Chapter Text
In what should be a quiet desert with nothing surrounding it other than blue skies, a pair of khaki-coloured pants float breezily through the air, like some pathetic makeshift kite. Slowly, the pants flutter to the pasture beneath, falling forgotten on the ground. That is until two seconds later when a huge wheel, attached to an RV plows over them with such speed, you’d think the driver had a vendetta against pants as a concept. It's an old 70's era Winnebago with chalky white paint and Bondo spots. A bumper sticker for the Good Sam Club is stuck to the back. There is a grey sweater vest tied to one of the rearview mirrors, and the door of the vehicle has several bullet holes in it. The Winnebago galumphs across the landscape, completely and utterly out of place.
Inside the van the driver’s hands are clinging white to the wall, his foot pressed completely flat to the gas pedal. He wears a gasmask and nothing else, other than a pair of white jockey underpants. The driver’s eyes are wide with fear behind the mask, and he is breathing heavily, looking frantically back at the scene behind him as he continues to drive. It’s clear why; the interior of the RV is a wreck. Beakers and buckets and flasks–some kind of chemical lab–spill their noxious contents with every bump he hits. Yellow-brown liquid washes up and down the floor, foaming around two suspiciously dead-looking bodies. The bodies tumble like rag dolls, bumping into each other. There’s also a huge wad of cash surrounding them–almost twenty grand by the looks of it. Beside the driver is a buckled-in passenger who is also wearing a mask. He’s much younger looking, no older than sixteen, he has blood streaming down his forehead onto his t-shirt. He’s unconscious and his head lolls around as the RV makes several ambitious turns. As he continues to drive, the man’s mask fogs up until it’s no longer possible for him to see.
The Winnebago comes roaring over a berm and down into a deep gully. Too deep. The front bumper bottoms out, burying itself, and the rear wheels spin air until the engine finally cuts off. There is silence. The door of the vehicle is suddenly kicked open, and the nasty brown soup that had been sliding around in the van trickles out along with the underpants man, who now yanks off his gas mask and lets it drop to the ground. He’s around thirty years old, with curly thick hair that looks like a briar patch. He's clearly not a guy who makes a living working with his hands. Nor a guy you’d pay attention to if you passed him on the street (unless you’re a Justin Timberlake fan), but right now, at this moment, in this pasture? Right now, you’d step the fuck out of his way.
He looks back at the RV and listens hard. Growing faintly in the distance, but still a few miles off, he can hear the sound of sirens. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then, taking a gulp of air to prepare, he leaps back into the RV, not daring to breathe in. A chrome 9mm is clutched in the hand of one of the dead men on the floor. The underpants man grabs it and tucks it into his waistband. His unconscious passenger, still strapped in his seat, lets out a groan. The man leans past him, yanking open the glove box and coming up with a wallet and a tiny Sony camcorder. Then, the underpants man ducks back out of the RV, finally allowing himself to breathe again. He gulps down the air, and then, remembering the sweater vest tied to the mirror, he puts it on. To his dismay, his pants are missing. The sirens are getting louder.
The underpants man figures out how to turn on the camcorder. He twists the little screen around so he can see himself in it. Framing himself waist-up, he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then presses record, and begins to talk.
“My name is William Michael Schuester. I live at 20 Apple Blossom Lane Lima, Ohio. I am of sound mind. To all law enforcement entities, this is not an admission of guilt. I'm speaking now to my family,” he swallows hard, “Terri… you are… the love of my life. I hope you know that. I should have told you things, I should have said things. But I love you so much. And our unborn child. And I just want you to know that these… things you're going to learn about me in the coming days. These things. I just want you to know that… no matter what it may look like… I had you in my heart.”
The sirens are wailing now. William Schuester, the underpants man, turns off the camcorder and carefully sets it on a bare patch of ground by his feet. Next to it, he sets his wallet, lying open on his ID where it can be seen. Will’s smiling face is on it. It identifies him as a teacher at William McKinley High School, Lima, Ohio. Will pulls the chrome pistol from the back of his waistband, aiming it across the tall weeds. It glints hard in the sun. Flashing red light bars speed into view, skimming the tops of the weeds. Heading straight for him. Will stands tall in his underpants, not flinching, ready to shoot the first cop he sees.