't come on Sunday. But I didn't realize that and went to sleep on Sunday night. And on Monday he was back again. Right in his spot. And the weird part is no matter what day I think it is when I kill him, it always ends up having been a Saturday."

"Wait, slow down. His spot?"

"Yes. His spot. The funny thing is I've lived in this house for several years and I never saw him there before. I guess it's possible he was there for quite a while before I noticed, I don't hang out in my front yard a lot and it's pretty big.

Anyway. Yes. He has a spot. I first noticed him there during the COVID lockdown. Because I was trying to clean up my yard. And there he was, my mailman. Just standing there in my front yard staring off into the distance. I asked him how he was doing and kind of tried to hint that it was weird that he was there, but he didn't seem to get the hint. At all."

He paused, staring off into the distance himself.

"He never gets the hint."

"So you killed him because he wouldn't leave your yard? Did you ever actually ask him to leave? Beyond hinting?"

"Oh yes, absolutely. Before the first time I killed him. I yelled and screamed and threatened him with a baseball bat. A baseball bat that I eventually beat him with. He begged me to stop, but when I told him just to get up and leave he wouldn't do it. He got up, stood right back in his place, and just stared off into the horizon again. And then 20 minutes later, he delivered my mail. As if nothing had happened."

The prisoner shook his head.

"The next day, all his wounds were gone. It was really as if I had dreamed the whole thing."

"Sir I have to ask you. Are you currently taking any psychiatric medication? Have you or any family members ever been diagnosed with schizophrenia, anything like that?"

"No, never anything like this."

The detective seemed to take a few minutes to ponder. Then, as if a machine clicking to a logical conclusion, he stood up.

"Okay then. Well I take it you're not denying that you killed Mr. Smith."

"His name was Smith? What was his first name?"

"You never asked him?"

"Oh I asked him! Funny thing was he had names for his kids and his wife that he would tell me about all the time. But when I asked him his own name, he would laugh and say "oh, I'm just the mailman."

"That's funny. The file here just says Mailman Smith. I guess they haven't ID'd him yet either."

The prisoner began to laugh again.

"What will you bet me that that comes back as his real actual name?"

The detective paused. He looked at his prisoner, and for the life of him not being able to believe that this man was in the grips of any delusion or fantasy.

"Bet you? I don't know. What kind of a wager would you like?"

"If you don't get a real name for this guy by 5:AM. A name that's not Mailman Smith. Then you have to bring me back to my house tomorrow morning. At 6:00 a.m. Or whenever the Sun comes up, apparently."

"And why would you want that?"

"Because. I finally got a police officer to take interest in this. I want you to see him reappear in his spot. His spot in my yard."

"You've tried to report this to the police before?"

"Oh yes. Dozens of times. I've also called the post office. Nobody seems to be able to do anything about it. People say they will send someone but no one ever comes."

"And you're not worried about the Saturday thing?"

"No. I waited an extra day before I called you and reported myself for murder. "

The detective paused. Thought.

"You say you've reported this before? There has to be a record of that."

The prisoner stopped laughing, stopped smiling. Looked the detective dead in the eye.

"Yeah, you would think so, right?"

II

"I can't believe I'm actually doing this. Tell me again what you expect to happen here."

"Honestly, I can't believe you're doing it either. You must not be part of the simulation."

The detective looked at him. The prisoner smiled.

"Hey, I know what I sound like. I might as well just roll with it right?"

The detective, clearly conflicted, chose not to engage. Instead he repeated the question.

"Sunrise at 5:58 this morning. What are you expecting to happen?"

"It's hard to describe. I've only watched him spawn a few times."

"Spawn?"

"Yeah, just like a video game. You know the place in the game where you appear each time you get killed?"

"It's always the same spot?"

"Are you sure you're a detective? Like a police detective? Yes I'm sure. Always in the same spot as I've told you about 15 times now."

"Where's the spot?"

"You see that tree over there? About 10 or 15 yd further in from the fence directly between us and that tree. That's where he appears.

"Kind of in the shadows that tree at sunrise?"

Exactly. The world will light up a little bit before you'll actually be able to see him. And for a while it will seem like he's not there and then it will seem like maybe there's something there but you can't tell what it is. For like just a few seconds. And then something will distract you and when you look back he'll just be there."

"Something will distract me?"

"Always does. Or at least always has so far. Some weird thing. Like a bird flying into my window. Once, it was a car alarm going off down the street. Something. And then when I attention returns to that space. Voila! Mailman Smith is back in action."

"And you think his body is going to disappear from the morgue."

"You set up the camera right?"

The officer sighed.

"I did not. As it turns out, setting up a camera in a morgue is considered creepy behavior and requires much paperwork."

"Well. Then it will just be your word against everyone else's. Welcome to my hell."

There was a moment of silence, both men watching the early morning light creeping into the yard.

"Hey. Is that what you're talking about? I do think I see something near that tree. Maybe it's just a shadow. No I think it's just a shadow, never mind."

"No, that's him. He'll be along in just a moment now."

"Well I'm not going to let anything distract me, I'm keeping my eyes right on that-"

Suddenly, the detective's phone rang. He pulled it out, annoyed. He hit the silence button and roughly shoved it back into his pocket. And when he looked back at the spot.

"...my god. Is that? It. It can't be."

"It's Mailman Smith." Said the prisoner in the passenger seat, deadpan. "In the flesh. So to speak."

The detective looked at him. The prisoner looked back.

"So. How about you take these cuffs off now, detective?"

"I can't. I can't just. I'm. I'm a detective. This isn't. I." The detective stammered and looked around in a panic.

"Oh no. Oh holy shit no. Fuck. FUUUUCCCKKK!! Detective. What is your name?"

"I'm not. I. I can't. Jones. Detective Jones. My name is Detective Jones."

"God. Sweet mother of fucking God. Detective, what is your first name?"

Oh. Oh No. I'm. No. I'm not. It can't be. I'm just. I'm just...Oh. Oh. Oh...

His eyes went wide.

"I'm just the detective."

Edit: a few words

I have worked on camp Pendleton. There's nothing here that describes the base in any kind of an opsec way that's accurate or usable.