Lubricated Patriot: A Field Report from the Lower Intestine of Empire
Transmission from Agent X, Currently Somewhere Between the Truth and a Tax Haven
You ever wake up in a country that swears it doesn’t exist anymore?
That’s Tuesday for me.
One minute you’re decrypting a message from the Bureau of Disinformation and Emotional Containment — next, you’re sitting in a diner called The Neutral Zone Café where the waitress swears she served you yesterday, only you’re pretty sure you were being waterboarded by a chatbot in Geneva at the time.
The eggs taste like regret.
The toast apologizes in binary.
And I’m there — God’s own well-lubricated middle finger shoved straight up Uncle Sam’s ass, wiggling just enough to keep democracy twitching.
You think espionage is about secrets? It’s not.
It’s about maintenance.
It’s like being the janitor of civilization: cleaning up after coups, false flags, and failed Tinder dates between rival intelligence agencies.
Every time someone says “national security,” I hear “we lost another USB stick at the strip club.”
They call me Agent X, but that’s mostly for branding.
Marketing loves a single letter.
They say it makes the focus groups feel mysterious — but approachable.
Like Elon Musk with plausible deniability.
You want to know what betrayal feels like?
It feels like realizing the alien you interrogated for two weeks was actually your old philosophy professor — only now he glows in the dark and quotes Baudrillard while you’re trying to keep your cover as a Vatican exorcist on sabbatical.
Trust me, the line between spy-fi and sci-fi blurred the moment DARPA outsourced its moral compass to TikTok influencers.
Now half my missions involve infiltrating meditation retreats run by quantum psychologists who can erase your memory using a scented candle and a 12-minute podcast.
But here’s what they don’t tell you in Spy School:
The more classified the document, the dumber the font.
You ever read Top Secret in Comic Sans?
Try keeping a straight face while negotiating a ceasefire with a guy whose orders look like a middle-school PowerPoint.
Last week, I met with a defector who claimed to be from “a future version of Canada.”
Said he was smuggling empathy across timelines.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that empathy was banned after the Great Algorithm War of 2037.
Now, emotions require a permit.
And I’m not licensed to feel on weekdays.
Still, I keep the act going.
Shake the right hands, fake the right loyalty tests, smile for the satellite cameras.
Because someone’s gotta keep that cosmic plumbing unclogged.
Somewhere deep inside the marble corridors of global power, I’m there — working the valves, tightening the screws, whispering sweet treason into the machinery of empire.
And when they ask me who I work for,
I just tilt my head, half-smile, and say —
“I work against whoever’s paying me.”
Because patriotism is just espionage with better PR.
And in the grand septic system of international affairs, I’m the guy holding the wrench — making sure the shit doesn’t flow back into the kitchen.
Blackout. The sound of a fax machine screaming in Morse code.
Somewhere, a satellite blinks twice — and the world keeps pretending it doesn’t recognize the expression on the face tied to the anus my loyally lubed up middle finger pushes up further into.
