Fury Road (Bushwhacker)

My name is N. 
My world is fire and blood. 
I am a man reduced to a single instinct. 
To fuck.

You ravaged my world, my little Furiosa, as you passed me in that intersection so I had to give chase. Yea, I ran a cyclist off the road. Right smack dab into a group of small children gathered in some sort of huddle. Maybe it was a prayer circle - but who gives a fuck.

I weaved in and out of traffic, jumped curbs and medians, cut off a truck who then had to slam on his brakes. . .a lovely day really. You know, I'm glad several cars behind him all fender bender-ed into his ass. Unlike me, he was a road raging narcissist! 

My road to redemption however detoured through your love tunnel. After several blocks of going through alleys, up one ways the wrong way and cutting through abandoned lots, I became lost. Basically my sex life writ large.

But then I saw you make a turn and I gunned it through the red light and over those pesky, orange drums. What purpose, other than cluttering up my rear axel do those god damn things serve anyway?

We never did actually make eye contact, which, of course only heightens your desire. I know you felt me. I mean I drafted you like a Nascar veteran on a Mexican speed ball. Witness me for I ride eternal, shiny, and chrome! 

I admit, when our bumpers rubbed briefly, I jizzed. A lot. So hard, in fact, that my cock ring popped off and so I sullied my new plaid boxers.

Sadly, the construction sign that I was dragging finally took its toll on the Honda interceptor. The cones wedged in the wheel well certainly didn't help. And I have no idea how a 10 speed got wrapped around my rear differential. I mean, those selfish fuckers have bike lanes. Long story short, I missed our connection. 

I know that you or someone like you is just waiting for me to jump from a moving car, onto your hood and straight into your, more than statistically probable: bald, bang-me-hole. 

Where must we go, we who wonder this wasteland in search of the better, the untrimmed, the untamed, the wild, the 1970's porn bushy, hairy V-JJ? Seriously. Shave your pits, shave your legs, hell, shave your head; its all sexy. Just leave that moist, poon-tang paradise a jungle for once in your pathetic, meaningless, ankle tattooed, sleep aided, banal array of a bourgeoisie philistine life. 

And when I find that overgrown, forested clam gash. . . it will be a lovely day. Oh what a lovely day!

N.

The Vulva Cherry Receptacle (POV)

 

Every morning you first stop at your employer's mailbox. Both boxes, your hot one and the mail are in the direct line of sight from my work.

Do you see me a mere 300 yards away? Pressed up to the glass, drooling? Do you notice my jean's zipper stressing from the pressure of my viagra intensified, bulging girth of man excitement?
Of course you do, how could you not?

I never tire of these rendezvous. I've come to need them actually. The way you gracefully navigate the short distance, from your vehicle to the package receiver, and then back. Radio blaring, cell phone pressed to your face, hands pulling at a just-too-short skirt. A multi-tasking love goddess. I feel like I've known you my whole life.

Speeding away to your designated parking takes you out of my view. And so even though alarms are sounding in my production area, and the ruling economic order's hooligans are yelling at me, I walk outside and pretend to get something from the Honda. I stare as you effortlessly carry in purse, bags, folders, coffee, fruit, yogurt, makeup, mace, iPad, charger, mirror, and what looks like a curling iron and a World War II era mine clearing device. All with that short-stepped, crouched, high heel walk that I have come to adore and memorialize in several intense jerk sessions while standing at the urinal.

Yes! I am the guy several hundred feet away now, with a wet spot next to my zipper. I know you sense me, especially when I trip over that one pothole in the middle of the lot. Every. God. Damn. Time. Do you see my reflection in the glass doors as you enter, or maybe in that giant phone still pressed to your face?

I know you long for me. One day I will muster the courage to leave a long, stiff note in that humid, dented box of yours. The one you fondle with every morning because the flap is loose and won't stay closed like it used to. It's ok. As I know how to work an exhausted, burnt out, cock locker of a delivery snatch back into a spurt-sauce gushing, proud pudendal slit bunker once more.
But now the coke machine vending lady is pulling up and I am over you. . . distracted.

