Truther Dare sat alone in the dark, listening to the rain rattle against the window of his copy/print/fax/private detective agency on the outskirts of Lebanon, PA.
The weather this Spring had been rainy and cool, too cool for his liking. On the one hand, it was good news. It proved, yet again, that the Anti-Coal Snowflakes on the message boards were wrong about so-called global warming. On the other hand, he had to admit, it still felt odd, different from usual. Suspicious. Intentional.
He took the mechanical pencil from behind his ear, tapping it twice against the yellow page of his legal pad before bursting into action. The next five minutes flew by in a fury of insight, and when he was done, he held the list of suspects out at arm’s length. Good, but not perfect. Something was still missing.
He pulled out his phone and checked his Twitter for the 413th time that day, confident the solution was close, and it would come to him in time.
Truther felt this way often, like the answers he sought were there, but barely out of reach, dancing around on the outside of his skull, like a laser sight from a sniper sent by the government to silence him for good.
Better safe than sorry, he glanced at his reflection in the darkened window, just to make sure it wasn’t another government sniper’s laser sight.
And that’s when another woman walked into his life, probably to ruin it.
The knob turned, creaking like the broken machine that is the American Judicial System.
He laid one hand on the Glock 23 that sat on top of the Glock 24 next to his trusty Glock 35 Gen 4 on the stack of collated copies Mr. Timpkins was scheduled to pick up from him tomorrow.
If Truther lived to see tomorrow.
The door cracked and sliver of lisping, pink light cut into the impressively masculine dark of his combination business / detective agency. Before he could say “If you’re the police, you have to announce that you’re the police,” a thuggish black wind snatched the door and flung it open.
There she stood before him, framed by the rain and the red glow from the Hunan Garden Palace Chinese and American Restaurant next door, her black leggings stretched over her hips tighter than the lips of a Jew who knows you know what really happened in the Holocaust.
Truther was surprised but his face didn’t show it, because women came by to see him all the time, and not just for the kind of sex that happens on copiers, where they accidentally turn on and take pictures of a butt, like in the movies.
He eased his hand off the sidearm on top of the sidearm next to the sidearm, and the fingers of his other hand off cuff of his jeans, which concealed the Glock 27 Gen 3 he kept holstered against the genetically superior pale skin of his right ankle, just above the Army Surplus store socks sticking out of the signature jet black Skechers Go Walk Max sneakers he wore, but not because his back hurt.
He knew two things about her before she spoke.
One, she had boobs. Two, she was nothing but trouble.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he said, coolly, totally used to talking to women.
“I… I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” she whispered, womanly, the words fluttering to him on a whiff of Carmex lip balm.
You are, Truther thought. If you’re looking to have your heart broken.
“I found you on Yelp… Is this a copy company? Your sign says Detective Agency,” she said, but he didn’t hear, because Jesus, she was droning on.
Truther watched her mouth move and thought about how she was definitely a woman and how close to him she was standing, which was very normal in his life. She was pretty, an 8 out of 10 for Lebanon, PA, but he talked to 10s on the internet all the time, so he wasn’t too impressed.
Even still, he was a professional detective, so he needed to investigate. He thought about whether or not her boobs were shaped like some of the other boobs he’d seen. They probably were, as he’d seen a lot, but he still looked anyway.
He had to admit, there was something mysterious about her. She seemed upset, but not necessarily by him, and definitely not for something he wrote as a comment on an article about immigration posted by CNN on Facebook.
It could be that she was trying to trick him, as women often did. Maybe she was a spy, sent by the sister of one of the women he’d needed to correct on Twitter about how the government is using abortion clinics to sterilize poor white women.
No, that couldn’t be. They were all ugly lesbians, even if some of them didn’t know it.
He cut her off mid-sentence, to remind her he was decisive and in control and knew things she didn’t, not just about video games and the Phillies.
“Say no more, Miss,” Truther growled.
But she was a woman, which meant that would never happen.
“When can you have them done?” she asked, holding out a homemade flyer, her lips trembling with desire for his confident sex and knowledge of government secrets.
He extended his arm, but only as far as he wanted, forcing her to lean over slightly, which made her cleavage show better, which he knew she wanted even if she would say the opposite to her friends.
