It started with dog poop.
Specifically, an email about dog poop.

Subject line: “REMINDER: CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR PETS – THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING”

The threat? If people didn’t start picking up their dogs’ “business,” the complex would be forced to install 24-hour surveillance at the dog relief areas. The phrase “forced” was doing a lot of heavy lifting.

Most of us rolled our eyes, deleted the email, and continued living our lives under the unspoken but universal rule of apartment living: minimal compliance, maximum indifference.

Of course, the email made no mention of all of the out-of-repair air conditioning units throughout the premises. I had interacted with every one that had any task within the complex over the last few months over this very issue. Repairs were scheduled and rescheduled on a seemingly infinite loop. Our apartment was lodged with various cheap Walmart fans in various states of function in every room. Each one transporting a different volume of scalding hot air from one room to the next.

A few days later, another email arrived. This one was about kids “riding bicycles in an aggressive and reckless manner.” I wasn’t aware bikes could be emotionally aggressive, but apparently, the complex had been terrorized by several 9-year-olds doing mild donuts in the parking lot. Granted, there were a large assortment of children, almost like the lowest level of biker gang, but they were harmless. They were kids, and it was not a big deal.

Then came one about someone leaving gum in the grass, which seemed a little odd to say the least.

That’s when I began suspecting whoever wrote these emails had finally snapped. Like, fully. The kind of unraveling that starts with passive-aggressive sticky notes and ends with a manifesto written entirely in Comic Sans.

A week later, a new threat arrived in our inboxes:
“DUMPING OF FURNITURE AT GARBAGE BINS IS ILLEGAL – CAMERAS WILL BE INSTALLED IMMEDIATELY.”

This one felt different. Less disappointed PTA energy, more unhinged aspiring dictator.

Sure enough, two days later, the cameras appeared.
Except… not really.

They were plastic domes with flashing red LEDs, no wiring, no signal, no chance of actually doing anything. They were literally the first result when you search “fake surveillance camera” on Amazon. $35.99 for a four-pack, includes bonus “This Area Under Surveillance” signs written in Comic Sans. Again.

But the residents didn’t question it. They became quiet. Subdued. One neighbor even started throwing his trash out in a dress shirt, like he was going to be judged by a jury of raccoons.

I tried explaining the math to my fiancée.

“Real surveillance requires infrastructure. Networking. Power. Staff. You’d need a full operations center just to keep up with footage of Mrs. Patterson passive-aggressively throwing away recyclables in the wrong bin, or to audit each bowel movement of neighbor Jim’s poodle.”

She asked how much that would cost. So I built a budget:

• Equipment: $30k
• Staffing: $480k/year
• Round-the-clock dog poop monitors: priceless

“Conservatively,” I said, “this would destroy 90% of the complex’s profit margin. They’d have to evict everyone and convert the place into a CIA-funded training facility just to break even.”

She laughed and said, “You should write a blog about it,” clearly being sarcastic—but little did she know… Then went to sleep.

And that’s when I had an idea.

I made a flyer. Simple. Black and white. An ominous eye logo I found by Googling “dystopian vector PNG.” Headline:
“WE ARE WATCHING. CIVIC DUTY IS NOT OPTIONAL.”

I printed 20 copies at work because I believe in authoritarianism but not paying for toner.

I posted them in the mailroom, dog area, near the dumpsters. The response was immediate silence. No email. No cleanup crew. Just… tension.

So I made a second flyer. This one stated, very plainly, that on the upcoming Thursday, all pets must be crated between 9 AM and 5 PM for the installation of in-unit surveillance modules. It even had a fake logo for “Resident Intelligence Monitoring Program,” which—now that I think about it—abbreviates to R.I.M.P. I was hoping no one would notice. They didn’t.

Panic spread like wildfire.

The anti-surveillance resistance was born. A loose coalition of anxious dog owners and Reddit lurkers who began holding nightly meetings in the laundry room under the code name “Operation Tumble Dry.”

I joined, of course. Not because I wanted to stop it—I just wanted to see where it went. The punch was always memorable.

That Friday, a new email dropped:
“Any resident caught aiding or abetting organized resistance to complex operations will be in violation of Clause 7 of the lease agreement and subject to disciplinary action, up to and including mandatory relocation to the lower units.”

We don’t have lower units. Just an old boiler room and a series of storage areas where water heaters go to die. It was filled with a thick canvas of spiders, making it less than suitable for living and terrifying enough for me to never dream of storing anything there.

But people bought it. And the transformation began.

Within a week, the maintenance crew was issued matching olive-green windbreakers. They stopped fixing things and started… patrolling. The lease office now had a “Department of Compliance” placard on the door. All correspondence was suddenly signed by someone named Director Langley, who no one had ever seen or heard of before.

New signs went up:
“Unauthorized gatherings prohibited.”
“Report Unauthorized Walking.”
“Dumpster privileges are a privilege, not a right.”

A resident was publicly reprimanded for owning two cats but only registering one.

Next, they started issuing Complex IDs with resident names and unit numbers. You had to show them to receive packages or be out past the complex-mandated 6 PM curfew.

Some residents tried to leave. They were “discouraged.” Their tires slashed by mysterious forces. A car was mysteriously towed in the night and returned with his family of stickers on the rear removed.

Grocery delivery is now done through a complex-approved contractor called “ProvisionGate.” They wear vests and scan food for contraband (anything “crunchy” after 7 PM, per Regulation 8-C).

The apartment Facebook group was shut down. Replaced with an encrypted app called NeighborGuard. Invite-only. You had to name your favorite surveillance film to join. I said The Truman Show and was denied entry.

Now, a kind of uneasy equilibrium has settled.