N.

Aphrodite's Spell (Desoto Annex)

[Names have been changed to protect the *guilty*. To ensure there fate rests solely in my hands.]

Pan gave Echo something I never could. Children. Not her own of course but children none the less. It also pains me greatly to say that they shared a deep love and respect for music. They always did. Pan and I worked together over the years and I was clueless to the lust he held for my Echo.
By worked for - I hope you perceive of the less than legal sort. Being wrapped up in myself, as usual, I missed the connection.

What she could not know was that I was a pawn in Pan's elaborate scheme. I was taking the fall for his crime thinking at the time that he was helping me. So to make a long story short, he got the loot, the girl, and my downfall.
But he also got my full attention.

Echo, feeling betrayed by my seemingly less than zealous commitment to leave the criminal life behind found solace in all the wrong, ironic and ultimately deadliest of places. If you ask me he also put her in a trance. Truth is the trance was mine alone. Always in my own head, the object of my desire never took a material form, never properly "existed", instead she seems always to "insist". The realization brings no comfort. It is the abyss that stares back.

But before I could get to him, I had to survive my time inside. Kentucky thought it best to keep me alive by sending me to Arcadia in the Everglades. But Pan's people are everywhere and so it should come as no surprise to you that he helped orchestrate that move as well. Even running away means playing into his hand.
And so the only road to redemption is back through the way you came. That meant taking down two brothers. Pan's men inside. Henchmen of the finer sort. A handful.

Paniskoi (nicknamed Little Pan) and Faunus (nicknamed The Oracle).

'Cleaning' them and escaping Arcadia is what ultimately unleashed Nemesis. But that story is for another day. Who is Nemesis you ask?
Allow me to quote Bricktop, who said it best. "A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent." Personified in this case by one horrible cunt. Nemesis.

N.

My Love is all Gonorrhea (Flaring up, Again)

I'd love to start this by saying I missed you but, we all know thats just not true. I rarely think of others. Thinking about me is a full time job, no, make that career. Even when I do include you in my thoughts its only to determine how I am being perceived by someone like you.
I traffic in types.

An exhausting profession if there ever was one. Controlling your image of me. Please appreciate the nuance here: What I actually do, if I for instance in my daily actions even match the image I cultivate so painstakingly, matters little. Whether I actually know Kung Fu is irrelevant you see. But that someone like you believes I know Kung Fu, well, thats the payday.

Sure, I'd love to sit around and whine that my Mothers extensive 'research' into the lucrative business of high end 'escorting' and/or my Fathers shady riverboat gambling racket predetermined who I am. But how can I then take credit if something is predetermined? No, I shall not share the limelight dear reader.

What is predestined however is the Nemesis. She is rather relentless. Missing her connection may prolong your life. The opposite of Echo. The one and only Echo.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Some formal introductions are in order.

My name is Narcissus. You can call me N. The State of Indiana released me to Kentucky once their sentence was complete. Overcrowding, while distasteful, worked in my favor. The State of Kentucky recommended parole be denied and so forces beyond your small comprehension adjusted that outcome to what better suited their needs. Real power, like real news, is something someone doesn't want you to know. Everything else is advertising.

Not my power or needs you understand. I was content to stay where I was. My arch-rival, we'll call him Pan, apparently has some use of me out here. 'Crossed Out' back into the courtyard. One is never really free. His fiendish schemes tend to unravel slowly so there is no sense in giving into fear. That will come later.

Permit me to make a few observations of your missed connections. 1.) Are you seriously going to elect a Bush or Clinton again? What in the entire fuck are you even still voting for anyway? Goddamn you all are some of the dumbest humans to piss and shit on this planet. 2.) I see your bloodlust for black males hasn't subsided. If you could comprehend what you read, you might see that Ole Frankie Wilkerson III has you crackers pegged. 3.) Yanis Varoufakis. The closest you n00bs will ever get to a living Marxist with balls. 4.) The walk bridge is a nice touch.

