The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

 

On the step of the Capital Building, nestled amongst the rioters

Here we are, the faithful, clad in our blood-colored red, amassing before a symbol of democracy with righteous hate in our hearts. I have my gun and my zip-ties; I know what must be done to save the country from the Others, and a fervor has gripped my patriot heart and boiled my blood. They are all charlatans inside; they are elements of the machine, a machine which has ceased to perform its primary function. As the crowd ebbs and flows, my brains ceases to think. I am an instrument made by the Lord, and I was sent to do the Lord's work. Everything has flowed from the Internet, where I am privy to esoteric knowledge. A gallows has been erected in the back to hang the traitorous. A mob mentality is a blessing, not a curse. When the shit hits the fan, I shall disappear, and even I do not know what will become of me. All that will remain will be the sentiment, the mindless stain of evil. I am a prisoner as you are a prisoner; neither of us knows what we do.

 In a darkened room, sitting before a computer

Click, click, click go my fingers on the keyboard. The Truth shall have an outlet, no matter how they attempt to oppress it. The nonsense I send onto the internet is barely coherent and would only fool a complete idiot, but there many out there, more than I imagined. My motivation is the profit my web forum produces, that and a complete lack of morals. So what if they believe conspiracy theories? All I care about is the cash. Civic responsibility is a foreign concept, one that I have never contemplated. Someday my heart shall exploded, and I will leave this form for another, a fresher, more limber body. Until that day I will continue to type, and they shall continue to believe.

In a trailer, out in the woods

There is nothing but garbage in here, disgusting refuse and paperback tomes purchased from internet bookstores. A deer head lies in the corner, its eight point rack broken in several places. After a meal of canned meat and beans I sit in my chair and watch my men transform the two minute hate into an hour long program. There are all sorts of groups that I blame for my problems and my lack of social stature. I never blame myself or economic forces. There must be a scapegoat, a focal point, an effigy to burn. The gods demand a sacrifice, and we are not rational actors, we are emotional creatures enslaved to our passions. If it feels true, then I believe it. One of these days I feel as though I will be called upon to defend my irrational believes, and then I will finally get my ass up off the couch and do something big. I keep telling myself this; it is what keeps me going through all the canned meat and sour bed farts that compose my life. I am a patriot I tell myself. I am not a waste of human potential.