When Ryan Williams’ prank on Alabama residents fails miserably, he is caught undercover.

Ryan Williams had always considered himself a master of mischief, a modern-day jester with a camera and a YouTube channel. His subscribers — over 1.2 million of them — lived for his elaborate pranks, some innocent, others skirting the edge of good taste. But Ryan didn’t care. He had followers to please, views to chase, and sponsors to keep happy.

That’s how he found himself driving a dusty rental car deep into the heart of Alabama on a sweltering April afternoon. His plan? Pretend to be a federal agent sent to investigate a fictional creature supposedly roaming the outskirts of a small town called Millridge. He called it the “Alabama Shadowcat.” Big, black, part-puma, part-panther, and allegedly supernatural.

He had a fake badge, a mock hazmat suit, a handheld Geiger counter that beeped at random, and a van filled with props—strange footprints, staged trail cam photos, and a taxidermy cat he’d painted jet black. The idea was to plant the story, stir up the locals, then do a dramatic reveal. Classic Ryan Williams.

But Ryan didn’t do his homework.

Millridge wasn’t like the other towns he’d played. There was no Starbucks, no Uber, no cell service beyond a weak 3G signal that blinked in and out like an old neon sign. And its residents didn’t take kindly to strangers snooping around, much less those flashing badges and talking cryptids.

The prank began smoothly enough. Ryan, clad in his fake government getup, stopped into the local diner, whispering to the waitress about “unusual sightings” near the creek. He wandered through the gas station, asking patrons if they’d seen any strange animals. Within a few hours, the whole town was buzzing.

“Government agent came by, said there’s somethin’ out there near Jasper Creek,” one man said at the barbershop. “Said it could be dangerous. Glowing eyes and all.”

The local Facebook page lit up. Ryan grinned as he sat in his van, watching the chaos brew through tinted windows.

But the tide began to turn.

Unbeknownst to Ryan, Millridge had had a rash of livestock killings a few months earlier—something no one had explained. And now, here came a “government agent” talking about dangerous wildlife. Sheriff Norma Tate, a no-nonsense woman in her early fifties with a reputation for sniffing out liars, didn’t like it one bit.

By sundown, she was at the diner asking for surveillance footage. By morning, she had a still image of Ryan removing his badge and stuffing it in his bag in the parking lot.

Ryan, blissfully unaware, was deep in the woods setting up a series of crude paw prints with a custom stamp. That’s when he heard the crunch of boots behind him.

“Freeze!”

He spun around to see two deputies flanking Sheriff Tate, who was holding up a screenshot of his YouTube channel on her phone.

“Ryan Williams,” she said coolly. “You’re not with any federal agency, and there’s no such thing as a Shadowcat. Care to explain why you’ve been scaring the hell outta half my town?”

Ryan tried to smile. “It’s just a prank. A video. Entertainment.”

Tate wasn’t amused. “Impersonating a federal officer’s a felony, son. And you’ve stirred up real fear. This town already had trouble.”

Back at the station, Ryan’s camera gear was laid out on a table like evidence in a drug bust. One deputy looked over his video logs while another read aloud from the script he’d drafted for the big reveal scene.

“You were gonna go to the church on Sunday and tell everyone it was a hoax?” Tate asked, arms crossed. “You think people here would laugh?”

Ryan, now stripped of his arrogance, shook his head slowly. “I—I thought it would be funny.”

“Funny?” she echoed, eyes narrowing. “We had kids not sleepin’ last night. One woman said her husband took the shotgun out ‘cause he thought it was back. You played with real fears, son. And for what? Clicks?”

By that evening, Ryan’s mugshot was posted on the same local Facebook page he’d used to stir panic. The caption read: “Not a federal agent. Just a fool.”

The internet was swift and merciless. His subscribers, once adoring, turned cold. Sponsors pulled out. The video, once uploaded under a cheeky title “Shadowcat in Alabama? Government Cover-Up?!”, was flagged and removed within hours.

But the real punishment wasn’t the court appearance or the community service. It was the day Ryan returned to Millridge, six months later, to apologize.

He stood in front of the town council, face pale, hands shaking, a script in his pocket that he never pulled out.

“I made a mistake,” he said. “I thought it was just a joke, but I realize now I disrespected you. Your town, your people, your history. I was wrong.”

There was silence.

Then Sheriff Tate stood, gave him a long look, and said, “You’re lucky you’re just going home with a record and not in the hospital. Millridge don’t take well to liars. But maybe you learned somethin’. Maybe.”

Ryan nodded.

And he had. His next video was a short, quiet one. Just him, no stunts, no script, sitting in his car looking out over a field.

“I’ve made a lot of content,” he said, “but this one’s for the people I fooled. I’m sorry. For real.”

It got 35,000 views — not viral, not even close. But it was honest. And for the first time, Ryan was okay with that.