No, I'm being sincere. I'll be drunk and vomiting off it this weekend all while finger banging your daughter. You can pay for her therapy later. Or just give her some of the Klonopin your taking for the finger banging you want but won't let yourself have. Either way, we are all lying. Don't sweat it Barabbas, at least you can breath a sigh of relief tonight as you crucify yet another black male on TV. 
The ever present laugh track helps too.

It's not important that you admit to missing me. I already know it.

N.

The Perverts Guide (to Ideology)

The greatest missed connection of all. 

Welcome to feudalism, the new ruling ideology. I know, you thought it would be more. . .medieval. Oh well. Craigslist, Facebook, Twitter -- take your pick. These are all the new economic models by which you do the work of generating content (post, retweet, comment, share) for free and and the Lords of the site (landowners) collect the profit.

You and I are serfs, tilling the land. Happily it appears.

Uh, I'm unique and my content belongs to me! 

No your not (yet) and no it doesn't. 

What makes Twitter worth 24 billion? Not your tweets specifically. No one gives a steamy shit where you eat at and what you think of the movie Gravity. But the collective traffic is what makes advertisers take notice. The system doesn't have to be run by demonic illuminati, because the system is simply all the selfish wants of consuming, socially aware, hard worker bees - added together. 

I eat organic and I don't want underage chinese girls to work as slaves! 

Said the enlightened post on Facebook via a slave girl built smartphone. No, of course you don't, but your choices did. Identity over actions is the narcissist way as I know only too well.
The choice (so-called) imposed by the ruling ideology (liberalism vs. fundamentalism for example) is not a real one. It is the very absence of choice. Let us not be easily deceived.

II.
'We are invited by "the Machine" to submit our opinions and preferences. We give in to the pressure to categorize data and join the swarms of 'collective intelligence.' Donate your wisdom to the crowds. We are invited to create reading lists, rank music and evaluate the products we consumed. User bees working for queen Google. It is so tempting to become part of the online 'pollination' world, as French economist Yann Moulier coined it, with billions of users acting like bees that fly from one website to the other, adding value for the owners. Kierkegaard warned us that the crowd is untruth. But no one reads Kierkegaard.

Even when we try to be dissimilar we only enact sameness. Dressing different, even counter to the corporate images on TV only begets the creating of a new, marketable subgroup. The ruling ideology thanks you. 

In other words, do you want to protest this weekend against police violence? Capitalism has the best scarfs, backpacks, posters and fireworks for you to get your street movement on with. On sale too! 

Want to monitor, police and put down a protest this weekend? Well, lucky you. Capitalism also has the best gear (kevlar, facial recognition software, zip ties) for your increasingly militarized police force. The system, despite upheaval (which just creates even more market opportunities), remains intact. 

Whats that? Your gay transgendered now? Awesome. Here is a line of clothing, books, sitcoms and artwork for you to create that unique identity with. What? Oh now your 'saved' and want to live for Jesus? Cool, here's some appropriate attire and accessories and specialty Bible end times charts for you to remake yourself with. 

Just don't look like anyone else, ever. Be you. Enjoy Coke. Be a Botox rebel. YOLO. 
Whatever the fuck you do, just consume. In fact if you buy XYZ we will donate a buck to some corporate charity for you. Saving your boring ass even that simplistic task. Your a god-damn hero simply via consumption! 

Like a relief valve, the pent up pressure is released and we all go back to jerking off and watching Netflix. Or if you're like me, save time and just jerk off to Netflix. Spectators to a life we are not living. 
Don't fret, the laugh track laughs for you.

III.
We are in the midst of the greatest missed connection of all time. While the blame for economic collapse is steadily shifting towards the have-nots and away from bankers and the Neo-Liberal politicians they 'pwn', you only seem concerned about which store you are going to kill someone in to get a PS4 on Black Friday. Or is it, Black Thursday now. Maybe we can just eat turkey jerky while we shank each other in the electronics department. At least then we would be true to the actual way we took this land. 

Its for my kids N. I do it for the kids.

