This story is set in Trismegistus Shandy's A Raid and a Rescue universe.

https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/fiction/57362/raid-and-rescue...

Thank you, Trismegistus Shandy, for encouraging me to write in your universe.

Our hero was minding his own business when he ended up getting framed for a crime that he did not commit.

How can he escape? How can he get justice? After all, the psychopath that framed him isn't likely to be satisfied with just one victim.

Life sucks. I mean, it really sucks.

It all started when I was listening to some of my favorite musicians on YouTube.

I've sung in the church choir, barbershop quartets, garage bands, and the like. I never tried to be 'discovered' by the music industry because I never really thought it was possible. And I wasn't confident that I was good enough to stand out.

Back them, if you wanted a successful music career, you had to work hard to get discovered by some major label. Then, you were mostly at their mercy.

Now, you can put your music out on YouTube.

If you're good enough, and you are seen by enough people, your videos will start to be noticed and your views will grow exponentially.

Not long ago, I discovered some channels that featured some really talented singers. I especially liked the young people who were raised with music and learned from a very early age how to sing and play. It was a welcome change from the commercial offerings.

I found some music that really soothes my soul.

I was relaxing after a long, hard day when my door was busted down. I found myself staring down the weapons of a SWAT team.

I cooperated. What else could I do? But I definitely planned on bringing down the whole weight of the law -- not to mention my own lawyers in a later suit for pain, suffering, and damages.

But it was worse than that.

I had been set up.

To make a long and very painful story long, I was convicted of possession of child pornography.

But I didn't have a single bit of it. Not a single image.

But when have the facts ever mattered?

They vacuumed my computer clean.

They found some underage erotica on some web sites that I have visited. The fact that I actually submitted my own fiction to the site was more damning. There was no evidence that I even read the underage fiction, let alone submitted my own.

Not that reading and writing the stuff is illegal. After all, Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita is freely sold and read.

There is some really explicit and gruesome stuff available freely on the Internet. Unless the image is an actual photo of an underage person, or is recognizable as a real kid, the first amendment allows it to exist -- at least in America.

The only reason that child pornography is illegal is because you have to hurt real children to produce it. Certainly, that is sufficient justification for an exception to the first amendment.

If it is nothing but words or drawings, and if it doesn't show the recognizable face of an actual person, you can have all you want.

But I had none of that.

But the web sites that I frequent and submit work to sometimes did.

Guilt by association.

Sure, my lawyer objected every time the prosecution tried to use the contents of my computer against me, but the jury had seen some of the worst images.

Some of sites were havens where lgbt people could find a safe place to chat. The prosecution tried to use that against me.

I am strongly pro lgbt rights.

The prosecution used that against me.

The judge ordered the jury to disregard all of the irrelevant information, but it was still in their heads. They still wanted to find a reason to throw 'that damn pervert' into jail.

And that's what they did.

Of course, my fellow inmates somehow found out why I was there.

"So, you wanna be a bitch? C'mere, bitch!"

The less said about that, the better.

A man's worst nightmare is to be falsely accused of rape.

Almost.

What's worse is to be falsely accused of pedophilia.

I plan on appealing. There are so many things that constitute a mistrial that I should have little trouble getting the conviction thrown out.

That is, if the appeals hearing isn't as corrupted as the original trial.

And even so, I'm as likely to have to be tried again as I am to simply be set free.

And even if I'm set free, the court of public opinion is against me.

Yeah. "OJ got off."

All through the trial, I had the distinct possibility of jail hanging over my head.

But I still saw the news of people disappearing.

Actors disappeared. Children playing make pretend disappeared. People playing tabletop role playing games disappeared. Even some video gamers disappeared.

They came back after getting killed in their alternate pretend reality, so we were able to hear all of the stories.

And I heard more on that damn radio in a clear plastic case that I bought from the prison commissary.

And then, just to rub salt into my wounds, the person responsible for all of my troubles decided to visit me in prison and taunt me. He didn't say anything that I could use to prove my innocence, but he made it clear that he was enjoying his revenge. He was paying me back for having won the contract to design some industrial equipment. He, of course, got the contract after I had been convicted.

Nobody loves me. Everybody hates me. I guess I'll go into the garden and eat worms.

Except I don't have access to any garden, worms, or even dirt. Instead, I'm in solitary confinement 'for my protection.'

So now I don't even get to listen to my damn clear-cased radio.

I could do nothing but think. Think and dream.

I envied those girls I listened to on my computer. They sung and played like angels. I wish I had grown up in a time when my parents could teach me music from early childhood, record me, and post my music on YouTube.

Their lives may not be as idyllic as they look, but they're surely better than the hell I'm living. Their lives are also better than the life I had as a successful but lonely engineer.

While I was stewing in that tiny cell, I started dreaming what life would be as Jadyn Baker, a talented nine year old singer, pianist, and guitar player.

So I made a character sheet in my mind.

I wasn't playing a game, so I didn't have to roll the dice to determine my stats. I could max them out without having to justify it to anyone. I wasn't writing a story that required that I build some weakness into my protagonist or create some painful conflict. I could make a fairy tale. I could turn my life into a fairy tale.

So I did exactly that.

I built up the stats, talents, and backstory of Jadyn Baker. I also created a character sheet for Arnold Himmler, the person convicted of the indecent assault and attempted rape of Jadyn Baker.

I went over the backstory in my mind. I memorized my stats. I memorized the backstory and stats of Arnold.

I had the time.

I went over all of the details. I fleshed them out. I waited.

Eventually, uncle Arnold came to taunt me again.

That's his new name. He will forever be known by that name.

The prison guards put the chains on me.

It felt like fifty pounds of chain -- a short chain connecting my feet, which which was connect to a longer chain, which was connected to the short chain connecting my writs.

I was led into the interview room for my visit.

"What do you want, Uncle Arnold?" I asked him. "Haven't you caused enough trouble? You need to take your medicine and pay your debt."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked.

"You know what I'm talking about. It's a good thing my dad walked in, or you would have raped me! And no, I'm not going to try to convince the court to parole you early! You can sit and rot, you filthy pervert!"

He looked confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"First you try to rape me, then you act all innocent and cuss at me? You can..."

I expected a flash or a poof sound or something as I was transported into a new reality. Instead, I suddenly felt lighter. The chains disappeared and my viewpoint lowered.

I looked at my hands. They were slight and slender. I was wearing a long demure dress. Arnold was wearing chains and prison fatigues.

I gave him a smirk and got up. I felt incredibly light on my feet.

"I think I'm done here. And I don't think I want to come back. Uncle Arnold can just sit here and rot for all I care."

The memories from my carefully crafted backstory were there. They didn't flood in or anything dramatic. They were just there.

I went back to the waiting room and hugged my mom and dad.

"Come on, Jadyn. If we hurry, we can get some piano practice in before dinner."