“And can you include this photograph in the bottom right corner, instead of the one currently there?” she added, trying to trick him into marriage.
He held his hand back out, and as his fingers closed on the picture, she looked deep into his hazel eyes, the same eyes the government agents who forced him to get a Driver’s License so they can track his movements insisted were brown.
Truther glanced down at the small photo to prove he was a good detective, even though he had absolutely nothing to prove to women. He nearly dropped the picture from shock.
It was her. Rebecca.
“I know this woman,” he said, keeping his voice even and not revealing his sources, thanks to training.
Truther didn’t know her in the way people traditionally knew each other. But that’s because he wasn’t a traditional guy. They had never been introduced, though he definitely had seen her. While doing research. During The Case of the Sleep Doctor Sleeper Cell.
It was definitely Rebecca. The love of his life. The one who got away. Before he had the chance to meet her.
“Is she in danger?” he asked, already knowing she was, his red, white, and blue blood pumping into the circumcised penis a Jewish doctor had mutilated without asking him, an attempt to curb his inevitable virility given the scientifically proven sexual superiority of white Christian men, a plot which, in his case, had clearly not worked.
“If this flyer doesn’t help, maybe. Business has been slow,” the woman said, which he knew really meant yes. She was in grave danger and this was the beginning of a case.
Oh, Rebecca, Truther said in his head, because all good detectives had solid internal dialogue. I always knew I would have to save you.
“I’ll take the case,” he told the woman whose name he’d never bothered to learn. “I only accept cash and cryptocurrency. Preferably Ethereum.”
“What’s Ethereum?” she asked, because women were bad with computers.
It was midnight, and he hadn’t slept since taking the case 4 hours earlier.
Truther sat in his car outside the Wendy’s, which was open until 2:00 A.M., already done with his fries and nuggets.
He was wary, because this was a diverse part of town.
For what felt like the millionth time in his life, he wished that the blacks in America would learn to stop relying on welfare, which they were siphoning away from people who really needed it, the working white people America’s first Islamist President had targeted with his economic depression tactics by dismantling the manufacturing industry.
The rain had stopped and his windows were beginning to fog, but mostly because he was choosing not to regulate his own body temperature through the ancient techniques he’d learned online from an ex-Navy quartermaster, who had learned them from a Chinese prostitute at a bachelor party in Atlantic City, who had learned them from ancient texts.
It’s not that he didn’t like the blacks. In fact, some of his best friends from Fortnite were black. And some of the best work ever done in the field of Modern Illuminati Theory had been done by blacks. They weren’t all bad. Just the ones in Lebanon and the ones who didn’t play for the Phillies.
He opened up Twitter, firing off a tweet about how he wasn’t racist, just a believer in statistics, savoring the feeling he always got from educating the sheeple.
Especially with a mouthful of Frosty.
He put his spoon down and picked up a copy of the flyer he’d made for the woman earlier.
BE MINDFUL…OF YOUR WALLET
YOGA “B.O.G.O.” MONTH
TWO CLASSES FOR THE PRICE OF ONE
QUITTAPAHILLA WELLNESS CENTER
Below the words, the picture of Rebecca, half an inch by a full inch. There were other women on the flyer, but they weren’t leaving clues for him, like she was. It was a cry for help.
There she was. Sitting Indian style, a style which he wasn’t sure meant dots or feathers. Perhaps a mystery for another day.
A car crept through the drive-thru line and he instinctively crouched to avoid the headlights. They were likely already on to him. All he had to do was figure out who they were.
The past few hours had been a whirlwind of intrigue.
Upon learning that the woman was friends with Rebecca, Truther had decided she was ugly in comparison, and once he decided she was ugly, it turned out she was smarter than he had first thought, a sneaky, animal kind of smart. Like a Greek, or something.
She claimed that she was only there for copies, but now that she was kind of smart, he knew for sure she was just saying that out loud because there might be someone listening in. He made her the flyers, took her cash, rejected her final advances, then sent her home.
That’s why the copy business was such a great front for his real clients.
Women were always in trouble, but this way, they didn’t have to explicitly say what they really wanted, which was one of the thousands of areas where Truther excelled. He was a master at seeing the case inside the case, the job beyond the job, the mysteries women really needed to have solved, no matter what they said with their mouths.