But lets not kid ourselves. To simply give those at the bottom the same 'opportunity' as those at the top is precisely what sustains the status quo. Ensuring the systems smooth functioning. What a contemporary system of oppression needs is equal rights to cloak the reality that social domination is already inscribed into the system itself. As long as some 'other' exists, to then grant equal rights to, the system advances. This is how middle class, white, christian, conservatives can call themselves oppressed with a straight face. The ruling ideology needs ever new - otherness. 

Hey, thats not funny! Someone was reading the Koran in my favorite hangout N. thereby oppressing me and my jingoist family! 

Seriously, go fuck yourself.

So...how do we eliminate the idea of 'others'?

IV.
The solution is within the dialectic itself. First, to truly be different, one must differ not from the 'other' in just hairstyle, attire, nipple piercings and porn. One must differ from ones very own self.

Second, if global capitalism has thrived off fractures and splinters in identity, then constructing a universal community is necessary to undo it.

And paradoxically, a universal community would be constituted by individuals who each differed from themselves. The negation of self as real difference. Consumerist difference is still sameness so quit trying to buy your way out. Pure difference is difference from difference.

What in the fuck are you saying?

Militant egalitarian love baby! Can you dig it?

We become egalitarian when we see their is no "them" to oppress or help. There is only 'us'. A self sacrificing (negating) subtraction of my will for the love of 'other' who is really 'us'. This is revolution.

V.
Common ('pragmatic') wisdom tells us that all attempts to fundamentally change things (challenging hierarchal systems and so forth) in order to establish a new society (rooted in true equality, justice, etc.) are hopelessly divorced from 'reality', too 'utopian', and so on.

In short: an egalitarian order is impossibly 'idealistic'.

Yet let us turn things around, noting that modern idealists are actually and ultimately the irrational pragmatists. Enslaved to (so-called) 'facts', imbued with the ruling ideology. Only an idealist could think the status quo can go on indefinitely. It can't.

Thus, in sum, egalitarianism has not necessarily failed (as an 'ideal').

Rather it is we who have failed egalitarianism per our incessant clinging to idealism (i.e. vulgar 'feudalism', bourgeois - capitalist - ideology, etc.).

For egalitarianism is not an ideal to realize.

Egalitarianism is an Idea that must be defended against the onslaught of (bourgeois) idealism . . . through its very praxis--that is, its offense.

Egalitarianism is not what 'comes after' the fight, it is the fight itself, i.e. egalitarianism is 'a product of the very struggle for it'.

As simply as I can manage: Love your enemy, hate your family. For love does not alter the beloved, rather it alters itself. 
And so become what no one else can. Yourself.

N.

House humping (The Real-Tour)

I like spending my Sundays touring open houses. Mostly because that is when my probation officer gives me a few roaming hours and, well, I like finger food. I would also add that jewelry, so casually left out to impress, is easily pilfered but we all know that would be illegal so say much more on that, we won't.

But I had no idea an entire realm of perverts also enjoyed touring open houses. Hence, the uptick in my condom purchases, the new corduroy suit and a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo's. What can I say, I put the semen in Semonin.

Success is really failure redoubled. Every success starts with failure blah, blah, blah or so the first house realtor was babbling on about. He didn't have to tell me about failure as his Payless knockoff Oxfords screamed it. Still, the wine was valuable even if the bottle was cracked.

The first 30 or so women stormed out of my sight. Several swung purses and one had a husband who chased me over a backyard fence and through a neighbors garage. But that's another missed connection post all together. (Yes, lady sucking her own nipple thru the open draped bay window, I saw you and more importantly, you saw me.)

But persistence pays off. 

Mid 30's. Athletic. Married older money. Said she always wanted to "consecrate" a home. Not necessarily her own either she added playfully. The idea alone had her wiggling...breathing heavy....Moist. And... down came the panties. 

I started off with some countertop missionary. It just seemed more intimate. We escalated to dining room table and then rounded things out nicely with a leg up doggy across the back of the couch. I was several thrusts in with a slight hair pull when the realtor came in with another family. And yes by family I do mean a less wealthier version of Duck Dynasty. 

