The Journal of Loose Ends

I am deviating a bit today from my role as liaison for the specie’s Archive to deliver some very exciting news, so exciting that I simply have to let everyone know, whether they care not. I found out today, that I am a secret agent!

I hear you snickering; I know, my identity isn’t secret anymore. Normally, I would be laughing with you, but this was a secret kept even from me, and as I now know, I am a clever, dangerous, devious, talented agent of evil.

I am loath to imagine what creature possesses the malevolent power and mastery of subterfuge to hide this monstrous state of affairs from the likes of me. As far as I know, a sinister spy- master still directs me from the shadows, and even this public declaration may not thwart his or her intention to use me as a counter-counterinsurgency agent against the masked heroes now cleansing our city streets.

At this point, I know that many of you have navigated away from this message. I’m quite sure that I know who you are. Watch your backs. Cheers to the rest of you who persist in reading this, I know that many of you must think I’m mentally ill. I would have thought the same mere hours ago, were I standing in your shoes.

I cannot doubt my sanity now, however, because high level government officials have just confirmed my identity in a nationally televised event.

To provide you with the necessary background, I confess that I don’t watch much television, and when I do, I avoid the news, especially live, breaking news. Imagine my surprise, when a live round table event caught my eye today as I was scrolling through the various video channels at lunch.

On the screen, Donald Trump sat flanked by two women who affected the current regime’s standard bimbo regalia. Such scenes are hardly unusual. Yet one of the women was talking as Trump listened. She kept talking long after the president or one of his male lackeys should have stepped in and talked over her. As I recovered from my shock, I began to understand the report she gave and its implications for me.

I realized she was the Atty. Gen. of the United States. She was explaining a new policy aimed at stamping out the burgeoning flames of domestic terrorism that have someone, somewhere in this great country, huddled in the basement with their good Christian family gripping their good Christian AR-15, and praying for rescue. She read off something that sounded like a law, though the legislature has not been around to pass any laws for at least a week.

I may be confused because I lost track of her presentation after she dropped two stunning details. The edict called out Antifa by name and marked the terrorist organization for destruction.

I ran to the closet and, after a breathless search through the piles of clothes in the back, I found the hat I had purchased two or three years ago. Right there on the front, it had the double flags and the motto “antifaschistische aktion”. The words belonged to the Iron Front or one of the other resistance groups that failed to bring down the Third Reich.

I couldn’t recall why I bought the hat. It was around the time I ran into a couple of old acquaintances from undergrad. I never liked those guys, but they were friends of my friends, so I did my best to get along.

They owned a couple of berets a piece and at least as many Che Guevara T-shirts. They wore Doc Martens and had chains attached to their wallets. They talked a lot about Marxism and seemed to have a superficial understanding of 2 to 3 political philosophies each. They went to protests on occasion. Based on their demeanor surrounding those events, the protests seemed boring and futile.

I only saw them happy afterwards on two occasions. The first was when one of them got tear gassed, and the second was when they met a PIB who had broken some windows in Seattle and fought with the cops. He encouraged them to show up at the next protest. He would be there with some other friends, he told them, and they should bring motorcycle helmets to protect their eyes and ears from teargas canisters and rubber bullets.

Their exuberance lasted until the next day, when they realized that neither of them had a motorcycle helmet and even the two of them together could not afford to buy one. I think I bought the hat to show some solidarity, because it made me feel bad to see them looking so down.

I always felt a little funny about the hat, hence its position at the bottom of the seasonal clothes pile. I thought it was because I didn’t really understand what the symbols and the German words meant. After hearing from the Atty. Gen. and the Dir. of Homeland security today, I understand that I was wrong.

I am a sleeper agent. I picked up the hat because of my programming, and I sequestered it in the closet under the mountain of clothes to keep it safe until the day I needed it – the day of my activation.

It’s been all afternoon now, and I haven’t heard from anyone. I haven’t noticed any new powers or hidden memories coming to the fore. For the last few hours, I’ve been trying to find someone in the organization to give some guidance. I can’t find anyone. No one seems to know of any headquarters, secret Internet connections, contact persons or front organizations.

I’m beginning to get frightened. I hope I have not done something wrong. I’ll do whatever it takes to get back in your good graces, any of you Antifa operators who are out there reading this right now. I sure as hell want to be on your side in the coming struggle between you and the secret police led by the president’s cunning bimbos.

With your impenetrable organization, fanatical membership sworn to secrecy, and your diabolical patience, you will be the spooks who end up on top.

P.S. – If you need to take your mind off things, buy my book!
Summa Totalis. I have two copies per day over the next 10 days to give way as well. Leave a comment here, or message me at http://www.summatotalis.com