Mailboxes are monitored.
The pool has been filled in and replaced with a reflection pond for self-reporting.
We salute the flag twice a day—drawn in chalk by a kid who I think is in charge of propaganda now.

And somewhere along the way… I stopped resisting.

I’ve grown to enjoy the structure. The order. The quiet sense of terror that keeps the hallways cleaner than they’ve ever been. I sleep better knowing every breath I take is potentially being audited by a retired substitute teacher turned compliance officer with a clipboard and vengeance.

But something’s coming.
Tensions are building again.
People are whispering.
The resistance is rebuilding.
Operation Spin Cycle is back on.

And this time?
I don’t know whose side I’m on.

The Government Responds

It all came to a head the day The Complex declared independence.

It wasn’t subtle. A large banner appeared hanging from the balcony of 8D, spray-painted in bold, shaky strokes:
“SOVEREIGN TERRITORY OF LIBERAPLEX — EST. 2025”

Underneath, someone had taped a handwritten list of new national holidays, including “Trash Purge Thursday” and “Mandatory Silence Day.” A few children were seen saluting.

That’s when CNN picked up the story.
The headline read:
“Gated Apartment Complex in Ohio Declares Sovereignty, Implements Surveillance-Based Government Structure.”

They interviewed a resident through the bars of her patio. She said, “Honestly, it’s not that bad. The trash gets picked up on time now, and we haven’t had a gum-in-the-grass incident in weeks.”

Fox News ran their own segment:
“PREVIOUS ADMINISTRATION ALLOWS DEEP STATE TO FORM INSIDE SUBURBAN APARTMENT COMPLEX — IS YOUR DOG NEXT?”

They showed drone footage of the fake dumpster cameras and labeled it “High-Tech Surveillance Hub.” A Domino’s driver was circled in red and labeled: “Possible Intelligence Asset.”

The White House issued a confused press release stating, “We do not currently recognize the legitimacy of Liberaplex as a foreign entity, nor do we condone rogue HVAC-based nations forming within U.S. borders.”

That’s when Liberaplex doubled down.

A new newsletter was distributed apartment-wide. It read:
“Effective immediately, all residents are subject to the Complex Constitution, ratified during last night’s emergency laundry room summit.”

Key articles included:

• Article II: No eye contact after 9 PM
• Article V: All grievances must be submitted in haiku format
• Article VIII: Only sanctioned pets may speak at assemblies

The Complex issued passports (laminated Walgreens receipts with resident names and their clearance level), introduced a national currency called the RentCoin, and renamed the pool-turned-reflection-pond to “The Ministry of Stillness.”

By now, the complex was under full siege. The local USPS stopped delivering mail after someone tried to tax the postmaster. Amazon drivers refused to cross the threshold unless accompanied by a “Complex Escort Officer.” Food deliveries had to be airdropped by drone, and even then, few made their destination due to an increasing population of trapped Uber Eats drivers who now scurried about in the night similar to a community of stray cats.

A guy in 2E set up a checkpoint in the breezeway with cones and a flashlight. He checks IDs. For what, no one knows. But we all show them anyway. It’s easier.

Federal agents eventually arrived, unsure of who was in charge. They were directed to the leasing office, now repurposed as “The Chamber of Civil Equilibrium.” Inside: one plant, two chairs, and an elderly woman known only as Grand Marshal Diane—the assistant property manager who started all of this by sending an email about dog poop and now wears a cape.

The standoff lasted six days.

National Guard helicopters circled the complex. The complex responded by aiming their garden gnome collection outward in defensive formation. An ultimatum was delivered via megaphone:
“STAND DOWN AND REINTEGRATE WITH THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA OR FACE EVICTION.”

Liberaplex countered with a PDF attachment titled “Terms of Surrender,” which included demands like:

• Free ice machines in all hallways
• Amnesty for all laundry-related war crimes
• And that the U.S. officially recognize “Crate Your Pets Day” as a national holiday

At one point, CNN reported we had launched a cryptocurrency. Fox News claimed the complex had a nuclear washing machine. MSNBC debated whether the rebellion was a metaphor. BuzzFeed published a quiz:
“Which Liberaplex Ministry Are You?”
(I got Ministry of Quiet Compliance. Felt accurate.)

And somewhere in the chaos—somewhere between the high-level negotiations and the heated HOA re-election debates—I realized something horrifying:
My air conditioning unit may never be serviced.

Perception

One morning, I woke up to a knock.

I opened the door. Two men in black suits. No logos. No ID. Just matching smiles and the aura of a discontinued government program.

“Are you the originator of Operation R.I.M.P.?” one asked.

I blinked. “What?”

“You uploaded the flyer. Tracked via printer ID. Congratulations. You passed.”

They handed me a silver envelope.

Inside: a job offer.

Department of Experimental Civic Engineering
Location: Undisclosed
Benefits: Full dental, 401k, access to classified neighborhood simulations

Turns out, I’d accidentally triggered a government psy-ops simulation designed to test how quickly a population would adapt to artificial authority.

The entire complex? Fake.
My neighbors? Actors.
Even my fiancée?

She walked out holding a clipboard.

“Congrats,” she said. “You made it to Phase Four. Most people break during the gum-in-grass email.”

I stared blankly as she pressed a button on her key fob.

The world… flickered.
The buildings pixelated.
The sky shimmered.

The entire complex folded in on itself like a bad PowerPoint transition.

I woke up in a clean white room. A suited man handed me a clipboard and said:
“Welcome to the team. We’re assigning you to a new project in a mid-tier HOA in Fresno. Your job: introduce aggressive recycling mandates and monitor sociopolitical breakdown.”

I blinked.
“Does it have functional air conditioning?”

He smiled and said sarcastically,
“Sure it does, buddy. Sure it does.”