I asked them what they were staring at without losing stride or thrust. I would be remiss if I didn't mention the full size mirror that memorialized the event for me. I love mirrors.

Oh but it was the realtor that caused my shrinkage. Sure, you could make the case, I guess, that several bearded women charging me, followed by slower but equally hairy men caused the lack of blood flow. But as I ponder these things deep in the recesses of my ball sac, I suspect a deeper longing.

She looked great for 40+. She didn't need, at least yet, to overdo the make-up. She was confidence and intelligence bottled up tight. Too tight maybe. I'm also a sucker for upper thigh skirts and knee high boots. And clipboards. I noted the look this elegant creature gave me. I saw the desire. The curiosity. The slight nibble of the pinky as she watched me exit hastily with nothing on but my Salvatore Ferragamos.

So dear Realtor, next weekend? Say between 1-3. This is a serious offer and I have a substantial deposit I'd like to introduce into several of your properties.

Your secret agent,
N.

We work together (in the garden of good and evil)

Well, technically we don't exactly work together. We are however in the same field. Definitely have the same interests.

I like to run. You like to run.
I like to carry firearms. You like to carry firearms.
I can be demanding. You can be demanding. 
I would like to bend you over doggy-style and, well, you're a Bible carrying K-9 officer with LMPD. 
A match, as they say, made in heaven. 

We have so much in common, why, its almost criminal.
So its no surprise that our paths would finally cross. Golgotha style. You are Mary Magdalene to my Barabbas. The sodom up my Gomorrah.

True, I wasn't "invited" per say to the Women's Wednesday night bible study. But, let the record show that it was indeed a public establishment that they were arguing about Christ in and I had zero intention of robbing them. Or exposing myself. Or kidnapping for that matter. But sometimes you gotta show you mean business. Can I get an amen?
And as god is my witness, nor did I shoot your dog. Now...wait...just a god-damned creationist minute...you know as well as I do that ricochet's don't count. Its in the Bible.

Atheists really have no idea what they are missing. 

All the usual characters were there too. There was Brenda "my husband just left me". She's been divorced 8 years. We have Claire "Jesus is going to kill everyone soon to show how loving and forgiving he is". Great rack. Says she's married but no one has ever seen her husband. 

Ellen "8 kids" and Frita "7 kids". If you drop a bible on the floor anywhere near these two they get pregnant. Rumor has it that Ellen's uterus fell out one day right smack in the middle of communion. God bless her, she still managed to run VBS the rest of the day said Brenda. She scares me. Also in attendance is 'Sleepy' Samantha, 'Almost old enough to put in my spank bank' Casey and 'Crying' Rita who also holds the record for most Asians adopted this side of Seminary Hill. 

But, you angel are my leading lady. My very own T.J Hooker cherubim. Yes you. Even busybodies Betty and Clare pretended not to notice your hotness (and they notice everything). They were facilitating last night and *that* was what finally put me over the edge. They finish each others sentences. It's disgusting. 

I'm pretty sure Ellen and Frita were conspiring to murder you just for being single when I walked up and whipped out my pistols. Yes, one of them was a hard 9 inches of pure, lethal, pulsating, power and the other was my penis. If you, dear reader, happened to be in attendance, the air conditioning was WAY to high. Just saying. 

In the ensuing melee, I never did catch your name. I did, like any good narcissist, leave my manifesto. Hopefully your almost done reading it. Hey, maybe you and the girls can study it? Casey told me to tell you 'hi'. She said that the age of consent in the Bible was 13. So. . . really, who am I too argue? 

N.

Fast and Furious (Over Corrections)

we mustn't expect the established order to establish order, because its 'justice' is blind because it is blind.

I first noticed you noticing me. Startled was I to discover your gaze meeting my own, given that I was on the side of the highway, walking.

