Why I’m Okay with the U.S. Government Assassinating or Disappearing Me
Penned in ink distilled from Snowden’s encrypted tears and Plato’s cave smoke.
To the benevolent janitors of empire,
Please aim for center mass. I’d hate for your budget to go to waste.
There’s a serenity, really, in knowing the State might kill you. It’s meditative, like holding your breath under the baptismal font of late capitalism until your third eye starts hallucinating drone strikes. Every morning, before my coffee, I check my Junk folder and whisper a little thanks: “Thank you, Homeland Security, for reminding me that I am still a threat.” Between emails from “NSA Recruitment,” “CIA_Pharmaceuticals,” and “WomenOver65_WantU,” it’s clear the algorithm has concluded I’m either about to launch a presidential campaign, an insurrection, or an OnlyFans for retired radicals.
What can I say? I’m flattered. In the age of TikTok epistemology and AI-assisted Enlightenment™, nothing says “you’re thinking clearly” quite like being targeted by weaponized bureaucracy in a pantsuit. Assassination by government is the modern MacArthur Fellowship. You don’t apply — they just notice you. The grant is posthumous, of course, and comes in the form of a redacted PDF and a commemorative street mural in a neighborhood your policies might’ve saved.
Now, I’m not saying I want to be assassinated. I’m not a masochist. I’m simply saying I’m not against it, should the government, in its infinite wisdom, determine that my blend of deadpan Marxism and cybernetic Taoism constitutes an existential threat to national boredom. If martyrdom is the fastest way to get my policy ideas taken seriously, then who am I to stand in the way of a few well-placed bullets and a suspicious lack of CCTV footage?
I’m not the first, of course. I stand on the shoulders of state-slain giants. Jesus, of course — executed for unauthorized public catering and aggressive foot massage. Socrates — murdered for corrupting youth, which today is more efficiently done via YouTube thumbnails and crypto advice. Malcolm, Martin, Fred — all patriots in the original Latin sense: those who spoke so powerfully, the Republic shat itself. And let’s not forget the most tragic of all: Epstein — gone too soon, or perhaps exactly on time, depending on your definition of suicide and the tensile strength of paper bedsheets.
Even the ancients understood that nothing immortalizes your thought quite like your abrupt deletion. Et tu, Caesar? Indeed, and thank you Brutus, for launching imperial Rome’s most successful book tour. Imagine how many scrolls Socrates would’ve sold if he’d had a Substack and a CIA handler.
And so, in this strange new republic of ad clicks and drone strikes, I offer myself freely. I’m not hard to find. I’ll be the guy on stage in the “HOPE 2.0” shirt made of hemp, shouting about abolishing student debt and the Pentagon simultaneously. If it helps, I’m willing to tattoo coordinates on my chest — latitude, longitude, and a QR code that links directly to my presidential platform (and, ideally, my Bandcamp). I’m here to be your catharsis, your scapegoat, your Kennedy reboot with better Wi-Fi. Assassinate me, and I guarantee: the policies will grow tenfold. Ideas are like weeds and martyrs are Miracle-Gro.
In fact, if you look closely, all great American reforms are basically fanfiction written by guilt-ridden functionaries in the blood-splattered aftermath of someone too idealistic to live. Medicare? Civil Rights? Environmental regulation? All brought to you by the ghostwriters of fallen visionaries. The State doesn’t change because it sees the light; it changes because it’s haunted.
I don’t fear death. I fear that my newsletter won’t go viral. But an assassination? That’s a career move. And not just for me — imagine the merchandising. T-shirts, documentaries, maybe a TikTok trend: #PresiDeaded. Even the most disengaged nihilist tween will find meaning in their doomscroll when it ends with my face, grainy and zoomed in, accompanied by a Lana Del Rey remix and a caption that reads, “He tried to make America think again.”
And the beauty of it all? It would prove me right. Every conspiracy theory I’ve ever flirted with would suddenly buy me dinner. Every dystopian meme, every late-night monologue I whispered into the void would retroactively become Scripture. All my policies — Universal Healthcare, Decentralized AI Governance, Psychedelic Therapy at DMV Branches — would be implemented out of sheer posthumous embarrassment. “He died for this,” the people would say, as the new Department of Peace opens in a former Raytheon facility.
So please, dear bureaucrats, if it helps you sleep at night, just know: I’m chill with it. Not every presidential candidate is in it to win it. Some of us are in it to be cross-referenced in the footnotes of history dissertations and played by Timothée Chalamet in the Oscar-bait biopic “The Candidate: Based on No True Events.”
In conclusion, assassination isn’t personal. It’s branding.
And if you do pull the trigger, just be kind enough to miss the Spotify playlist I’m working on. It’s called “Martyrdom Bops” — a mix of Rage Against the Machine, Nina Simone, and spoken word interludes from Julian Assange in exile. It slaps.
Anyway, whether I make it to the White House, the afterlife, or the algorithmic purgatory of YouTube demonetization, know this: I’m already immortal.
I wrote this.
And you’re still reading.
Which means
you might be next.