He took a sip of Mountain Dew, then checked to see if anyone else was in the parking lot. He held the flyer in one hand and unbuttoned his fly with the other.
Plus, this time, the case was personal.
A minute and a half later, he rolled down the window, threw some napkins into a puddle, and put his Chevy Aveo into gear.
After an hour of evasive driving, he was sitting in the REGER MANUFACTURING parking lot next door to the Quittaphilla Wellness Center. He’d driven the speed limit the whole time, coming to full and complete stops, making sure no one was tailing him and that the police didn’t have any excuse to pull him over.
He spent most of the drive thinking about how he hadn’t known Rebecca had this new job, and even though her keeping secrets from him made him angry, he was still happy for her. That last place she worked wasn’t good enough for a woman like her, anyway.
According to the flyer, Rebecca would be teaching a sunrise class at 6:00 A.M., and even though the sun wouldn’t actually rise until 6:53 A.M. this time of year, Truther was a man who understood women weren’t always literal. He guessed she would get there early, and when she showed up, he would be there to protect her.
This wasn’t his first case. He’d protected hot girls before. But they were only as hot as burning jet fuel, which wasn’t hot enough to melt the steel beams in the twin towers around his heart.
No, Rebecca was hotter than that.
She was as hot as the scathing op-eds he sent to the Jew-controlled Lebanon Daily News, which they were too afraid to print.
He met Rebecca when he learned that her husband had moved to town to work at Good Samaritan.
According to his records, Dr. Ajay Jayaprakash was from Philadelphia, PA, and a graduate of Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, a specialist in sleep disorders. But Truther knew better than to trust public records.
He had studied sleeper cells, recruiting patterns, and had encyclopedic opinions on the tactics that were probably employed by the Radical Islamist State to create and sustain operations in America.
Through his research, he’d figured out ISIS took advantage of the Liberal Media’s campaign to normalize homosexual, immigrant and race based cultural abnormalities by creating a climate of public shame for the regular Americans who chose to speak up with legitimate and historically value-based concerns about the need for or benefit of so-called tolerance.
Truther knew there was a chance Dr. Jayaprakash was just a doctor trying to make a living, but the chance he was a sleeper agent was too high for him to just sit back and do nothing.
He researched and observed Dr. Jayaprakash for weeks, watching him move in to a temporary apartment, tailing him on a house hunt with Akhila Parulkar, the Indian real estate agent and a subject of a previous investigation, calling his office multiple times, even going as far as to schedule an appointment under a fake name, before his number was blocked.
Truther eventually came to believe Dr. Jayaprakash was innocent of terrorism.
But he was still guilty of a crime. Guilty of stealing Rebecca.
It was 5:15 A.M. when Truther woke to the sound of a car.
He had fallen asleep, but definitely not by mistake. He was sleeping tactically, trusting his superior instincts to keep him safe and ready. He was never not ready.
It was funny how fate worked.
Before Rebecca, Truther was dating a woman who lived in Florida. They met through trading witty comments on an InfoWars YouTube video about the Deep State, and things were great, at first.
On paper, he and Corinne were perfect. Both white, loved guns, and weren’t fooled by Hillary Clinton’s denial of the murder of Seth Rich. She wasn’t clingy, and supported his work, taking it in stride that tens of hot women threw themselves at him each month. They moved from the comments section to WhatsApp quickly, like it was fate, staying up late together, sharing gifs and memes and inside jokes about George Soros.
After a year, they finally agreed to meet, but when she suggested a location midway between their two homes, a Red Roof Inn outside of Charlotte, NC, something felt fishy, like a set-up. Truther activated THETA PROTOCOL and stopped corresponding with her, even though it broke his heart. His work was more important.
The doors of the car closed and he could hear Rebecca’s wet footsteps. He listened to the sounds of her slight, very sexy body with perfect boobs as it moved across the Wellness Center parking lot, thinking about how easy she would be to overpower, which is why he had to protect her. He kept his head down, trusting his gut, knowing not to betray his presence, for her own safety.