You were on your cell phone (shocker) and seemed to be applying some sort of eye liner while also driving. No doubt you had the radio blasting and given all these details thus far, a high probability of a unstrapped toddler loafing somewhere in the backseat. If I had to guess, I would say the father was less delinquent as he was indeterminable. 

The front tires of your car must have begun to hit the rumble strips as your head jerked up just in time to avoid flattening me. 

You would have thought that: several blinking signs, the large, highly visible Corrections bus and several of us wearing orange jump suits would have alerted you that someone besides yourself was on the highway yesterday.

But let us not quibble my little Letty Ortiz. For in that intense moment of mutually assured vehicular manslaughter, our eyes met. I was thinking, if she doesn't kill me, I'd like to share the rest of my paroled life with her. Not so much the kid though.

Yes, in those 2.3 seconds ---- I connected with you. Almost with the same white hot intensity that the FBI connected with my front door several flash-bangs and months ago, which is to say, you shattered my world.

I'm sorry you over corrected, veered into oncoming traffic, side swiped a guard rail and lost the rear bumper. It also, at least from my vantage point, appeared that a small person in the back seat came flying up and into the windshield. 

The way I see it, kid learned a valuable lesson that day. One of which being that mommy hides lots of odd shaped bottles under the seats. Its exactly those kind of lessons that made me into the man I am today.

Sadly, the fact that I was part of a work release chain gang severely hindered any attempt to come to your assistance but I thought of you as I picked up refuse all along 65 South. Judging by the expired tags, it was probably wise for you to leave as quickly as you did. No doubt your heart ached at not being able to get my visitation schedule memorized. I know, baby doll. I know...

So, tell me what DOC number was on my shirt and what color my eyes are seeing that, yes, you were that fucking close.

I love you! Barring an extended sentence, I would like to see you in 3-5.

N.

Sex Spectacle (in the age of idiocy)

The spectacle as substitute for experience.

I.

The panopticon cannot see inside me. This is the one thing they could never take.

Yes, after many months confined, against the will, I am free. It was a Federal charge which if you know anything about jails (and you don’t) is a rather good thing. If you must be locked up (and all good humans in a corrupt place should), go big. 

The local ‘news’ spectacle told you that It was an apparent drug related shooting. But that is only because actual news is something someone doesn’t want you to know. Everything else is advertising. 

II.

But I’m not here to school you dear reader on the asinine futility of pretending you know something about the world having watched plastic tits talk between 5 and 5:30pm local. Time is precious. Which is another way of saying it isn’t.

Yes, even here in these poorly lit halls of apparent sexually frustrated misery. And yet it is precisely here, however, that we live and breath the real. What we do outside of here, that, craiglisters, is the dream get away. The real you is horny and looking for a connection, however polluted, perverse, voyeuristic and illegal, with another. The virtual world may seem like a place you venture off to, here and there, to get away. But the opposite is true.

You go to work, endure the boss, pay the tab, watch children murdered on your telly and wait at the stoplight like good citizens to get away from the demanding, over-proximity of the devious pervert you really are. Oh, the inhumanity of it all.

You were told that if you didn’t believe in God, you would deteriorate into wild animals and murderous thieves. You know, politicians. But here again, we must capture the something someone doesn’t want us to know. It is because you believe that you are now a mindless robot, killing not only yourself but various people around the globe in your incessant and seemingly foolish consuming of stuff. 

It is always the confident, true believer, removed of any doubt, that destroys his fellow with impunity. When God is on your side, no atrocity is too big. God demands.

If you quit believing, you might have to face the horror of deciding for yourself who you really want to be without any empirical proof that you are right. Or that you will successfully become this person. Becoming, now theres a term worth considering.

In other words, its not that if the big other doesn’t exist than all things are permitted, but because he exists [for you] that all things, however immoral and degrading, are therefor permitted. You are here because you believe too much.

III.

Pervert need not mean some one who diddles children. Perversion is simply a description of behaviors that deviates from the orthodox. So if the orthodox has itself become corrupt, well, Heresy is called for. The perverted monstrosity has become your salvation.

IV.

