Time To Build An Army

Kevin Frayer. Getty Images.

Here's something fun: apparently, some of my coworkers have armies. I did not know this until today. I never imagined that could be real. But read that exchange. Jersey Jerry and his… lieutenant? Assassin? are texting like they're actually enlisted members of an armed force. Not the American military. More like guerrilla warriors from a third-world country who eat coconuts and pigeons for lunch and forge clumsy bombs from propane tanks nicked off house boats and sit around campfires with their german shepherd mutts at night talking of revolutions past, of killings in the town square, of blood spilt for promises shouted from railway cars only to watch the next regime commit the selfsame sins of the former for violence is the one coin that spins the wheel. 

"I'll fall back until you give orders." 

"I lent you out… I sent you to him for a hit." 

"Orchestrated hit… Sorry I didn't report back to you."

"No paper trail just like we learned in boot camp." 

This would be funny if it weren't so terrifying. Reading (what I assume to be) grown, adult men talk to each other like they're running around the woods, playing capture the flag or some shit, is heartwarming. Realizing that there is actually a group of adult men who have been put through some sort of training program, who are willing to be "lent out for a hit?" And they've ordained this guy as their leader:

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NOW. I truly like Jerry. I am a big fan. We don't know each other all that well but I find him kind and hilarious. I like that he, too, has a family. I like that he gambles, shits his pants, and holds his own with the biggest guns we've got at the company. I am impressed by him. 

And now I fear him. 

For if he has an army of guys willing to ruin lives upon his command, then that means… I need an army. I didn't really want one but I suppose I need one for safety. I took The Origins of Modern Wars at school, taught by Stephen Walt, who fucking rules. We learned about Rational Deterrence Theory and Mutual Assured Destruction. The best defense is a gigantic offense. I need weapons so powerful that both Jerry and I implicitly understand that to attack each other would spell annihilation for us both. And thus, we keep the peace. 

That goes for anyone else who works here at this Chuck-E-Cheese for the criminally insane. If you have an army, just know that I'm working on mine. I am open to non-proliferation treaties. I'll happily be colonized even. Not sure what natural resources I can offer you maniacs other than nutritional advice or blog editing. But if I have something you covet, I'll offer it in exchange for your protection—at least until I get this army off the ground.  

Now, my army: I want hackers. Actual hackers. Teenage coding prodigies who preferred Minecraft to makeouts. I want hooded outcasts who purchase malware off Tor. I want vengeful, unscrupulous, nocturnal shut-ins willing to plant droves of child pornography on the hard drives of those who cross me. You come at me or my family? Knock knock, the Feds just caught scent of six tasty terabytes of kiddie viddies traced to your Macbook! In the words of Rust Cohle, "If you get the opportunity…" 

In exchange, I will pay you. As a member of my army, you will receive a salary of $50,000/year plus a discretionary bonus paid in SafeMoon and Brick watches. We have no dress code but a lunch of Pardon My Cheesesteaks will be provided each day. You will refer to each other as "comrade" and to me as "Father." You will be 1099'd, so please keep a list of receipts and deduct your own withholdings. Just kidding. No paper here either. In lieu of a shredder we have a 20-gallon plastic paint drum and plenty of lye. 

OK! Excited to get going here. I'm not going to put any sort of submission portal or contact form out, because if you have any clue what you're doing, you don't need that shit. Here's to making our enemies look like pedophiles! 

PS- None of this is real. Please do not send me hacker applications, for the love of God. 

PPS- Let's all take a fucking deep breath. One… two… three.