"Wicked Game" Prelude "False Flags"

Friday

7:00 am. My alarm.

Today is the last day before vacation. My first vacation in five years. Five years. I've been so busy, so broke really. 

I'm going to half ass the shit out of today. I have zero fucks left to give. I need this. Even I know it. 

I could never afford time off before. Anything outside of bills, food and weed. A girlfriend even.

Well, I have my laptop. And my stash. That's all I need. Buried under different various cliché obscure file folders are my gems. The only "girlfriends" I need or have had since...the girl we refuse to name. Even in my mind, I can't. I refuse to credit her by name. For scarring me.

Making me this way.

I'm not a porn addict. It's there for the lonely Saturday nights. And there have been many. 

My real addiction is the truth. Finding it really. In life, in society. All of it that's deemed "conspiracy theory" by the media. How things work. How the machine functions.

Life. People. Things.

All of it, I am an abstract narrator of things truth. I have a platform online. 100,000 followers strong on different truth seeking sites. My pen name, a fictitious name from a movie close to my ideals. The first rule, we don't talk about it though.

I'm small, I know this, but I started four years ago. Give me some credit. 

My work is genuine and my words are backed by unclassified and classified documents. Thank you Wiki leaks.

My trolls are NSA hacks at best. And don't like their IP addresses being released, so I don't get much sass.

Apparently letting me dig my own grave is the new plan. Society is fed up with everything, more truth leads to more anger and frustration.

Frustration leads to fewer clicks. Eventually the only ones still searching for the truth are the loonies who already know it. "PRISIM" will weed them out soon enough.

Monday thru Friday, I'm a maintenance man for an apartment complex in Iowa City. It pays the bills. The writing cures the hunger.

Maintenance helps. I can figure out what's wrong with a furnace just by listening to it. An ice maker by touch. I like taking things apart, just to put them back together. Better. Fixed.

Hitting thirty, I had no one to tell me I'm officially old. Thirty two, no one told me to stop smoking. No one to distract me from my never ending search. From myself. 

What I do have, are my two dogs. My rescues. A Bassett-beagle, named "Oscar" and a miniature pincher, "Lucy". My two tethers to reality. All the love an untrusting gen X'er can afford. 

Dad's gone, and mom is a shell of her loving self. Alzheimer's makes it difficult. Every time she'll ask, "When are you two going to give me a grandchild?" every time I show her a smiling random couple from a picture frame.

She'll smile motherly, almost with tears. Every. Time.

I don't know what hurts more; the fact that the guy looks nothing like me, being Asian and all, or realizing I don't know who's the real shell of themselves. 

Moving on.

Today, I do the least I possibly can do without getting fired. Enjoy that foreign idea of getting paid to not work. I will enjoy myself. I will not write, I will relax. Or at least I tell myself that.

Maybe some research. The new rabbit hole. The "uprising". The cult of cults. Something no one will believe, until it's too late. Because it's so impossible, but so concrete. 

The rise, the real rise of the female race.

All my research, all the mounting evidence. All the placement of the power. The push of propaganda. All the years of oppression, the Bilderberg groups against them.

Men in control, since the fictional story of Adam and Eve.

Can't say I blame them. Or think the world would be any worse off. Just think of how many men will resist. Will openly show their bigotry. They'll be weeded out, if the rise actually happens. If. 

Thinking these things. Knowing them.

I need this. 

Two weeks of nothing, who am I kidding? I'll be on my laptop by 7:00 pm. Women taking over, actually taking over. Not the failed Hillary push of 2016. Something bigger, with teeth and a backbone of endless finances. 

Knowing this, and the compartmentalizing it, and going about my day. Living this, I'll end up like mom before I know it. Just keep my head down, the real life doesn't know about the online one. Like a super hero, my identity must remain hidden. Even from my coworkers.

Life of a truther, you never know who will be your enemy tomorrow. In an endless sea of sharks ready to attack, insulation is your best weapon.

Today though, ignorance will get me until clock out. Right now that's all that matters. My battery is drained, I feel older than my looks allow. 

Skinny, lean. My dark hair thinning. My gut starting to go. Thirty seven and I feel like an old man. I used to look handsome, some thought "Hollywood hot", but now, now I just shake my head and look away from the mirror, thinking "used to".

Seeking never ending truths has upgraded my brain, my imagination, my reasoning-deduction, all at the cost of ignoring my physical self. 

I know I will not pass on my DNA or have a generic American family. So searching for the truth, revealing it for the world is my gift for humanity. My landmark, my pyramid.

Maybe help future families. Future generations. 

Who knows, maybe my work will be completely discredited by the propaganda surveillance state. I'll get "suicided" by a nameless alphabet soup assassin. 

At least I have no one they can hurt. No siblings. No family that matters.

My thankless sacrifice.

For those who seek the truth, they know my words are not hollow. Fear is what the weak feel when faced with it. Motivation is what the strong feel.

Physically I may not be the strongest manly man, but my mind is determined, will made of steel. I've been motivated for so long, maybe it's been a tax on my body. I've neglected to slow down.

These two weeks, is my recharge time. Try to lose the motivation, take a day to just breathe. Enjoy a sunny day and not think of the dispersants high above.

There it is again. That inner struggle. My duality. Wanting to relax on the search, while on the other side, not wanting to let up.

I'm too complicated for a relationship, and inept at being a "real human being" anymore. Today, I just have to play maintenance man for eight hours. Eight little hours, and I'll finally be free.