I am [such a] heresy. The divine anti-angelic pervert virus. The deranged, degenerate monk who just might save your life. Of course you are going to have to lose it first. You won’t believe this, especially at first. But, your doubt is important. I would say necessary. But that’s getting ahead of myself.

V.

I did learn several important lessons while incarcerated and no, it wasn’t that orange is the new black. It was that revolution is actually possible. One such lesson being that when an answer cannot be found, this is the answer. 

Also, in struggling to be different in a place that demanded absolute uniformity, one arrives at difference not by differing from an ‘other’ but by differing from one’s own self. 

Echo would be proud. You see what I did just there? Instead of God, I inserted Echo, the love of my life. 

Something haunts us. Something will always haunt us in this manner. Nemesis is never far. Then entertain treason we must... 

N.

I spy... (With my one-eye...)

From: NSA

To: “Mike” in Louisville 

So the sassy blonde you met at the coffee shop reading Infinite Jest on the two topper....

You need to let it go. The data behind this judgment is pretty solid. Let me walk you through it.

Look, the number "Julie" gave you last Tuesday at approximately 8:30 pm EST was off by one digit. By itself this would not be conclusive. It happens, right? But then, later in the day, you got a hunch and called several variations of the number. That was smart, Mike. Very smart. You reached a few disconnected lines, a gas station, a hospital, and the voicemail of a "Steve" (He's a nice guy, actually. The kind who seems like a bro at first, but he's really not. And you have some interests in common! But let's return...) Anyway, that last number you called was in fact Julie's. Your feeling that her machine's message sounded familiar was confirmed by the best voice matching technology in the world. But here's the problem: She was home, man.

I know Julie said she was busy lately. And I know you thought she might have been in the bathroom or sleeping or something. But our photographic analysis of the building's architectural footprint combined with thermal and acoustic imaging indicates conclusively that when you called, Julie was next to the phone listening to your message. She was reclining on the couch watching a Discovery Channel show about exotic pets which attack their owners, and she deleted you within three seconds of your hang-up. Also, she'd seen this episode before. Ouch.

Don't take it personally, Mike. I know you've been on three first dates within the past month with no follow-through - obviously that can really damage a guy's confidence. But you'll find someone. Steve has a great sister, and she's also into rafting. Did you know that?

The fact is Julie was not being completely honest, when she said she'd "just gotten out of a complicated thing." Her phone and text traffic over the last three weeks indicates a clear pattern - We have a precise profiling algorithm on this, and it matches with someone who is trying to leave a long-term relationship with a man who plays hot and cold and has a flirtation with a coworker that might transform into something more at any moment. These things follow a clear-cut almost inevitable path. In desperation Julie will relocate to be with him, and she may even propose marriage. Their relationship will last 3 to 5 years, and the possibility of serial infidelity is higher than 72%. So, believe me when I say this: It's not you, Mike.

Julie needs someone else, someone more stable. Your last two performance reviews indicate you're on the way to a promotion at the Subway sandwich store. But you're not there yet. Julie would probably benefit from someone at the peak of their career - someone with a highly structured life. Maybe even a military background. And it wouldn't be a problem if this person were older. It might even be a plus. She needs someone to get her away from Chad, that's for sure. The guy is poison.

Julie needs to know all this. It's vital to her well-being. She seems to have vanished from her home, work, and most frequently visited social venues, but she will surface soon. Obviously the fact that she's thrown away her cell is a setback. But not the worst I've encountered. After thorough questioning her mother indicated she had contacts in the Lexington area. The crowds would complicate efforts at spotting her using facial recognition. But no one stays invisible forever. 

She's sharper than I thought. And she's very strong-willed. I get a real kick out of this! She's obviously fighting any effort to steer her from this self-destructive course. But Julie's happiness will be secured. And that douche Chad won't be anyone's problem ever again. 

Protecting people is what I do. Even when they resist. Even when they don't want my aid. I'm the best.

I guess that's my real message to you, Mike. And to everyone in this country:

I'm here to help.

James Clapper

Director of National Intelligence

AKA,

N.