Truther trusted his gut above all things, which is what made him such a good detective. After the breakup with Corinne, he realized how big of a bullet he’d just dodged. There was no way Corinne was a real person. She was probably a government agent, a gay CIA operative pretending to be a woman, playing a long con. Why else would she keep insisting he send her a picture of his face? He swore never to trust another woman, and this time, he meant it, not like the time before Corinne, with Peggy, who called the cops on him for whatever reason.
Head still down, he heard what he thought were the front doors shutting. Truther counted to thirty, then raised his seat. He could almost picture the path that she had walked, like there was a chemtrail of Rebecca’s pheromones trailing across the lot.
Exactly like chemtrails, Truther thought. Love is mind control from the government of your soul.
It was go time, which was a thing Truther said a lot.
A gun in his hand, and three more on his body, he crept across the empty space between his car and the Wellness Center, like a one man, better trained S.W.A.T. team, quiet as death in his signature Skechers.
From the moment he saw pictures of her on Dr. Jayaprakash’s Facebook page, Truther had known he was meant to have Rebecca.
She was beautiful. There was something about her face, something exotic but genetically acceptable, like Spanish blood, or maybe Italian. Her body was compact, but not ruined by muscles, strong enough to work all day as a nurse or something, but weak enough he could be sure she wasn’t a hermaphrodite. She also seemed quiet, which was extremely important, for all sorts of reasons.
Truther was amazed. Her draw was more powerful than that of any woman he’d ever needed to protect before, more powerful even than what drew him to the truth about Benghazi.
Despite all that, he somehow knew rushing in to immediately claim her wasn’t quite right, so he relied on his detective’s instincts. Good things come to those who wait, and he was patient. He remembered his training, settling on watching her from afar at first, unnoticed, holding off until the opportune moment.
It was better to take his time. To learn her patterns before sweeping her off her feet.
He kept tabs on her online, and kept his feelings in check. Sure, he sent her a few anonymous gifts and emails from clone accounts, but that didn’t really count. Sure, he created a few fake social media accounts to track her and interact with her, but that was all above board. And sure, he did a few stakeouts down the block from her house, tailing her, very competently, from home to work, but that was all very professional and preventative.
A woman like Rebecca was surely going to end up in trouble, and he wanted to keep her safe. Which is why he was forced to take more serious actions. Which is why he occasionally flattened her tires so she couldn’t get to work on time and caused her to lose her job at a different yoga studio. Which is why he had to kidnap and euthanize her neighbor’s cat, as it could be used against her to spread disease. Which is why he had been sending letters filled with baking soda to elected officials from public mailboxes with her husband’s name on the return address. Those operations were tough, even for a seasoned detective like Truther. Much tougher than when he did them for Peggy. But in every instance, his sexual interest was separate from what he found himself compelled to do.
As separate as slavery was from the real causes of the American Civil War, he reminded himself.
Truther was principled. He swore he wouldn’t make contact until one of two things happened.
Either he was ready for the real thing, or she was in danger.
And after last night, when that woman whose name he didn’t care to learn gave him the case, it had to be fate, because both conditions became true at once.
The front door to the Center was unlocked, which was disappointing, because it meant he didn’t get to shoot the lock out, which he could totally do, if he wanted, thanks to training.
He’d only brought the four guns with him, none of which were legally permitted, because he was not stupid enough to let Nancy Pelosi control, track, or limit his access to firearms. He decided he didn’t like the one he was holding, and switched it out for a bigger one which he felt also looked more like his penis.
She was easy to find, even though he could have found her with his eyes closed, one arm tied behind his back, and only two guns. A light guided his way, shining through the glass pane of the third classroom door down the main hall, glowing like a beacon of hope, like him.
He moved to the door, silent as a bad guy, but obviously the opposite.
Truth is like a light, he thought, and wished he had time to tweet the wisdom.
He opened the door reassuringly.
She may have heard it open, which is why she turned so quickly, but Truther knew the real reason was that she felt his presence, the safe, capable, masculine heat of his body, blocking the doorway so no one could get in to harm her.
He grinned, also reassuringly, his yellowed teeth glowing like a safety lamp, showing her the trusty Glock 35 Gen 4 in his dominant hand, then pressing the pointer finger on his other dominant hand to his lips, two dominant hands, because a man like Truther was all about dominance.
“Don’t scream,” he said, because he was there to protect her.